Daffodils

We lived in a cul-de-sac. A modern 1960s-built sort of square dead-end. Our house was embedded within the square or rectangle of houses which sat around a central patch of grass. I remember this patch as being large and even have memories of wading through long grass well past my eyes. But looking back it cannot have been so long surely? Anyhow it was big enough to play a game of rounders; all the local kids and even one time my mum joined in and played with us. I can still see her determindly swinging the wooden bat which my father had cleverly crafted for us. I remember the warm feeling of pride and childish pleasure as the other children roared their delight at this unheard of participation of a grown-up let alone a mother. The next night they congregated around our front door seeking her company for another game. But she declined and swatted them off with a wave of her hand as if such an entreaty was fanciful and absurd.
This green around which all our houses stood gave the road a sort of goldfish bowl intimacy. Just the sort of cheek-by-jowl closeness my mother would have abhorred. When I was about six or seven years old my sister and I had a close friend, Sharon, who was two years older than me and exactly my sister's age. I always seemed to be playing catch up with Sharon and my sister and it was always in the balance as to whether they would tolerate me and allow me to play with them or suddenly notice my relative youth and decide to abandon me, banish me or cruelly reject me: 'Go away, you are too young' or 'Cry baby!'
One twilight evening we were outside playing on the grass. In one of the corners of the rectangle lived an older lady called Mrs Hatch. She had a reputation for being cross and bad tempered and not kindly disposed to children. (She was as badly situated on the green as my mother). We must have been playing at 'dares' for I remember declaring I would run into Mrs Hatch's front garden and trample down upon all her daffodils (Query: with daffodils it cannot have been summer therefore it cannot have been twilight. Thoughts of Proust and memory are pinging into my mind).
My sister and Sharon stood around the corner out of view but able to peer around to watch my doubted boldness. I remember entering the garden quite impervious to the naughtiness s of my intentions. I only revelled in the knowledge that I was in command of the attention of my sister and our friend. I ran to the large, nodding, buoyant and hugely yellow daffodils and deliberately and systematically stamped upon them. I remember my knees dancing up and down from under my dress. I didn't feel scared or guilty, only deliciously and powerfully daring and brave like a rebel who knows no fear and who cocks a snoop at convention and ordinary mores. All the same, I didn't linger long and after a few good stamps and twists I ran to join my audience. They marvelled and gaped suitably, their eyes wide, their stance distant. They seemed to marvel too much for soon they regarded me quizzically as if they couldn't believe I had actually done such a stupidly outrageous act. As they continued to study me I began to feel their thoughts swing quickly from stunned incredulity to malicious anticipation for the certain trouble I would be meeting. I now felt isolated, trapped and horribly gullible and guilty, such was the dread at what would happen, for one thing was now horribly certain: my audience would not hesitate to bear witness to what they had just seen.