I joined a new writers’ group, Mirago Writers and we get homework. Deadlines, short ones particularly, have always galvanised me into action, and I keep saying I shall blog again. So here we are.
CHILDHOOD MEMORIES
“Look at the state of you!” Mum, hands on hips, pursed lips but her eyes twinkled.
“What?!” I didn’t see anything wrong. Yes, my hair was matted and wet, its ribbon filthy and knotted. Yes, my trousers and sandals were covered in dirt and embedded with weeds, and fine, yes, my hands looked like they were wearing gloves made of mud. I still don’t see the problem.
I picked up the bucket I’d placed down while I faced mum with my hands on my hips and trudged to the balcony door. The balcony overlooked the square – we lived above the sweetshop. It had been my maternal grandad’s and my dad took it over when Bobby retired. We all called him Bobby, even my mum. Everyone did, which is quite funny because his name was actually Edward …
It was a typical east end square: GP in one corner, dentist in another, the community centre, the church, the caretaker. My friend’s aunt lived at one end of the block, her uncle at the other and her nan round the back in the flats that crouched under the two-storied maisonettes at the front. Everyone knew each other but there were no murders, shouting or melodrama. It was a laugh. (Although, I was only 5, so there might’ve been).
My big brother was already outside and piling lego bricks under the railing, in a vain attempt to fill the gap between that and the tarmac.
“Come on!” He urged, excited. “They’re biggies, it’ll be a good’un.”
We dipped our hands into the bucket and fished around, capturing a live, wriggly creature each.
The Newt Derby was on!
The newts were found in the stream in the mudchute, the waste ground where all the soil and rubble was thrown when they dug out the docks, just down the road. It was my favourite place. Fishing for tiddlers, in between sliding down the hills on my bum, swinging on ropes slung over branches, climbing trees and building dens, and now, racing newts.
I know, I know, not very David Attenborough levels of nature conservation. It certainly wasn’t for the newts, since they legged it straight towards the lego bricks and disappeared between them, straight over the balcony edge.
The shop canopy was out so we hoped they were okay; we never did find them – or their remains. I hope David isn’t reading this.
Jaye Nolan 