Long Ago and Far Away
By
Rosemary J. Peel
Copyright 2014 Rosemary J. Peel
Long Ago and Far Away
A light breeze blew gently inland from the sea. The day was hot but pleasant. John lounged in a deck chair, content to sit and watch his three grandchildren playing on the beach. He’d offered to keep an eye on them so that their parents might grab a few precious moments to wander the shops together without hindrance.
Kevin, his elder grandson, had set his mind to building the best sand castle on the beach. He was intent upon the effort and constantly plagued by interference from his sister, Emily. She was his elder by a year and was by nature, bossy. John smiled as he watched the boy remake the castellation that his sister had just improved. Emily was so like Margery and John had a mind to tell Kevin to let her have her way as he knew that in the end she would. Thoughts of Margery floated through his consciousness. It was almost ten years now since he’d lost her and never a day passed without her drifting through his mind. He sighed; she’d have loved to be here watching the kids. She hadn’t lived long enough to see any of them. That thought always made him sad. Margery had so loved children and had looked forward to becoming a grandma. Emily had been born a year almost to the day after she had died. John pulled his mind back to the present; he did not intend to sink into melancholy. Where was Charlie, the youngest of his charges? Something bumped against the back of his deck-chair. Charlie was pushing a yellow jeep between the wooden rails.
“Come out of there, Charlie. If you knock the rails even if they don’t collapse they could move and trap your fingers.”
The little boy looked up,
“I’m bored Grandpa,” he said.
“Why don’t you go and help Kevin and Emily build their sandcastle?”
“They won’t let me. Kevin says I’m too small.”
“Well what would you like to do?” John asked.
“Don’t know.”
“How about I tell you a story? Would that do?”
“A long ago story?”
“If you like.”
Before John had time to take in a breath Charlie was off across the beach yelling at the top of his voice to his brother and sister,
“Come on you two, Grandpa’s going to tell us a long ago story.”
“Don’t stop building your castle,” John called as the two others looked up, “You don’t have to listen.”
“Yes, we do.” Emily was already half way up the beach and walking Charlie back towards him. Kevin continued to pat the sand around a mote he had just dug out,
“Don’t start yet, Grandpa. I’ll be finished in a minute.”
John smiled. It seemed he hadn’t lost his skill at story telling. He had always loved to spin a yarn. Margery used to tease him about it. He could see her face now in his minds eye smiling her approval.
“Do you want to have a picnic first?” John asked when Kevin joined the other two around his deck chair.
“Yes, but can’t you tell us the story whilst we eat?” Emily asked.
“All right. Have you a special one you’d like?”
“Yes, the one about your father and the eggs.” Kevin got in first. Emily nodded agreement and Charlie looked up,
“Oh yes, I like that one too.”
Whilst the children wiped their hands with wet-wipes and dried them on hand towels, John spread the huge beach blanket on the sand and got out the sandwiches. Once the children were happily munching he cleared his throat and began.
“Long ago when my father was a lad and life was very different from how it is now, his mother and father kept a corner shop. In those days most working folk lived in cramped conditions, often in back-to back terrace houses, all built on top of each other and standing in regimented rows along narrow cobbled streets. A shop, selling everything people might need, stood on the corner of practically every street.
“My father was the youngest of ten children, eight girls sandwiched between two boys born sixteen years apart.”
“Poor thing, eight sisters!” Kevin had heard the story many times before but the thought of having eight older sisters never failed to appal him; just the idea made him squirm.
“Shh Kev,” Emily put in, “Let Grandpa go on.”
“But he’s not telling it right,” Charlie complained, “Tell it in his voice Grandpa.”
John smiled, “Right you are. I'll tell it like he told it to me in a strong Yorkshire accent.
“It were a Sunday morning and I were up and dressed for church. Me Mam said I were to go straight for the eggs from church. She handed me the egg bucket and said to make sure that I kept me new jacket clean. I weren’t to go collecting coal on the slag heaps like I liked to do with my mates whenever I got a chance. It were nineteen twenty-four and a lot of my mates dads had never come back from the war. Their mothers did what they could to keep them fed and clothed. Coal of a kind could be picked up for nothing from the slag heaps if you were careful not to get caught. I just went for the fun of it. We had enough coal with Dad in regular work and Mam running the shop and dress-making on the side like. She’d done a right good job of my Sunday-best jacket. It were one of the only new ones I’d ever had. I normally got my brother’s old ones after Mam cut them down for me.
“I left the bucket in the church porch and picked it up after the service. Three of my mates come along with me to the farm. They always liked to come along as sometimes they got given an egg each from the farmer’s wife. She always said they was scrawny kids what needed feeding up. That Sunday though they didn’t come all the way to the farm. When we reached the slag heaps they was deserted and my mates scrambled off to fill the sack they’d brought with them. I told them I’d see them on the way back.
“Mrs. Morgan at the farm had the eggs ready and waiting for me. She put them careful like in me bucket and handed me a thick bacon sandwich and a mug of strong tea. I were fair ready for them and gulped both down in a jiffy. Just as I were leaving she slipped a couple of duck-eggs into my jacket pockets. She knew my dad were fair partial to duck eggs.
"All went well until I reached the slag heaps. My mates had had good pickings and were messing around. I didn’t mean to join in, it just happened like. Before I knew what I were doing I were half way up a big mound of slag and it were then I saw it - the biggest, shiniest, piece of free coal I’d ever seen. It were just lying there waiting to be took. It were as big as my hand. My best mate, Bert, saw it too. He needed it more than I did, but it were a challenge like to be the one to pick it off the heap. I kept hold of the egg bucket in one hand as I scrambled up the mound. I were faster on me legs than Bert and had all but got hold of the prize when I felt me feet sliding from under me. I dug me toes into the moving ash, keeping tight hold of the egg bucket in one hand while making a grab for the coal with the other. I had it! Then I were slithering down, slipping and sliding all the way. My mates grinned as I fell in a heap at the bottom; eggs rolled and smashed all over the place. Any that were still whole were grabbed up by my mates before they ran off with them as fast as they could scarper. I staggered to my feet, the piece of shiny coal still grasped firmly in my hand. I were in for it now. I’d broke or lost at least half the eggs. It were then I felt something wet running down my legs. The duck-eggs in my pocket were smashed and leaking. My jacket were black and ripped and had dark, slimy, yellow yolk dripping from its pockets.”
“What happened when your Dad got home?” Emily asked, although she already knew the answer.
“He got a good belting from his Dad and couldn’t sit down for a week. But what upset him more than that was his Mam’s face when she saw the state of his new jacket. He said she’d fair cried and that made him feel really bad.”
&
nbsp; “Did his Mam wash and mend it for him?”
“No, not a chance. Clothes couldn’t be washed as easily then as they can be today. They were mostly made of wool or cotton, which nearly always shrunk if washed. My Grandma unpicked the jacket and sorted out any material that wasn’t ruined. She made it up into a coat for a toddler and sold it in the shop. Dad had to wear his brother’s old jacket, cut down so that it all but fitted him. It was years later before he got another new one of his own. He never forgot that lesson. He’d really loved this very fist brand new jacket. To finish off a horrible day, his Dad gave away the prize piece of coal to his mate.”
Three children grinned at him. John smiled back and was glad that through his long ago stories his grandchildren could connect with people and times gone by. To him it was continuity. His long ago stories brought people they’d only ever seen in old photographs to life; made them real. His grandchildren had relived a day in the life of his father and his grandparents. A far away time had for a brief period touched their world and the people had lived once again in their imaginations.
* * *
Also by the Author
Adult Fiction Lust, Love and Lies (a romantic saga crossing decades)
Poetry: The Pottery Fish (an anthology of modern and rhyming poems)
Astrology: Astrology and Heredity (paperback); The Forgotten Planet
Autobiographical: My Dyslexic Journey
Children’s Fiction: Juvenile/Teens - Holiday Blues, Time Line, Flat Cats, Octinnia,The Adventure Begins. Early readers - A Prickly Problem, Honk The Donk, Alfie Goes to Uni, Just Joe, Fluff Gang Tales (written in rhyme), The Fluff Gang and the New Neighbour (written in rhyme); PC Mouse, The Blackbird That Couldn’t Sing, The Butterfly That Lost a Spot, They’re Not Real, Grandma, And What do you want for Christmas, A Squirrel Called Cyril, Pretty as a Picture, Sampson to the Rescue, The Cry Bear.The Competition, Box Sets - Animal Tales Series Box Set and Fantasy Trio Box Set.
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