...The ubiquitous Mrs Jones
Sandwiched between high pressure
and low pressure, the excitement built.
As I watched with curiosity the yardage
of bunting and towers of trestles
gathering in our street - amorphous
bundles taking shape coming to life
with growing anticipation …
and the pulse of the public beating
proudly. Fresh from war, on the edge
of something new, exciting. A promising
wind blowing from the west. Regiments
of sandwiches on the sideboard waited,
orderly- re constituted powdered egg,
meat paste, cucumber. Red Jellies
shaped like crowns, now freed from
their casts wobbling precariously;
daring me to poke my fat four year old
finger; cakes, meringues, extravaganzas
of taste - exotica unknown, scrimped and
saved for from scrounged coupons
assiduously collected by the ubiquitous
Mrs Jones, i.c.street party; large,
domineering, bossy bosoms bustling.
Smelling
of lavender water and face
powder - mail order from Harrods;
last vestiges
of a colonial youth, now
decayed, reduced circumstances,
rallying on, calling orders from her
soldiers of mothers, aproned, armed
with wooden spoons and icing bags.
Mother said she had a Kenwood, that’s
why she took charge…Tally Ho!
And we made rattles and flags and
practised the national anthem on our
recorders for months before, the old king
dying, fresh youth waiting in the wings,
but still the fingering fooled me.
It rained that day, squalls showered
over us, casting grey fug and Tommy
Jones, bigger than me, stole my hoop.
Pushing me into the bank behind our
street, by the old railway sidings, site
of couplings, still rubbled from the war.
He tore my dress. Muddied I was not
deterred, I bided my time...
Twenty five years later, our children
shared the same frenzied, cacophonous
jubilations, but not our Madge, sullen,
red haired, thorn in her Grandmother’s
side, defiantly strutting with chaos
safety-pinned to her breast.
I busied
myself with my kenwood now, whilst
she shunned and mocked...
Her father’s daughter
after-all.
Now I push him in his wheelchair, by
the Embankment. Different bunting,
magnificent opulence, global-eyes-ed,
same excitement hanging in the air...
Same squalls as we wait. Six decades
on, still, for that wind of change, patiently,
patriotically, knowing now the difference;
Catching breath in old lungs.
A little rain never hurt anyone.
White Ribbon Protest
...Traditional British Village Fetes
