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UNMUSICAL
BUMPS
by
Andrew Campbell-Kearsey
I can't recall the last
time I polished shoes but I will make the effort today. I
remember the rigmarole as a child. My father had a complete
array of brushes and cloths. A strict order of application
was always necessary. Now it is easier. You sponge the
polish on and wait for it to dry. He would call it immoral -
as were all short cuts in his eyes.
I had difficulty sleeping
last night; too many things to think about. I haven't
exactly worked out a speech, but do I know the gist of what
I want to say when I get there this evening.
I relax into Doris Day
extolling the virtues of the Deadwood Stage. I used to sing
along with my mother as she ironed. I would make my own
stage coach out of the laundry basket. That, of course, was
when music bad technically been allowed in our home. Even at
the age of three or four, I knew that her voice was not
terribly strong and that she could not hit the high notes.
That didn't matter. It was an activity that we did together,
without my father knowing. The record player was turned off
just before he was expected home. I can't recall exactly
when the strict 'No music' rule came into our home. I do
remember, at my sixth birthday party, my mother clapping so
that we could play a kind of unmusical bumps. When she
stopped applauding we had to sit down abruptly on the floor.
It is no good. I am unable
to concentrate on the movie. I will start the drive. It is
not a terribly long journey. I reckon it will take just over
an hour, but it is not a route I have taken for over
twenty-five years. I have successfully avoided any reason to
visit that particular suburb.
I park the car by the
familiar parade of shops. How on earth do some of these
shops keep going? Who buys wool and knitting patterns these
days? The post office has gone. There is some sort of dell
with a startling range of . olives. The same bench is there,
dedicated to Ethel Snodgrass' dog. I can not work out why I
ever thought that so hysterically funny. The paving stones
which had wheel width size grooves in them, where I would
park my Chopper, were still there but filled in with rubbish
and moss. I pass my old primary school. There is now an
Asian headteacher and a female caretaker. Would a forensic
team be able to track down any of my DNA? I was far too
well-behaved to leave any graffiti; scared of the
disproportionate punishment from home rather than possessing
a strong inner moral code. Naturally, it all seems smaller
than in my memory. I wonder if the same would be true for my
parents. I know that they are both alive from the
announcement. Maybe they have shrunk. It seems to happen
with age. Perhaps my mother has been ravaged by
osteoporosis. Hopefully my father will have been cut down to
size.
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