Golden wedding anniversaries: so popular they make seven different cards. All are on display in my parents’ living room, with one (the biggest and most golden-of-letter) sent so many times it fills the mantlepiece. Not ours. We’re “personal touch” kind of people: we made our own. All Shakespeare quotes and pencil work. We even repurposed a glitzy hotel envelope.
But this day’s not about us. It’s about two people who met young, married, and weathered fifty years, rain or shine. It’s about how the universe conspired to make me. The party planning began around year 48, with invites tentatively spoken in asides over coffee and cake. Year 49 brought venue ideas. Year 50, RSVPs(*).
We get up in good time for Coffee on the Wall and listen to the gulls, the soft plink of the shower coming from the bathroom window behind us.
“Excited?” asks The Mathematician, plucking a weed from the gravel.
“I am,” I reply. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen all my relatives.”
Old family friends too; some I’ve not seen since childhood. I point to another weed with my foot. The Mathematician shrugs.
“I don’t think it’ll make a difference.”
She makes a sweeping gesture. The weed-to-pristine ratio’s not looking good.
“That’s where the apple tree used to be,” I say, pointing to a spot in front of the garage. “And over there” — I turn to a neighbour’s wall — “was a pear tree. Strange to think we had fruit trees in such a built up space.”
“Well, now there’s just stone and gravel. The pansies look nice though.”
They do, a riot of colour in their hanging baskets. And unlike the other potted plants here, they won’t die. Ever. We’re later proudly told they’re made of plastic.
I cock an ear. “The bathroom’s free.”
My uncles have formed an enclave
My sister picks us all up around noon so that we can travel to the venue before the party starts and fret. Dad’s been watching the sky like a hawk(**) the last few days, fearing the beautiful weather will break into rainclouds “Today of all days.” It won’t, I assure him; we brought a whole week of the good stuff. Of course, him being my father means I’m his child, and I slip into the role easily by pointing out the occasional rogue cloud on the horizon and uttering ominous hmm’s.
The venue is a friend’s house, beautifully situated on Portsdown Hill and generously offered (other venues being prohibitively (and extortionately) expensive). They’ve a large garden with a view of the city and sea, an enchanting arrangement of (real) plants and a WWII bunker in case Jerry lashes out again. A large gazebo draped in golden letters covers chairs and tables, the latter filling with food, the former later to be filled by revellers digesting the spoils from the latter. There’s also a “pub” tent so delightful I’m compelled to visit often. (To check on the staff, you understand — it’s a sweltering day.)
The band arrives and sets up. I help one carry gear from his car. They’re quite advanced in age and, when they start playing, very advanced in ability, I realise. I suspect the Dark Arts. Happily, no one else does — this being a predominantly Christian crowd, things could turn ugly, fast.
I meet the Sage of Stamshaw, known to my family since childhood. (Mine, not his or theirs.) We float rafts of stories to one another and as I part to say “hi” to one of the other forty-nine guests, he warns me in an ominous voice that armageddon’s coming. The End Times. I nod the nod of the knowing.
The Mathematician and I pass each other mid-mingle.
“What’s that on your plate?” I say, eyeing a collection of tasty vegetarian treats.
She tells me, and tells me to hurry. The omnivores are circling. I suppress a mild hunger-induced panic and stride purposefully towards the feasting tables, dancing around new faces with Oh, heys and Yeses.
The food’s rather fine. Too fine. I look around for a place to sit down and digest. I’ve a suspicion … yes, there, behind a low hedge. My uncles have formed an enclave(***). I head over to the Middle Class executive lounge and take a seat upon a log stump. How delightfully rustic!
It’s lovely to see them all again and there’s simply not enough time to exchange every tale. We stand to watch when Mum and Dad have a dance near the band. We notice there’s banoffee pie. We enter the commons.
People begin to depart as evening approaches. Numbers, addresses, and invites are exchanged. The Photographer (called upon) and Vicar (a calling) give me theirs — old friends I’ve only managed a few words with. (Though to be fair, The Photographer was often off stalking candids.)
“I got some invites,” says The Mathematician when we hook up.
“Me too.” I shake my head. “We’d have to come here for a month, at least, to see everyone …”
She purses her lips. “You can; I have to work.”
There’s a magic to being outdoors, and I’m as enchanted by the whispers of the well-trod past as I am by Ember’s many questions.
It was a great success, we all agree, back at my parents. We fling ourselves merrily into bed, there to buzz with all the day’s pollen. Nope, just me again. The Mathematician hits the pillow running and enters the Land of Nod before I can say, “Sweet dreams.”
Next day’s a quiet one. Ocean, Owl, and Ember take us to Finchdean in the South Downs. We wander the rolling hills under Kite-crossed skies and luxuriate in the loneliness of five. They’ve made sandwiches for us all, and packed some crisps (which I can’t help feel is rather quaint — reminds me of school lunches). We sit in the shade near the old St Michael and All Angels church and eat. There’s a magic to being outdoors, and I’m as enchanted by the whispers of the well-trod past as I am by Ember’s many questions.
They take us back to theirs for dinner. They’ve a lush and bustling garden; you can sit under the tree and hear it grow. Which I do, assisted by a glass of Donkey’s Elbow (+) and an inquisitive pigeon. (Which, being a bird of good breeding, shows some restrain. I pass the time unshat on.)
I’ve only seen glimpses of this place on Zoom. Being here, I feel like Alice through the looking glass.
As Ember limbers up on the lawn for some gymnastics, I follow Ocean inside to stand idly by whilst he cooks. He and I both perform admirably, and soon we’re all at table eating, then playing, then packing up, reluctantly, to go. Time’s been a real slippery bugger these last few days.
Another night ends, and the seven stars that shine above the city say it’s done — our trip’s come to an end.
Monday my parents are up before us. They’ve a train and a plane to catch for some Maltese we-made-it-half-a-century magic. Good for them! I still avoid the creaking floorboards when they’re gone — force of habit.
It’s our last day here, and there’s one more person left to see: my oldest friend, The Gentle (Ginger) Giant. He comes over after work, with that grin I first saw four decades ago, though now from inside a Goliath costume. We pop to a pub on the hill(++), and The Mathematician’s surprised there are bouncers outside.
“Is it rough here, or something?” she asks.
We look about. Other than over-tuned cars and bikes speeding past us down the hill-run road, it all seems rather quiet. We get a drink and a bite, then sit outside. She stares at the heavies whilst we eat. Now, I know she’s simply thinking “hmm,” but her face has a way of putting its own spin on things. It goes a bit Peaky Blinders. The bouncers — consummate professionals — take it in their stride.
Hearing The G(G)G talk is like hearing history, and we can’t help opening boxes of anecdotes from way back when. It doesn’t matter if they’re stories we’ve shared before; you don’t sing Jingle Bells just once. Telling and retelling tales is sharing the past, shoring it up against time and tide. All the better with beer.
Another night ends, and the seven stars that shine above the city say it’s done — our trip’s come to an end. It’s been a week of warm embrace and welcome faces. Of talking, walking, laughing, eating, parting.
And that’s the thing with leaves: unlike roots, they go where the wind blows.
—
(*) In the English manner: “So do you think you’ll be able to make it, maybe?”
(**) Though hawks tend to watch the ground, looking for lunch as they are.
(***) Uncles, aunts, and cousins, in increasing order of schmooze-tolerance.
(+) It’s not Donkey’s Elbow, or even ale for that matter, but it’s colden and golden and mine.
(++) You might have noticed that a lot of the places we’ve been to are at some elevation. You might be thinking we like to look down on people. You might want to take that judgemental attitude somewhere else …
