It was a glorious June day with the sun shining hotly from an azure sky. I glimpsed trees flashing past and an excitement grew in me at the realization I was on my way to the country at last. Inevitably we began to sing the miles away. I had learned many new songs during my months with the Guides. Singing and Guiding seemed to go hand in hand and no gathering was complete without our repertoire of songs.
Our Guiders were a cheery lot. We had a Brown Owl in our midst, affectionately known as Wullie. She was quaintly sturdy with pink skin and merry brown eyes. Mrs Winters was a Guide Commissioner, tall and dark, her conversation liberally sprinkled with schoolboy slang, a result of having two sons at boarding school in England. Miss Morrison, our Captain, was thin and quiet, a bit of a listener like myself. The remainder of the Guiders had gone ahead of us to get everything ready. They were at the gate of a big field when we arrived, ready to welcome us and take us immediately to long tables outside a marquee.
The camp was in an estate belonging to titled people who were connected with the Guide movement. Fields of buttercup and clover stretched away for miles, groves of oak and sycamore were outlined against the blue sky, bees droned lazily amongst the wild flowers, and birds twittered cheerily from the trees. I stared and sniffed and fell in love with God’s green acre, knowing it was a love affair that would remain in me forever.
My first meal in the open was an experience of fleeting impressions. Greedily I stored each one away so that I would remember them always. How natural it seemed to eat under the roof of the sky. What better music than that of the birds and the soft hush of the wind stirring long grasses? The fragrance of sweet warm air and meadow flowers was a drug to my senses.
Then … suddenly another picture floated to the surface of my mind, that of the dingy grey tenements and the smell of the middens on a warm day such as this. What a comparison I made then. I thought of Mam, her warm hand touching mine, pressing the money of sacrifice upon me, her silver head bent over her darning, her face at the window, all alone in that moment of waving me goodbye. My heart leapt with love for her and the hot upsurge of tears filled my eyes. I was sad and happy at the same time and I could hardly bear the depths of my emotions on that first day of camp. Although I sat at the table I was not wholly there. The chatter round me faded as I fought to contain all my feelings. I knew now of the world that lay outside of towns, yet knowing didn’t make me happy because I knew there would always be an unrest in me now. When I was back home in the tenements I would feel the craving that a lover might feel knowing that a love is unobtainable.
‘C’mon, Chris, you’re not eating,’ said a very everyday voice at my elbow, and I came back from my reverie to stare rather shakily at my untouched plate.
The meal over, we got things into our sleeping quarters, which consisted of a sturdy wooden hut for those unfit to sleep under canvas and several tents for the Guides who were more able. My heart bubbled with joy because I had a certificate from the doctor that pronounced me well enough to come into the second category.
The sinking sun had turned the sky into a rose-pink as we sat round the fire drinking cocoa. Everyone was chattering but I was too busy drinking in the countryside to indulge in talk. Smoke curled into the air, hanging motionless above the treetops, a blackbird warbled from the roof of the hut, from the nearby fields a curlew rose in a trembling ecstasy of song.
When we sang ‘Taps’ round the flag, the well-known words took on a new meaning for me in the tranquillity of that perfect evening. For the first time I had seen the sun slip quietly below the curve of the hills. With its going it seemed to take away my inner turmoil. How could I help but feel that all was well and that God was nigh in that peaceful meadow where the birds of the air and the animals of the field held precedence over all else?
My tent-mate was a round little girl called Janet. Her moon-like face creased into smiles at the pantomime I treated her to as I undressed. I was able to do this for myself now though less than a year before I’d had to rely on Mam to remove difficult things like jerseys, because it was beyond me to raise my arms above my head.
Now I could remove all my garments unaided, but the contortions I went through in the process might possibly have earned me a place in a circus. The struggle into the gay little gingham sleeping bags was even more of a challenge so Janet helped me twist into my bag then I leaned perilously far out of bed to help her into hers.
The majority of the Guiders were over at the hut because many of the girls had to be undressed and generally helped, but Miss Forsyth and Miss Graham appeared at the door of our tent. The former was a tall lithe bundle of energy nicknamed ‘Snowy’ because of her mop of silvery hair. She was a creature of gentle appearance with a pink and white complexion and a soft cultured voice. Her workmanlike camp overall and large wellington boots in no way robbed her of her ladylike appearance. By comparison Miss Graham had a lived-in face and a well-worn figure but she was the essence of good nature and her bright toothy grin was like a warm beam of sunshine. ‘Anyone in here like a hot bottle?’ she asked tucking away a strand of iron-grey hair. ‘The water’s on the boil.’
‘Me, please,’ I said promptly, because the lumps of flesh that were my feet were always cold. In minutes a hot bag appeared and I snuggled down blissfully. At my request, the Guiders left the tent flap open, and it was lovely to lie in comfort looking at the silhouette of trees against a sky that would never really grow dark that night. A flight of geese lazily winged their way past in perfect orderly formation, as harmonious as a team of stunt aeroplanes.
Never had I known anything so incredibly peaceful. Thoughts of Mam winged to mind but didn’t disrupt my happy contentment. The memory of her gentle, undemanding love was a balm to my soul. My feelings of guilt for going off and leaving her had been of my own making for she certainly hadn’t given me any reason for them. She had made it quite clear that she wanted only my happiness and, while my whole being demanded that she share the good things with me, my better sense told me that it couldn’t always be so. I was growing up; inevitable my world would revolve round more than the family circle.
My thoughts were shattered by shrieks of laughter from the Guiders gathered round the fire near the edge of the field, Wullie’s voice soaring out of the general hubbub. Janet and I shot up in bed to crane our necks curiously, but the twilight played tricks with the eyes, and it was difficult to make sense of the jumbled array of figures in the distance.
In the morning we learned that Wullie had tripped over a log while stepping backwards and had landed without the least intention in a pail of cold water. Her posterior, being somewhat broader than the rim of the pail, jammed tight, and her plight was so comical the others had been unable to go to her aid till they had recovered sufficiently from their laughter.
The breakfast scene was hilarious as the escapade unfolded in Mrs Winters’s colourful language. ‘I’ve made up a rhyme about it,’ she concluded. ‘Who would like to hear it?’
There was a roar of encouraging sounds and she proceeded to chant, ‘Always look before you leap! Before stepping backwards … take a peep! If you don’t your heart might fail … when you land in a cold cold pail!’
Everyone shrieked delightedly and a spluttering Wullie, her face cheerfully pink as always, said, ‘I’ve got a better one … listen. “There’s a thing you never ought’er, land yourself in a pail of water! If you’re broad around the stern … you might never get out again!” ’
‘Great!’ we applauded, and spent the remainder of the breakfast hour making up silly verses.
The days that followed were full of laughter and pleasant tasks. Each Patrol had a nature log to keep and we kept our eyes well open when we were taken for rambles in our chairs.
I was at the stage now where I resented being pushed along, contrarily only welcoming a helping hand when I came upon hills, pot holes and bumps. My chair was a new one issued by the Ministry of Health. It was small and easily manoeuvred and I wanted the world to see how well I could
manage it. Although wheelchair-bound, I didn’t feel disabled. I hated being fussed over and told I couldn’t possibly do this or that. Fearlessly I sought to overcome all obstacles, using the most outlandish methods to further my ends. I loved to whizz down hills in glorious abandon. If my brakes didn’t stop me then I used my feet. My Guiders paled incessantly but knowing my fierce independence they reprimanded me quietly but admirably refrained from ordering me outright to stop my antics. To put it simply, I was a non-conformist. I never would fit into the pattern of how a disabled person should think, act, look. If a place was inaccessible for a wheelchair, I would get down on my hands and knees and crawl to it. If my feet didn’t stop me on my downhill excursions then I used my hands on the wooden rims of my wheels, sometimes to such a degree that my palms almost went on fire with friction. Hacks, blisters and corns scarred my knees and hands, but I had long ago ceased to fuss about such minor ailments. When the other Guides huddled in the marquee during rainy spells, I sat outside, lifting my face to the cool wet drops in ecstasy. Although the looks on the Guiders’ faces suggested that they thought I was quite mad, they resigned themselves to the fact that at thirteen years old I was a rather eccentric individual and I was allowed to enjoy myself in my own way.
Every new dawn brought fresh excitement. There were expeditions into the local village and treasure trails in and out of the leafy woods that bordered the field. On an outing with the Rotary Club, I bought Mam a fine sparkling brooch for the lapel of her good coat and an ounce of tobacco for Da, though I knew he would grumble because it wasn’t his favourite thick black.
Every evening we made huge fires and sat in the gloaming savouring wood-smoke tea and eating singed sausages. I had taken to the country as if I had been born to it. Somewhere inside myself I felt I had known it all in another time, so attuned was I to the sights and sounds. Mam had told me once that there was gypsy blood in us from her side of the family. Her olive skin, green eyes, and naturally waving hair suggested that this might be the case. I had inherited her hair and her colouring. I felt there might be some truth in what she said because all my life I had been aware of a restless spirit which had found an outlet in my ability to dream of fantastic other lands full of wide open spaces and magic happenings. There had been this other feeling too, a vague feeling of searching for something and never quite finding it. The moment I saw and smelled the country I knew that my search was over. In the soft sough of the wind I heard my own voice, my spirit soared on the wings of the wild geese, my soul belonged to the vast infinity of open spaces. Nature created no noise, only sounds that were beautiful, from the scurrying of small insects in the long meadow grasses to the haunting melody of the curlew’s song. For the other Guides it was perhaps only just a week of fun in the country, to be enjoyed while it lasted. For me it would last forever. Sitting beside human companions, rubbing shoulders with them, I laughed and sang, but the rays of gold and silver in the evening sky made my heart almost burst with the beauty of it. Some of me stayed with those dear people round the camp-fires, but my bigger part merged and became one with the countryside, while sadness and happiness fought for supremacy in my soul.
Perhaps it was as well for me that I had been born with a strong sense of humour, or I think I might have been too solitary a waif. As it was, I found many things to laugh about. The other Guides looked to me for funny remarks and no matter how quiet I might feel inwardly, the extrovert in me had to comply.
But there were times I laughed my head off without the least intention. I was at the height of the giggly stage which was coinciding with the phase of hero-worship, a recipe which sometimes produced rather disquieting situations.
I was working for my Second Class badge at this time. Part of it entailed cooking a meal out-of-doors, the aim being to make it as succulent as possible with limited facilities and materials. Four of us set off to the woods, arriving at a little glade where the sun made patterns through the trees and a breeze scurried in gay abandon amongst the long grasses.
It was fun cooking the meal over an open fire, though the wood we had painstakingly gathered seemed to be making more smoke than flame. Nevertheless, after much fanning, we managed to produce a meal of sorts on the hottest stones. The big part of the test was still to come. Two of the Guiders had to sample the meal to find out if it was fit for human consumption.
I looked at the potatoes boiling in a billy can, noting with evil merriment that two flies had come to a sad end in the hot water. I fished them out with a spoon, relieved that I wasn’t duty-bound to eat any of the food, though it was lunchtime and I was hungry.
Twigs snapped and two smiling Guiders came out from the trees. I was horrified to see that Mrs Winters was one of them. She was the latest victim for one of my schoolgirl crushes. Her presence filled me with awe. To me nothing was too good for her, and I was appalled at the thought of her tasting our singed potatoes and smoke-flavoured custard. The other Guides didn’t seem to share my frame of mind and politely asked the two to sit down by the fire.
‘Draw up a log,’ grinned round-faced Janet engagingly, and the Guiders obediently sat down on a large tree stump. Plates were brought out and preparations made to serve the meal.
Embarrassment for myself in having had a hand in making the meal and affection for Mrs Winters rendered me speechless. I watched her prod her fork into a rather brown potato and a large bubble of mirth rose into my throat. Her strong teeth bit through the brown flesh and I heard a distinct crunching sound which told plainly that the potato was still raw in the middle.
The bubble erupted in my throat to emerge as a pig-like snort of pure helpless ecstasy.
‘Are you all right, Chris?’ asked Mrs Winters anxiously. I couldn’t answer. Through blurred vision I saw that Miss Graham was having difficulty getting her ancient molars through the outer skin of her potato. My screech rang through the woods, bringing me both pain and utter unadulterated pleasure.
It was letting me down again, my blindingly vivid imagination that could conjure the most ridiculous pictures from words and gestures. It had been the cause of many a belting from little Miss Black in days gone by when my giggles distracted the class and I was sent marching to her room for my punishment, usually a ‘doubler’ which sent her long skirt billowing out like a tent.
Facial expressions also held an irresistible fascination for me and as these were usually associated with the human animal I was always bringing disgrace upon myself.
The sheer solemnity of this particular occasion only served to intensify my merriment, but gradually I sobered and felt shame reddening my face. I had made a fool of myself before Mrs Winters, but she and Miss Graham seemed unaware that I had just laughed myself into exhaustion. They were making suitable sounds of appreciation over the lumpy custard. Another bubble rose in my gullet, but I choked it to death. The meal was over and we would all have to wait for an official verdict before we knew the results of the test.
Mrs Winters seized my chair and began pushing me through the woods. She leaned over me and said with an adorable grin, ‘Don’t worry, Chris, old thing, when I was your age I caused my family great concern by having giggling fits at the most unsuitable times. Once I almost died laughing when my father nearly choked to death on a prune stone. My mother despaired of me ever growing to be a lady … and, as you can see, she was right.’
My face grew hot with pleasure at having been let into such a personal secret, my heart fluttered with love, and I let out inarticulate sounds of joy as we wended our way over the leaf-strewn path.
The day before camp broke up, wheelchair sports were held in the courtyard of the old stables. We began with an egg and spoon race, with the Guides holding the spoons in their mouths while the Guiders raced us along to the finishing post. As the chairs had a marked preference for going round in circles, this was not achieved without a good deal of hilarity.
After this the Guiders donned blindfolds and with them pushing us we had to direct them along. In the excitement many of
us got confused with right and left instructions and we had a merry time colliding with each other.
When the junior races were finished we sat on benches and the Guiders got into our chairs for their own events. With more enthusiasm than expertise, they whizzed around in circles, bumped into each other, and generally had a lot of fun. They then finished off the morning with the three-legged race, tripped, fell, and staggered about, with Wullie and Snowy eventually rolling to the finishing line where they lay, unable to move for laughter.
Later in the day we had tea in the rose garden. It was a place of delicate colours, glorious scents, and utter peace. Bees trailed in and out of the fragrant blooms, their unhurried passage from flower to flower enhancing the sense of tranquillity.
We ate dainty sandwiches which I could have gobbled in one bite, but social etiquette was called for. I nibbled daintily, though when I saw Wullie take unashamedly big mouthfuls I giggled quietly. A week of fresh air had given us all healthy appetites.
Tiny cakes and pink ice-cream disappeared in no time. Then followed a tour round the gardens where rockeries were ablaze with colour and shrubberies sent generous whiffs of mock orange and lilac into the air.
Mrs Winters gave a vote of thanks to the lady and gentleman whose kindness had made possible that lovely week of camp.
The day was rounded off with a huge tangy camp-fire. Flames leapt into a sky of deep blue velvet. I listened to the crackling logs and my heart was as full as on my first day of camp. I wanted to see Mam again, to tell her of my wonderful experiences, but I knew my heart would pine for the country when I was back amidst the grey tenements of my childhood.
Blue Above the Chimneys Page 12