A Summer Past

I am lying flat on my back, outstretched under the tree. The ground beneath me is warm and hard, the grass having turned to prickly stalks of straw in the summer heat. My heart beats steadily as if I too am part of the earth, joined to the organic, pulsing of nature. This is the place where time ceases, where troubles fade, and all noise echoes faintly as if it happens in some other era, some other land. The distant chewing of a lawnmower heightens the silence around me. As I listen closely the silence gradually becomes filled. Grass stems crackle and rustle as insects carry on with the season’s labour. I can just hear a far off drone, as miles overhead the paper-chain billowing white ribbon charts an aircraft’s passage across the sky. The bright summer blue of oceans and white crests of cloud dazzle me, and I blink, turning my gaze to a familiar friend. It’s pink cherry blossoms are full and fragrant, the sweet scent falling onto my face with occasional lost petals that flutter down in welcome slithers of breeze. I watch carefree bees flit from bloom to bloom, seeking nectar, busy wings purring merrily. Despite the heat, the tree’s leaves are still strong and green, whispering ‘shh, shh’ to me as the warm dry air caresses them. I am still, enraptured by the magic of the tree, knowing that its ancient roots live below me, under the grass and the soil, stretching down to reach for the water that flows gently at the bottom of the slope.

The sun warms my face in patches where the leaves have parted, and my eyelids droop, my limbs become heavy and my breathing slows. It seems like only seconds before I hear something lumbering closer, cracking through branches in its path. The sun in my face darkens to shadow and my nose wrinkles as hot dog breath blasts a meaty odour close at hand. I open my eyes and stare into the expectant, drooling muzzle of Gordan.

‘Off, dog’ I grumble, giving the Boxer a half-hearted push in the chest. He grunts and flops heavily onto the ground beside me, his sloppy jowls landing on my bare arm. I screech in objection and sit up, my happy daze broken unromantically by a slimy wet trail on my skin, complete with what seems to be bits of dog biscuit and twigs floating in the goo. Unimpressed, I glare resentfully at my best friend Holly who has appeared, towels over her shoulder, and a bulging bag swinging from her hand. She grins at me.

‘You know he only dribbles on people he loves’ she reassures me. ‘Look, I raided the cupboard and got us some munchies.’ Peace offering accepted, we sit side by side, our towels rolled up as cushions, leaning against the hard bark of the tree. My stomach rumbles appreciatively as Holly displays the unhealthy fare that comprises the teenage diet. Condensation runs down the green plastic sides of the 7Up bottle, and we share a giant sized ‘grab bag’ of salt and vinegar crisps. A slab of Dairy Milk and two half-melted strawberry Cornettos serve as desert. Gordan eyes the spread hopefully, soggy strands of anticipation dangling from his chin. He sighs mournfully and looks away as he catches Holly’s warning death stare. We eat in contented silence, the midday June temperature causing little beads of moisture to appear along our lips and run in slow rivulets down our spines. As the cosy apathy of food and sunshine begins to take effect, my head begins to nod.

‘Lets do something before we fall asleep in the sun,’ Holly says, scrambling to her feet. Gordan leaps up, looking frantically around to see what squirrels he may have missed. ‘You’ve spent enough time dozing today already!’ she adds slyly.

‘I was not dozing,’ I retort, ‘I was meditating. Getting in tune with nature. Being still.’

‘Whatever.’ Holly remains unconvinced. ‘So what shall we do?’

‘Make a swing,’ I state firmly, although it had only just occurred to me. ‘A swing from our tree so we can jump into the stream.’

‘Yeah,’ Holly nods approval, ‘we need to find something for a seat though. We’ll probably find something in Old McGuinty’s yard, and I’m sure I saw some old rope there the other day that we can use too.’

Abandoning any hopes of a restful afternoon, I follow Holly and Gordan down the footpath that leads past Old McGuinty’s place and out across fields to Brightwell. It only takes us ten minutes to walk to the yard, but if feels like hours in the sticky afternoon, even Gordan has slowed to a weary trot in front of us, checking over his shoulder every now and then to make sure we’re still with him. Our feet scuff through mud baked by the sun, raising whirls of dust that settles on our trainers, while tired grass attempts to cling to our legs as we pass.

‘Pooh, it’s so much worse in the summer,’ Holly complains, scrunching her nose as we come in sight of the yard. ‘We’ll have to be quick before I gag!’ The smell is bad today, it’s true. His compost heap sits like a huge ugly cake in the centre of the yard, complete with a moving, buzzing layer of flies fighting over the rotting vegetables. We open the gate and dart quickly inside, past the fermenting pile, which radiates a putrid heat even at a distance, and head for the tangle of old bicycle wheels, prams, broken chairs, and various unidentifiable rejects. No one was quite sure where he got all these things, or if people just came in the night and dumped them there. Legend had it that McGuinty collected everything the gypsies left behind after the September fair, and then tried to sell it all back to them the following year.

‘Look,’ Holly whispers. She digs her elbow sharply in my ribs, and points to an old car tyre. We go over and try to lift it.

‘You must be joking,’ I whisper, straining to lift one side of it, ‘it’s really heavy, we’ll never get it back.’

‘You think of something then,’ Holly retorts.

‘Shh, keep your voice down, I think that’s him moving around in the shed over there.’

'Well, quick then,’ Holly urges, a note of panic creeping in, ‘you find a better seat and I’ll get some rope or something.’ And she’s off, clambering over twisted metal and old furniture. I cast a worried glance toward the shed at the back of the yard, I can definitely see someone in there moving around. Vowing to be quick, I scan the piles of discarded junk. I spot a thick chunk of wood under a rusty barbeque and give it a pull. It doesn’t move. Getting a tighter grip, I wedge my foot against the offending grill and tug as hard as I can. The wood is released and I fly backwards, desperately trying to keep my balance, but to no avail as I land with a clatter amongst the debris.

‘Oy!’ I hear an angry voice shout and the shed door is flung open. Holly’s startled head appears from behind an old fridge freezer. ‘Run!’ She yells as she flashes past me, cowardly Gordan fast on her heels. I grab my prize and sprint for the gate. In haste, all three of us leap it, fall over in a tangle of legs and tails and shrieks of pain, jump up and run back down the footpath to safety. When our legs are burning and our chests exploding, we slow to a walk.

‘Cool,’ Holly gasps, eyeing my sturdy piece of wood, ‘look what I got.’ She brandishes a curled length of thick blue twine. ‘Perfect, don’t you think?’

‘Yep!’ I grin at her. ‘Perfect!’

That summer was perfect. Holly and I made a swing that launched us screaming and laughing into the cool water of the stream. We felt free as we soared through the sky, and spent most of our days swinging and swimming. Gordan enjoyed sleeping and spectating, with the occasional paddle when the warm sunshine became too much for him. Everyday we took our lunch and a blanket, and ate under the friendly boughs of the old cherry blossom tree, talking about boys, our parents and our future. Decades later, summertime can still find me lying under a somehow familiar tree, looking up at the same sky through different blooms, and sometimes I imagine for a while, that I am back there, with Holly trying to catch fish in her net, and Gordan snoring gently beside me.