I think there would be civil war, . . . . . . not fashionable.
My trusty Wellington boots and woolly scout socks pulled up as high as they would go to cover my bare knees, a three quarter inch piece of elastic gripped the top making a permanent mark on my skin of the ‘knit one pearl one’ of the sock rib. Trouble was, when it rained there was nothing to prevent the top of the sock from getting soaked, which made it heavy, there was nothing for it but to turn it over the top of my wellies, stretching the sock as I did this to become a good three inches bigger than was intended.
I dreamed of a longer raincoat, I have always loved the rain, I wanted one that hung down past my knees and over the top of my boots, so when I entered the senior school persuaded mum when she took me into Winters the outfitters in the King street for my new school uniform, to buy me a longer raincoat that did just that, it came down a couple of inches below the tops of my wellies. I don’t think she quite understood why though, but to me it was the heaven I had often dreamed of. Silly really when I think about it now, but back then it was the ultimate luxury for me.
I could now walk along the beach in the winter, waves crashing and spraying me without my precious knee’s getting wet at all. (The reason for this is another story) The wind and the rain on a winters day walking along the waters edge with my constant companions woolly mittens holding my hand, the smell of her hair mixed with the salt spray from the channel has never left my senses to this very day.
She had pink ones, (wellies that is) which didn’t go very well with her school raincoat, also navy like mine, but what days we had back then, the music of the sea that inspired both of us, the hard sand that had been beaten by the tide sometimes had ripples of water that danced the waltz’s of Strauss away back to the depths, as the tide receded. Then on another day would explode and crash in a majestic crescendo of noise trying its hardest to soak us both, Neptune obviously angry we were invading his territory, out there all alone on an empty beach, two very young people that had the nerve to defy the Gods of the sea and the elements.
We were eleven years old with the minds and imaginations of individuals twice our age, discussing the compositions we would compose in the future, how the representation of what we felt could be expressed, and all around us was a vista of splendour, the magnificent white cliffs towering above us, the ocean with all its moods, then on a calm day, sometimes sitting in the middle of the sands not saying a word, just holding hands and listening to the peace and quiet, revelling in the tranquillity of an empty beach.
Because of our enthusiasm for music it set us both aside from others in those days, and each of us before we met were perhaps rather lonely because I suppose of our unusual childhood passion, the joy we both found in each others company cannot be over estimated, and the silly things like the ‘wellies’ we wore were a constant cause of hilarity to both of us. In our teenage years we bought new ones when we outgrew the old ones, but as no doubt you can imagine, hers had to be pink.
In that brown office type envelope that I emptied onto my desk that day
amongst the many photographs was one of two pairs of ‘wellies’; one navy pair, and one pink pair, nothing else in the picture, just the wellies. Can you even begin to imagine perhaps the memories it stirred in me that morning after sixty odd long eventful years had passed?
But I had to laugh, along with the tears, I ached, and as I type this out I cannot prevent a smile when remembering her really wicked sense of humour and of course her pink ‘Wellington Boots’.
Thanks so much for stopping by.
Please call again.