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.
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