Raymond in the Dark

Hi all,
Half way there. The creature in today's story really does exist in the part of the roof space we call Narnia. Let me know if you want me to continue with the final chapters. Love Granny Ruth

Chapter Five: An Encounter in the Dark
Raymond clambered out of the box of sticks and lay on the cold garage floor. He had never felt so sick in all of his short life.  He gazed up at the little blue sweets arranged carefully on the window sill. Who keeps sweets in the garage? he wondered. And then it hit him. Poison! Someone was trying to kill him, probably Himself.

The desire for revenge - to pay someone back when they hurt you - is very strong.  Raymond gathered all his remaining energy and shimmied up the waxy side of a tall, green Wellington boot.  He managed to reach the top and wriggle the upper half of his body over the edge. Clinging on with his tiny claws he began to retch.  He coughed and vomited the entire contents of his stomach into the boot before sliding back down, exhausted. That’ll teach him, he thought.

He now had a raging thirst, so he decided to get back outside where the heavy rain had left sweet deep puddles. After a long drink, Raymond lay in his cardboard box for the rest of the morning.
The rain had washed the day clean and spring was bursting out in yellow everywhere.  Smudge offered words of wisdom: you can eat the broom, but don’t touch the forsythia or the dandelions.  'After the morning I’ve had, I’m not touching anything,' said Raymond.

Later he dandered round to the front of the house where there was a flowerbed with lush foliage.  On his tour of the property he had spied broken pieces of roof tiles lying in the valley between the house and the return.  He reckoned if he could just get up there he might be able to find a way inside.  Himself and Missus Daisy were in the back garden so the coast was clear.

Raymond found a strong shrub with toothed leaves which was well established and securely attached to the wall.  It took his weight without shifting as he began to clamber up its spiny stem. It was easier than he’d thought and very soon he emerged into the light and dropped into the gutter. It was soggy in there but he quickly stepped onto the roof tiles and scurried up the valley. As expected the cement was dislodged and some of the edge tiles were broken. There was a hole. He squeezed under the roofing felt and he was in!

But where was he? He walked along a beam and peered down into the room below. It was a windowless space, gloomy and dark. There was no furniture, only boxes and boxes. As his eyes adjusted to the half-light he could see a wooden rocking horse abandoned in the corner.  Nothing to see here, he thought. Or to eat.

He sniffed around the floor when all of a sudden he had a creepy feeling, like he was being watched. He glanced at the horse, but he was staring into the distance. Was there someone else in here?  The ceiling of the room slanted down on two sides and in the far corner was a pitch-black space. Raymond crept closer until he could just make out a shape, a sinister shape with a ghostly white face. He jumped back in fear. He knew that shape. It was a shape like that that had made off with his father one day, picking him up in the field and carrying him high into the sky. Raymond and his brothers never saw him again.
The shape did not move. It sat totally still with round eyes staring ahead. It was a barn owl – the kind that sits on fences lying in wait for unsuspecting rodents like him.  Its plumage was buff-coloured speckled with tiny dots and its claws were gripping a piece of wood.

Raymond was not a stupid rat. He knew that it was strange for an owl to be lurking indoors. Who on earth does he think he’s going to catch in here? he wondered.
The owl did not seem to have noticed him. Perhaps he’s ill, thought Raymond.  He grew braver by the minute and pressing his body close to the floor he inched forward to get a better look. The owl was worse than ill: some of his feathers had been torn loose and one of its wings was obviously broken.  He was in a bad way and Raymond felt sorry for him.
‘Are you all right, old man?’ he asked.
Silence.
‘How on earth did you get in here?’
Silence again.
‘Be like that, then,’ said Raymond. ‘See if I care!’
The owl stayed absolutely still and Raymond started to feel like a predator. He ran at the owl and knocked him over. Now who was the bully?  He could not believe that he had attacked a bird of prey and got the better of him.

The owl offered no resistance but still Raymond felt powerful. He bit into the owl’s side expecting to find juicy intestines. Instead he spluttered and spat. His mouth was filled with feathers and musty grains. What?
Raymond was greedy so he ate a few mouthfuls until he felt completely stuffed.
Stuffed! Of course. That was it. The truth dawned slowly. The owl was stuffed!
Raymond glanced round to see if the horse was watching. Still wooden. He was embarrassed. Did he really think an owl would let him get close enough to make mincemeat of him?
It was time to leave. Raymond took one last look at the poor owl and leapt up towards the roof.  Feeling very foolish, he descended the pyracantha bush and slunk home.

‘Having fun, are we?’ smirked Smudge, the squirrel, when he appeared on a nearby branch.
Raymond ignored him. Smudge could be really annoying. He did, however, know things.  From his vantage point high in the tree he could see everything that was going on.  He had been watching Himself and Missus Daisy draping colourful bunting on the big wooden structure in the back garden.
‘I think there’s going to be a party,’ he said smugly.
‘Are we invited?’ said Raymond.
‘Of course not,’ said Smudge, ‘but that won’t stop the likes of us…’

Partners in Crime

Enjoy Finlay George's drawing of Raymond in this chapter. Other illustrations by Maria. GR

Chapter Four: Raymond Makes a Steal

Raymond braced himself for the powerful jet of water which must surely come. Nothing! The man in

 the cap did not even notice him. He stomped around the tank and then removed a black cap and inserted the nozzle.  There was a droning sound as the tank filled and then it was all over and the lorry was gone. On the ground were a few drops of black sticky oil and size eleven boot prints.
Raymond surveyed the scene. All that was left of his den were some squished leaves and a broken nutshell which he had been using for a pillow.
Dear oh dear, he thought.
‘Dear oh dear,’ echoed a voice above him.
Smudge the squirrel was watching from a nearby branch. 
‘I feel right sorry for you,’ he said, looking down his nose.
Raymond noticed that Smudge had a funny accent as well as attitude. 
‘It’s as if you don’t really belong here,’ he went on. ‘My ancestors have been here since 1873, wreaking havoc in orchards and market gardens; destroying bulbs; damaging roofs and electricity cables. We have really carved out a place for ourselves.’
‘Where did you come from?’ asked Raymond.
‘North America,’ drawled Smudge.
‘That explains the accent,’ said Raymond.
‘I don’t have an accent,’ said Smudge, indignant. ‘It’s you Irish who have the accent!’
‘Northern Irish,’ corrected Raymond.
Suddenly Smudge jumped up onto one of the bins which sat along the garage wall. He managed to open the lid of the blue bin and pulled out a box which he plonked down beside Raymond.  It was long and narrow with a picture of a lady’s summer sandal on the side.
‘Will this do?’ asked the squirrel.
‘For what?’
‘Your new home, dumb-ass.’
‘Language, please!’ said Raymond sniffing the box.
‘We’ll have to furnish it,’ he said.
‘Less of the “we,”’ said Smudge, but as Raymond headed off across the lawn, the squirrel was not far behind.
In the centre of the garden stood a large wooden structure with a sturdy platform. Raymond had absolutely no idea what it was for, but underneath it was a square pit of dry sand. Well, dryish. It was compacted but with a bit of digging it would make a perfect lining for the box. How to get it over to the oil tank, though? That was the problem.
Sticking out of the sand were several abandoned vehicles: children’s toys bleached by the sun and winter days’ neglect.  Smudge was pulling at a lorry – a dump truck.
‘Perfect!’ they said in unison.
What a comical sight! Smudge did all of the digging and heavy lifting. He also pushed the truck across the resistant grass. Raymond, however, was director of operations; he sat at the tiny steering wheel shouting instructions. It was a mammoth effort, but they got there.
‘No thanks to you,’ said Raymond to Orange Cat who was watching them with her eyes almost shut as she draped herself along a low hanging branch.

‘There now,’ said Raymond pleased with his efforts. The box was lined with fresh sand and good to go – except for one thing. I need a bit of home comfort, he thought, maybe a blanket. He looked round for inspiration.
Above the lawn the washing was snapping and waving. At one end of the fashion parade was a foundation garment belonging to Missus Daisy.  A pair of white bloomers trimmed with pink lace flapped in the breeze for all the world to see. Size large.

Has she no shame?’ muttered Smudge.
‘I have an idea,’ said Raymond.
The friends stood looking up at the forked pole which vaulted the washing line high into the air. 
‘I’m not going up there,’ said Smudge.
‘Me neither,’ said Raymond.
Raymond had not got as far as praying and yet his prayers were suddenly answered when a sudden downpour sent Missus Daisy running from the back door, bareheaded and in her carpet slippers. She pulled the pole down, grabbed at her washing, snapping coloured pegs all over the place, and dumped her damp smalls into the wicker basket.  She did not notice Raymond and Smudge crouching under the crimson azalea. Orange Cat had dawdled off in search of cover.
A distraction was needed and Raymond was happy to oblige. He didn’t even have to do anything; he simply sauntered along the low patio wall, making sure he was seen.
Getting wet was worth it. As hoped, Missus Daisy screamed, dropped the basket (running, no doubt, to fetch Himself, or the rolling pin) while Smudge casually swiped her knickers. The pals retreated quickly, draped the stolen underwear on the oil tank to dry and high fived each other. Job done!
The rain persisted all afternoon and Smudge crept high into the tree for shelter. Raymond was on his own and struggling to keep dry. Time to investigate the garage.
The garage door was a heavy brute on a roller which always closed with a loud clang.  Himself had been out washing the car when the rain came. 
‘No need to rinse,’ he chuckled as he carried the bucket and sponge indoors.
He was in a hurry because the rain slid too easily off his bald head and dribbled into his eyes, so he did not pull the door down quite far enough. There was about an inch of a gap at the bottom which was more than enough space for an inquisitive rat with a flexible skeleton.  Raymond tested it out with his whiskers and squeezed underneath, flat like a lollipop, before you could say wet Wednesday.
There was a large window in the garage, but it was still quite dark and gloomy inside. Untidy too. There were tools arranged on the walls but tins of paint and bags of turf were scattered on the rough cement floor.  The lawn mower was sleeping in the corner so without disturbing it, Raymond climbed its handle to reach the windowsill.  Something brightly coloured had caught his attention: a small jar lid had been placed on the ledge and it was filled with little blue sweets.
‘For me?’ he said. ‘Did they know I was coming?’
Raymond sniffed the sweets warily. It had been a while since breakfast so he thought he would allow himself a tiny treat.  If I want to get back in here, he thought, I need to watch my figure.  He snaffled one of the sweets and then dropped down to search for somewhere dry to have a nap. At the back of the garage was a wooden box containing chopped sticks. This will do, he thought, with a sleepy yawn.
A short time later he woke. His tummy ached and he needed a drink. He felt so poorly.
‘I’m too young to die,’ he whimpered.

The Girls and Orange Cat

Hi all,

Today's chapter is a tribute to my friend Elaine's real life Orange Cat. Enjoy the photograph taken by my son, Joshua, in his beautiful garden and the drawings by the lovely Maria. More in a few days. Granny Ruth x

Chapter Three:  Raymond Meets the Girls

Squeezed flat in a narrow space underneath a large oil tank, Raymond tried not to breathe. Whatever it was lurking in the undergrowth, it surely could not reach him here. Oh to be able to fly! Or climb trees.
Light played with shadowy shapes as the creature slunk towards him. A tiger in the rain forest could not instil a greater sense of terror.  Was this the end? His mother had warned him about cats’ eyes: 
Stay off the road, Raymond, or you’ll be squashed like cats’ eyes. This was something different.
When he presented himself, however, Orange Cat was less feline foe and more fat friend rubbing his furry bottom along the side of the tank. He sneezed twice, wiping a paw across his snotty nose. He’s got a cold, oh happy days! thought Raymond. He can neither smell nor see me and anyway he’s too out of shape to give chase. All the same, he stayed where he was until the cat lost interest and wandered off. Raymond fell asleep, snuggled in his own smallest of spaces, hedged in by bits of crispy leaves and garden debris.
He woke hours later to a terrible cacophony of sound. Above and around him was trilling, piping and singing. The indigo sky was melting into pink and blue pastels as the sun pushed its way above the horizon. Raymond felt like he’d been through a mangle as he stretched out his flattened muscles and shook his fur free of fungus. What was that noise?
Keeping to the edge of the flower bed, Raymond crawled stealthily towards the dawn chorus.  They were everywhere, preening, gossiping and feeding. It was breakfast time at the bird table.  

There were fancy feathers everywhere: tawny chaffinches, hooded great tits and, loveliest of all, multi-coloured goldfinches pecking at a separate black seed feeder. Their red faces made them look like guests at a masked ball.

Pretty girls! Of course, the rolling pin woman’s pretty girls!
The last thing Raymond expected was to be shown to a table by a waiter. A huge bird had landed in the garden, lord of all he surveyed. The little birds scattered at his approach.  He strutted along the lawn wearing a black jacket over his white waistcoat, his long midnight blue tail feathers brushing the dew. He was huge and self-important, intimidating anyone who blocked his path. Not that anyone dared. The finches and tits had taken cover in the nearby bushes and the wood pigeon was fumbling about on the grass.
Having surveyed the scene, the huge magpie rose into the air and then hurtled back towards the garden like a dive bomber. What on earth was he doing? Soon it was clear to Raymond that there was method in his madness: he was hitting the suspended bird feeder with his strong wings trying to dislodge it from the nail. But why?
The first few attempts failed, then, with a clatter, the full feeder hit the deck, spilling its lid and contents into the flowerbed below.
Geronimo!
The well-dressed bully was first to the feast, and when he had had his fill, the wood pigeon plodded over to help herself.  Raymond was salivating with desire. He edged closer, unsure of his welcome. There was none. The great brute of a magpie screeched in his face but then he lifted up and flew to the fence, watching him with beady eyes.
He crunched and nibbled and filled his belly without lifting his head. When he did look up he realised that it had started to rain – huge globules of spit. Raymond hated the rain because he was vain and did not think the wet look suited him.  He retreated to his new home under the oil tank to think.
Aside from Smudge, no one had spoken to him, except the crazy woman who wanted to kill him.  What had he ever done to her?

Nevertheless, Raymond decided to hang around for a while: big garden, plentiful supply of seed, ingenious birds – what was there not to like? Even Orange Cat seemed to be too lazy to pursue him, preferring to lounge around on the grass.
Raymond was in paradise: in among the shards of bark which covered the flowerbed he found wheat, maize, millet and his favourite: sunflower seeds.

Raymond felt hungrier than ever. He hadn’t eaten a thing apart from a lick of sugar in twenty-four hours. 

Now that he had decided to stay for a while, Raymond wanted to
get the lie of the land. Once the rain had stopped, he moseyed along under grey skies and made a tour of the garden.
Round the far side of the house, he saw smoke seeping out of a half-open window. Fire! He thought, but no one was raising the alarm. In fact, Himself was singing. Singing in a fire?
Raymond crept closer and realised that it was not smoke, but steam. He hid in a bed of lesser celandine, lying among glossy

heart-shaped leaves, the delicate yellow flowers closed waiting for the sun to reappear. The song rang out in a warbling tenor voice:

Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do.
I’m half-crazy all for the love of you.
It won’t be a stylish marriage,
For I can’t afford a carriage.
But you’ll look sweet up on the seat
Of a bicycle built for two.

Now that I have to see, thought Raymond. Note to self, get into the garage.  He continued on his journey through the rose bushes with their tightly closed buds, past tulips standing to attention like soldiers and back to his den.
And not a moment too soon. All of a sudden the rumble of an engine shook the earth. A huge lorry had driven into the driveway. Raymond stayed where he was, watching. There was a wrenching noise and down the side of the house came striding a tall man wearing a cap and overalls. Behind him snaked a long pipe. He was getting closer and closer. A huge nozzle was prodded through the bush directly in front of him.
Oh no! thought Raymond. He’s going to flush me out…

Thinking Green

Thank you for the feedback on yesterday's chapter.  Here is today's offering.  I love the beautiful drawing of the falcon by Edith Joy, aged 6.  When I asked Maria for her illustration, she wasn't thinking seasonally -  the seasons are different in SA anyway - but isn't Raymond cute? Enjoy!

Chapter Two: Raymond Thinks Green
Raymond cowered in the grass and slowly turned his eyes upwards. He tried to roll them back in their sockets without moving his head. Instinctively, he knew that moving his head or any other part of his body would be a mistake. Big mistake. Above him loomed a huge bird, blocking out the sun. It’s probably a peregrine falcon, he thought. He did not, in fact, know what a bird of prey looked like, but he had heard about them, how they lived in the old quarry on Scrabo Hill and made silent forays into the countryside.

Why would a big bird like that be interested in a seed feeder? How could it possibly get its beak into the tiny little holes? Ridiculous! Raymond had begun to believe that the kindly lady had put the seed out for the regular residents, like him. Well, he was hardly a regular, not yet, anyway. But he was certainly not a blow-in from the stone quarry. Let them get their own seed!
The air became cooler as the bird started to fall out of the sky. Raymond started to wish he was a chameleon as he pressed himself deeper into the spongy lawn. Think green! Think green!

‘That’ll never fill you,’ his mother used to say when he picked at his food.

‘That’ll never fill you,’ he murmured into himself as the bird craned its neck to see what was on the tall table – a few crumbs from a dried up bread roll and an apple core on the turn.
Seconds later, Raymond did not know whether to feel foolish or afraid. The bird was not looking at the feeder; it was looking at him.  Of course it was after him. Who wants a seed starter when there is raw rat on the menu? The whole ‘think green’ thing was not working. Inches away, however, was a freshly aerated bed of brown soil. If he could only ease himself over there he would have a fighting chance. Well, not really. If it came to fighting, he had absolutely no chance against a creature with sharp fingernails who could take to the skies with him suspended like a hang glider.
The bird rose again into the blue. Raymond shivered and shifted sideways ever so slightly until his little feet felt less resistance, sinking into the sandy loam. The bed was filled with soft green rounded leaves scattered at intervals. He snuck under the nearest one, closed his eyes and lay quite still.

Suddenly there was a flapping and fluttering and a gentle movement of air.  Raymond knew that something had landed.  He braced himself. Nothing happened. He peeked out from under the leaf.  Where was the scary shadow bird? Gone. Circling high and away.
Nearby, on the grass was a much stupider creature altogether. It had tiny claws instead of talons and was purring like a cat. Not a falcon, then.  Wood pigeon? Its coat was iridescent – shifting shades of grey blue and purple, with feathers that ruffled softly as it waddled towards the foot of the bird table.  Maybe she is a vegetarian, he thought hopefully. The bird was gazing at the feeder. It was too small; she was too big.
Bolder now, Raymond sized up the competition.  It seemed as if neither of them was going to get at the seed any time soon.  I’ll make a dash, he thought, to scare her away and then I’ll devise a plan of action.  Dash he did, but he did not get very far. Somehow, as he wriggled in the soft soil, his foot had become entangled in a piece of string. Not string, something thicker and stronger. A red coil was wound round his right leg, pulling tighter as he struggled.
What on earth? he wondered.
Just then a shrill shriek pierced the air.
‘Get out of my strawberries, you pesky vermin or I’ll skin you alive!’

The housewife stumbled out of the back door wielding a rolling pin with sugar falling from it like snowflakes.  It’s surprising how quickly the brain works when you’re under threat. While he was desperately trying to extricate himself from the strawberry runners, Raymond was also making a mental note of where the sugar grains were landing so that he could come back for them later. That is if there was a later.
The woman was screaming, the pigeon had taken off and was watching from the crossbar of the garden swing and with a final yank Raymond managed to pull himself free and make for cover.  He narrowly missed being pulverised as the hysterical woman flailed about in the bushes. If he hadn’t been so scared, he would have laughed. The angry woman retreated with a shrug of her shoulders and a slam of the door.
‘Vermin, is it?' said a silky voice nearby. ‘There aren’t many of us left who can claim that particular sobriquet or nickname.’
‘What?’ said Raymond gazing up into the branches of a tall tree. The creature looking down on him had a superior air.
 ‘If it’s seed you’re after, watch this.’
A small nose descended from a bough above, followed by a long, hairy tail. The creature lunged himself at the wall, scurried upwards, clinging to the rough rendered finish, and snaffled a snack from a clear plastic box stuck to the window of the house. Another feeder.
‘Simple,’ he said as he scampered away, disappearing in a grey smudge.
What just happened there? thought Raymond.
Suddenly he gasped. Through the dense bushes he could see two large yellow slanty eyes glowering at him. Raymond was sure he could hear someone licking their lips…

Writing Raymond

It's a while since I wrote a blog, but I have been writing - my own stories and those of my friends.  In this lockdown hiatus I was persuaded to pen a bedtime tale for the Seven: Finlay, Edith, Jasper, Sebastian, Teddy, Eleanor and Beatrice. These are my precious grandchildren and it has been a pleasure to amuse them in these times of enforced distancing. 

The story of Raymond Rattus is a personal one. The real Raymond taunts us in the garden everyday.  Watching him nibbling bird seeds was my inspiration - that and Finn's obsession with trapping rodents on the farm in Annahilt.  The illustrations and photos were provided by family members. Thanks especially to Maria holed up in Port Elizabeth, who is not allowed out to walk and even if she were there is no alcohol on sale. African sun down without sundowners. 

For those who have requested it, here's the first chapter, with drawings by Stephen Bradley and Maria Oosthuysen. 

Raymond Rattus Runs Amok

by Granny Ruth

Chapter One: Raymond Roots Around

Raymond was long, brown and very ugly.

Even his own mother rejected him. It was something to do with his nose – too flat and pointy, not aquiline, like the others. 
‘See if I care,’ he said aloud on the sunny spring day when he left.
He took nothing with him as he wriggled out of the nest and set off along the line of the shuck.  He had absolutely no sense of direction so he threw caution to the wind and followed his nasty nose.  

That was his first mistake. On the other side of the ditch which bordered the farmer’s field was an interesting heap of something smelly.  He paddled through the shallow stream and skipped up the bank.  Concealed behind a tall spruce was a dump – not plastics and tins, but refuse. Biodegradable, he sniffed – peelings, grass cuttings, bits of branches and even some ash from the grate. He nosed around the rotting vegetables and felt his stomach churn. He was hungry but he also felt sick.  He was not averse to a slice of watermelon or a chunk of carrot, but he wanted something fresh. Not this putrid mess.

There was someone in the garden. Himself was out and about, seduced, no, doubt, by the seasonal sunshine.  He was bent over, fiddling with the lawn mower which had been rusting in the garage and was reluctant to be roused from its winter hibernation.  Raymond was not prepared for the deafening roar of the engine and he dashed like one demented under the purple heather as the mower began to gnash the long green blades with its teeth and spit them out.

‘It shouldn’t be permitted,’ he whimpered, as he lay flat on his grumbling stomach, ‘disturbing the peace like that.’

‘Stay in the fields,’ his father had warned. ‘Too many perils in a garden, not to mention the traps.’
Raymond had never actually seen a trap and so he did not know what to look out for. He reckoned he would most likely know one if he came across it.  

From his hiding place, Raymond could see the back door of the house.  A portly woman stepped out with a large basket balanced on her hip, a woolly hat pulled low over her ears. Round her neck was a pouch on a string. It contained small coloured clips with which she proceeded to attach clothing to a high wire suspended between two poles.  Soon sheets, shirts and socks were smacking in the morning breeze.  She gave a sigh of satisfaction, wiped her hands on her pinny and then she spoke.

‘Oh dear, nothing to eat, my girls.’

Who was she talking to? Raymond could see no girls, or boys for that matter. She was looking up into the sky.  Raymond shuffled forward on his cushion of last year’s leaves and looked up too.  Uninterrupted blue with the sun blinding him and blinking him.  He could still hear the distant rumble of the lawn mower.

The woman disappeared inside with the empty basket and re-emerged carrying a bag.  She strode over to a high wooden table embedded in the soil and detached a long cylinder with a domed lid from a nail. Raymond was curious; he had never seen such a thing before. She set the cylinder on the table, dislodged the lid and proceeded to pour something from the bag.  The contents rustled and whispered as they slid out, packing together in a kaleidoscope of brown, black, creamy white and yellow.  

‘Come and get it, girls,’ called the woman as she padded back to the house.

The feeder swayed gently.

A feast, thought Raymond. Dry, clean delicious seeds. Oh my!
But who and where were the girls?

Raymond waited for ages. A minute, at least. Then he eased himself out from under the spiky heather, like a commando.  The sky above was clear.

He eyed up the distance to the table, the height of the wooden post and the swinging container.  How exactly was he going to do this?
You’ll get nowhere if you don’t at least try, he thought, as he edged forward in the damp mossy grass.  He scaled the post and curled his wiry body round the cage, but he could not get at its contents.

Suddenly, the sun went out. ‘Night already?’ he squeaked, dropping back down to the ground. The sky above him grew ominously dark.

He felt the fur on the back of his neck bristle. Something was wrong…

Immortale Amor

The man and I have been married for forty years and he asks me to buy him a precision edged blade. Should I be worried? We are in Switzerland so we purchase a Hercules Swiss army knife with all the accoutrements he will ever need.

We are on a second honeymoon. In July 1979 we drove our little yellow mini from Comber through France and into Switzerland. We stayed in the beautiful medieval cité of Gruyères (where the cheese comes from), a château town with a castle (now a museum) and magnificent views of the lower Alps, some peaks with splashes of snow.  Our room now, as then, overlooks a cradle between the mountains. Little has changed in the landscape and we can still hear the cowbells clinking against the silence of the early morning.

Château de Gruyères

As I sit on the balcony and breathe in the clear air emitted by the pine forest below, it reassures and somehow humbles me that these mountains have stood here immutable for forty years while everything in my life has changed. I am a mother and grandmother; I have worked and retired; I have travelled and stayed put; I have loved and lost; I have been foolish and grown wiser. With the poet of old I lift my eyes to the hills and acknowledge that my help comes from the Lord, who like the mountains is eternal, unchanging and foundationally faithful.

The man and I have been counting our blessings and naming our loves. On the anniversary, we stood face to face at the altar in L'église Saint-Théodule. Through tears we thanked each other for forty years of faithfulness, kindness and trust and vowed again to keep loving to the end. Sadly, this is a more daunting prospect than it seemed in our youth when we said 'for better for poorer, in sickness and in health'.  Although in good spirits we have seen enough of death and suffering to know what loving to the end may mean, and we are as up for it as anyone basking in the Swiss sunshine can be.

The vagaries of love has been a theme of this grand tour in Italy and Switzerland. On the streets of Verona I followed a travelling production of Romeo e Giulietta as they ran to and from the terrible consequences of loving across a divide. In the ancient amphitheatre we also watched the desperate Aida sacrificing herself for love of Radames, sharing his fate in a sealed crypt as they sang of 'immortale amor'. Two pairs of lovers who choose to die together rather than renounce their love. We truly hope that our end will not be a tragic as theirs, but desperate love tears at the heartstrings and leaves us enchanted and deeply moved.

Italy's landscape is dotted with the magnificent Tuscan cypress with its pencil straight back reaching into the blue. I am reminded of Khalil Gibran's musings on marriage:

'Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.'  (The Prophet)

Speaking of Hercules, further south we visited Pompeii and Herculaneum and considered the fate of thousands who fled or failed to flee the magma and ash of Vesuvius, still brooding over the Bay of Naples. I have been reading Elena Ferrante's Neopolitan novels which focus on lives and loves over a lifetime of friendship.  In her fourth and final book of the series she writes:

'Each of us organises memory as it suits him.'

Of course we all want to erase the bad and focus on the good. Together, the man and I have reminisced and remembered and there have been difficult conversations as we address our fragility and failures, but our abiding sense is that we are enveloped in the outstretched arms of the mountain maker. For the briefest of moments we get to join in the worship that emanates from all the majestic beauty declaring his glory. That is ours to do, whatever comes our way in the next forty years.

Thank you, husband, for loving me so well.

'If I say I love you...then I love you.' (Mumford & Sons)

Verona

I Bless the Day

The attic room at the top of the tall Belfast town house was chilly, even in summer.  I shared the slanting space with my little sister, Pauline Mary. She is just sixteen months younger, but littler than me, nonetheless. The house faced the busy Oldpark Road, a wide thoroughfare which led up to Cliftonville Circus and onwards towards Ballysillan. The bus stop was right outside the house, a fact that irritated English visitors, but never us. We were used to the slither and smack of doors and the regular expiration of air, like a sigh from a large animal. A garden the size of a picnic rug protected us from the road, the narrow space bordered by a low wall sprouting a dusty hedge. There was also a fuchsia bush, a splash of colour against the grey, and I showed my sister how to suck honey from the base of the waxy flower.

It matters where you come in a family. I am the bossy big sister. On Sundays we were taken to church at least four times: morning Sunday School, morning service, afternoon Sunday School and evening service, at our own church or in one of the mission halls where our father worked. In between (was there any in between?) we were allowed to engage in Sunday activities only: no ball games, riding bikes or reading comics. We did not own a television.

I can recall assembling my siblings in the parlour where the two bar heater took pride of place. I arranged them on the settee and the meeting began. I led the service, chose the hymns and preached the sermon. I think I put my sister in charge of giving out the hymnbooks.  She was compliant, as ever.

Our mother made our clothes. One year our Sunday-go-to-meeting outfits consisted of blue grey tweed skirts and bolero jackets with matching hairbands. I vividly remember suffering agonies of shame in case the fabric bands did not properly constitute a head covering. Would God be happy with the hairbands? My sister was not worried. I was older, so if there was any divine retribution, it would fall on me.

I always got the blame. She discovered early on that if she kept quiet and stayed under the radar, I would fight the battles for her. And battles there were aplenty:  wearing trousers to church, reading non-Sunday books, begging to go to the cinema, refusing to go to the Girls' Brigade/Christian Endeavour/Sunday School.

Our father was a preacher and as we grew older, he took us with him to the meetings. Too young to play the organ or give our testimonies, we trundled up to the front to recite Bible verses or perform. We cannot have been more than seven or eight when we sang acapella:

Clean hands or dirty hands,

Brown eyes or blue,

Pale cheeks or rosy cheeks,

Jesus loves you.

I was dark-haired with wan skin, so I dirtied my hands for dramatic effect and splayed my fingers on cue. My eyes are blue so I twinkled them in harmony with the notes.  My little sister has brown eyes so the song worked, but as I recall the experience I am amazed that our parents allowed her to point cheerfully to her rosy cheeks.  She was, in fact, born with a birthmark on her face which may have added weight to the spiritual message, but now feels like exploitation. Pauline bore it all without complaint.

 

Pauline and me

Back in the attic, the room glowing orange from the streetlights, we sang the Everly Brothers in two-part harmony: 'I bless the day I found you/I want to stay around you/ Now and forever/ let it be me.' At Christmas we lay together listening for Santa's sleighbells and squealing with delight at the discovery of an orange in the toe of one of our father's old socks.

When we moved to Newtownards, our lives went in different directions: different schools; different friendship groups; different careers.  At one point, however, we did date brothers: John and Sandy and wasted innocent sunny days together among the yellow broom in the Easter Field. My quiet sister worked in Cafolla's after school and on Saturdays - always earning her own money, always independent.  She became a nurse, riding a scooter to work in the Ulster Hospital and going on to qualify as a midwife. She married the naughty boy she always complained about in school and is the mother of four lovely young adults and grandmother to her precious Evie.

Now she is sixty and I am blessed to know her. She has shown great resilience and love in supporting her husband through unimaginably sad family loss; she leads the local community midwifery team with justice and fortitude; she has helped all of the women in the family through the traumas of pregnancy, childbirth and breast-feeding; she meets crises with inner calm and she demonstrates a spiritual strength borne of a faith that has survived a plethora of meetings and a big sister who would only let her hand round the songbooks.

Congratulations, Pauline, on your sixtieth birthday! I love you and am glad God gave you to us - born in our parents' bed and beloved by all.

Thank you for being my sister.

 

Pauline