There's a wind-broken tree at the top of Hope Hill; it scratches the sky
with its sharp-pointed limbs. It's deformed and twiggy - it has never, that
I remember, had more than five leaves at any one time. It provides no
shelter, but sitting beneath it you can feel the world beneath you and the
magic of what was created - no matter what your belief - millions and
millions of years ago. Shame man ruined such a beautiful piece of art as
the earth - shame I had a hand in it.
One of my earliest memories of this place - this battlefield - was the Christmas Eve before my fifth birthday (I'm a January girl). My mum was stumbling her way through some recipe she'd cut out of a magazine and taped into the back of her cook-book - the book was red, and had the words 'Christmas Cooking' printed across the front in flaking gold print. It's one of my strongest Christmas memories; mum's book. I can't remember what mum was cooking, but the taste on the air was sweet and heavy. Petunia was trying on her frock, ready for the next day - I was drawing us all opening our gifts, in front of the rather bald Christmas tree my mum had brought cheaply from our great uncle, who was going senile and ordered approximately five Christmas trees each year without fail. I didn't have colouring pencils at that age, so I was using a bright range of wax crayons, that were left out in the sun one summer and had taken on the size and shape of several painted slugs. There was this sudden moment, as I coloured my mum's face red (I'd lost my pink crayon some three months before hand), that I realised, for the first time in my so far blissfully ignorant life, that there was something missing from the image. As I sat back on my heals, examining to pictures with my beady little eyes - so different to my mother and Petunia's large winter-sky-steel-blue eyes - I knew what it was. It was something everyone seemed to have apart from me . . .
I'd never really noticed the absence of my father before that; I can't remember the man. I don't want to. Petunia and me were pretty oblivious to the fact that we didn't not have a father because we couldn't afford one, but because he didn't care. Perhaps my mum meant for it to be like that; that way she didn't have to look too closely at how big her mistake had been. It wasn't her fault, and I have never in my life blamed her - we see so much more than there really is in someone, when we're in love. We don't want to face that perhaps - just perhaps - we're wrong. It works the same way with hate . . .
But, back to Christmas; my mum noticed my frown and asked what was wrong, as parents frequently do, whether we want them to or not. I, being 'a bear of very little brain', asked if we were getting a father for Christmas. When my mum laughed and replied that she hoped not, I couldn't help but feel offended; it's not everyday you're told that your father isn't hiding under the Christmas tree, wrapped up in sparkly paper and tinsel, with a note reading 'To Lily, Love Santa' or 'Three AA Batteries Required'.
I asked her why not, and if they were more expensive than a television. It was probably about then she realised I was serious, and hadn't just been listening to the radio a little too much. Her brow furrowed and she stopped mixing whatever it was in the bowl she hugged. She looked thoughtful for a few minutes - probably not so long, but it seemed like a decade of thoughtfulness - and eventually smiled softly and answered we were doing pretty well on our own.
I didn't agree.
One of my earliest memories of this place - this battlefield - was the Christmas Eve before my fifth birthday (I'm a January girl). My mum was stumbling her way through some recipe she'd cut out of a magazine and taped into the back of her cook-book - the book was red, and had the words 'Christmas Cooking' printed across the front in flaking gold print. It's one of my strongest Christmas memories; mum's book. I can't remember what mum was cooking, but the taste on the air was sweet and heavy. Petunia was trying on her frock, ready for the next day - I was drawing us all opening our gifts, in front of the rather bald Christmas tree my mum had brought cheaply from our great uncle, who was going senile and ordered approximately five Christmas trees each year without fail. I didn't have colouring pencils at that age, so I was using a bright range of wax crayons, that were left out in the sun one summer and had taken on the size and shape of several painted slugs. There was this sudden moment, as I coloured my mum's face red (I'd lost my pink crayon some three months before hand), that I realised, for the first time in my so far blissfully ignorant life, that there was something missing from the image. As I sat back on my heals, examining to pictures with my beady little eyes - so different to my mother and Petunia's large winter-sky-steel-blue eyes - I knew what it was. It was something everyone seemed to have apart from me . . .
I'd never really noticed the absence of my father before that; I can't remember the man. I don't want to. Petunia and me were pretty oblivious to the fact that we didn't not have a father because we couldn't afford one, but because he didn't care. Perhaps my mum meant for it to be like that; that way she didn't have to look too closely at how big her mistake had been. It wasn't her fault, and I have never in my life blamed her - we see so much more than there really is in someone, when we're in love. We don't want to face that perhaps - just perhaps - we're wrong. It works the same way with hate . . .
But, back to Christmas; my mum noticed my frown and asked what was wrong, as parents frequently do, whether we want them to or not. I, being 'a bear of very little brain', asked if we were getting a father for Christmas. When my mum laughed and replied that she hoped not, I couldn't help but feel offended; it's not everyday you're told that your father isn't hiding under the Christmas tree, wrapped up in sparkly paper and tinsel, with a note reading 'To Lily, Love Santa' or 'Three AA Batteries Required'.
I asked her why not, and if they were more expensive than a television. It was probably about then she realised I was serious, and hadn't just been listening to the radio a little too much. Her brow furrowed and she stopped mixing whatever it was in the bowl she hugged. She looked thoughtful for a few minutes - probably not so long, but it seemed like a decade of thoughtfulness - and eventually smiled softly and answered we were doing pretty well on our own.
I didn't agree.