Three hard winters followed by three warm ones; two wet summers and one dry; the marshes full of birds for seven springtimes and then one season quiet, as if they would never prosper again. These are patterns that I have lived long enough to see repeated.
In my wife's face I see the expressions of her father play across the features of her mother. In the eyes of my children I see her eyes, and everyday in the ways of the young I see the way that we used to be. I have seen boys become men and with girls-become-mothers produce sons and daughters to take their places in the games they have left behind.
For my parents though the world was different; change was different. The greatest change that I have known, one which will know no seasonal renewal of its own, was the passing of that generation; the coming of silence to the voices which could tell the tales of the way the world had been, the world before the village. It was a world of change, change which flew as direct as an arrow in flight into the body of the world.
When I was a boy, just as it is today, in the morning there would always be someone in the vegetable gardens. The keenest gardener of the generation that founded the village was Jessica. I remember that she paid no interest to me until I first paid an interest to the garden. Probably she hardly even noticed me scurrying past the garden gate. I often took myself off exploring on my own.
There was more building work in those days than there is now: from time to time then, newcomers still arrived in need of housing, and whereas now we repair the work of earlier years, at that time the provisional was still being replaced with the permanent; the village was rooting, settling in like a transplanted cutting. On any given morning I might have passed Charlie or Iain, tools in hand, or my Uncle David who often worked with them. 'If you find anything good today Hugh you be sure and show it to me first' Charlie would say. I once found him a box of long nails and after that he always had time to say hello to me.
Much of the life of the village has always revolved around the water, we are all but an island after all. Even though I usually waded along to the narrow strips of land we called The Banks, I generally passed the little wooden quay on my way nonetheless. If I was lucky I would meet my Dad. He loved his fishing and must have spent the greater part of his life in a boat or at the water's edge.
Without looking up Dad would hear my steps and say 'Does your Mother know you're going to The Banks Hugh?'
'Yes Dad.'
'Are you going alone son?'
'Yes Dad.'
'Be careful boy. Call if you need me okay?'
'Dad! I am nearly eleven.' I am sure I remember having the same conversation until I could say 'Dad! I am nearly twenty five.' It took me a long time to learn that what seemed like a fuss was really love; love and fear I guess.
'I don't want you to end up having to go and ask Kathy for a bandage again.'
'No Dad.' I think Kathy would have minded less than Dad; she always seemed so different when she was needed in "her room". The sign reading 'Infirmary' still hangs above the door, but Kathy was the last of the nurses from the time before the village. In action she was grace and efficiency, between times she often seemed sad. It may seem odd to tell, but she was more herself in a crisis than in quiet times.
Invariably, me already up to my knees in water, Dad would have one more thing to say: 'Hugh, I love you boy.' 'I love you too Dad' I always thought. Sometimes I even said as much.
Looking back from the first of The Banks I could see the village. I think now perhaps that only in winter could you see through the trees. There's a change for you, well growth at least. The houses largely retain the character they had then: they were an odd mixture of materials. I am sure that for the founders they always seemed unfinished, temporary, untidy. For me they meant home and security.
If I am honest, there is more green wood woven into the walls and fences now than there was then; the place has aged nicely and takes on each year more of the colours of the marshlands around it. Perhaps in the end every piece of the Old Times will be obscured, covered with deposits of the craft of successive generations.
In the summertime The Banks were always alive with butterflies and birds amongst the undergrowth. The ground was hard and, still visible when I was young, there were long mounds of pale rock, concrete the elders called it. Sometimes you could see pieces of metal rusting in the rock itself, but where it had not crumbled it was good to lie down on to enjoy the Sun or to gaze up at the sky.
On the occasion that sticks most clearly in my mind I could find nothing to distract myself on The Banks nearest to the village. It was a sunny day and warm, but the biting flies which so often ruined my walks were nowhere to be seen. So on I went, right to the end of The Banks, to the limit of the territory I knew. I stood on a dome of concrete and stared out towards the east.
Not far away across the marshes I could see a boat. It was the low fowling craft that belonged to the village, and I could see Carol and Graham rowing it very carefully into the forest of reeds. I had been told that there had once been more people than birds in these parts, but it was hard to believe. There were times when the hunters disturbed the vast flocks of fowl and the light of day dimmed with their flight; the hush of the world was shattered by their uproarious cries. It still happens of course, although we eat a little less wildfowl than we used to when Carol and Graham practiced their cunning craft.
Well there I was thinking that I had come to the end of all land. I had just given up trying to see the great towers that I had been told could sometimes be seen rising from the water out there towards the open sea. It was then that I noticed that in fact I could wade onwards; a broad causeway of concrete went off just beneath the surface towards the north. Being of no mind to go back towards home, I took the plunge.
The shallow water over the concrete shimmered. It was not too cold and, even when the bottom changed from pale grey to smooth black I found that I could still make my way, the water rising no higher than my thighs. Later I was to learn that this was the place the elders called The High Street. The black bed beneath my feet was covered here and there with rectangular blocks, just the kind that Charlie sometimes brought back in the boat to use in low walls or to raise beds in the gardens.
I knew very well that I was going further than my Mum and Dad would have wanted, but it seemed that every time I thought about going back I spotted something that drew me onwards. I found a place where tall posts rose from the water; they seemed to crane their necks and to have heads of translucent orange, dulled with green algae. I could not get close to them, they were surrounded by piles of submerged jagged rubble. A little way further on I realised that I was walking on a long roof, almost but not quite flat. My palms sweat now to think how dangerous that roof was, but still on I went.
There is a place we have always called The Rise; I must have been near it then. The water gave way to swathes of reeds, islets and even trees. Tired of wading I scrambled up a muddy bank and dived into the dense undergrowth. Brambles clung to me as the reeds gave way to the kinds of dry land plants we have around the village.
Soon I could tell that just like the village this place had the ruins of ancient walls. The ground was the same odd aggregate of dark soil and plentiful artifacts of the world before the village. Thinking perhaps that I might find some treasure for Charlie, I searched the nooks and dells of my new land enthusiastically. This kind of quest was the ideal end to one of my expeditions.
Now I am well aware that every tiny piece of rubble, every fragment of tile or brick and every edge of weathered plastic was a sore reminder to the elders of a world which had passed in their recent recall; a painful shard of traumatic memory. They lived on a world turned upside down. They could bend down and find splinters of their pasts all around them, but they could not put the pieces back together.
For youngsters though, the time before their birth seems impossibly distant. Time is deep, as deep as the deepest channels laying over the city that came before the village. As I searched I tried to imagine what the ancient times must have been like, and I marvelled at how old the elders must have been, to have known the age when all these broken pieces had made something more than the piled islands and watery marshlands all around.
How easily things are broken. That was the lesson that our elders learned too late. I have rarely seen intact artifacts of the ancient world, but on that day my excitement rose; under a thatch of brambles I discovered the perfectly square edge of some metal box, a machine perhaps.
At first I dug with bare hands. When my fingertips grew raw I found a square of slate. Charlie had told me that it had been a common roofing material in the city of old. I scraped away with this black shovel and slowly the metal chest began to emerge. I saw the remnants of writing on it and from that, knowing my alphabet properly, could tell that the thing was on its side.
Clear glass or plastic panels ran down the face of the artifact and through these I could see what I took for workings. It was indeed an ancient machine. Next I found what I took to be handles, a row of them, one beneath each clear window.
I dug furiously, scraped away the earth, resting only to tug on the handles as I freed them from the ground. I had decided that they were like the front-pieces to little drawers and I was desperate to gain entry to the innards of this shining mysterious object.
None of the handles would move although the whole object rocked, until at last I had dug it out entirely. I wrenched on the final metal drawer and with a click it came free in my shaking hand. Tucked in behind the handle I found a little box. It was no bigger than my hand, very light and wrapped in clear plastic. I passed my finger over this magical stuff and listened intently as it crackled under my light touch.
Suddenly aware that I had been away from home for far too long, I stood there only long enough to try to decipher the writing on the little carton. There were numbers and words I did not recognise but took for names. There was a dominant white panel on the each of the broad faces. It wasn't easy to read; I got a little scared. It seemed to be a warning. I decided that I certainly wouldn't open the box until I had first shown it to someone at home.
Clutching my find to me I ran when I could and waded quickly when I was forced to take to the water. Soon I was crossing The Banks and minutes later I was breathlessly passing the wooden quay and coming up the path into the village itself.
'What are you running from Hugh?' Uncle David called out from halfway up a ladder.
'Nothing Uncle David.'
'And what have you got there?'
I came to a halt at the foot of the ladder. It was the shiny metal one and remains a prized possession of the village to this day. Breathing hard and holding a stitch in my side I just held up the little find so that my Dad's brother could see it clearly. At first he frowned and then he smiled. He came down to the ground saying 'Well Hugh, where did you find those?'
'I only have one' I said, not knowing why he had referred to the box in the plural. He smiled and laughed.
'Charlie' he called, 'Come and see what Hugh has found.'
I was quickly growing pleased with myself. It seemed that I had indeed found something really good, probably something useful.
'Well blow me!' Charlie said and joined in the laughter. The commotion had attracted attention and I soon I was at the centre of a small crowd of adults and younger children. 'You better give those to me Hugh' Charlie added, 'don't you know that you're too young to have them?' I was confused. There were some mock stern looks and I didn't know anymore whether to feel proud, contrite or embarrassed.
I saw Dad coming to join the others. Charlie turned to face him and holding out the carton said 'I've got some bad news Pete. I had to take these off your boy just now.' I feared the worst despite the renewed laughter, but my Dad just began to laugh as well.
'Fags!' he exclaimed. 'Hugh where did you find these?'
I tried to explain that I had found the strange box on The Banks, a white lie at most, but I don't think Dad or any of the other grown-ups believed me. I still had no idea of the box's contents, but it was certainly being treated with great care, reverence even, as it was passed around the group and back to Charlie.
The word "fags" seemed to have summoned Kathy from her room as if by some supernatural power. I don't recall ever seeing her move as fast on any other occasion. Joking that the contents had been counted and that they mustn't disappear, Charlie entrusted the box to Kathy to keep until the evening.
The crowd dispersed, Dad tousled my hair and I was left there utterly bewildered. Grown-ups, I decided, were the strangest things in all the world.
That night they sat outside around a fire: my Mum and Dad, Charlie, Uncle David and Iain, Kathy and Jessica and the rest. On a flat block by the fire sat my prize.
For a while they seemed studiously to ignore it. I watched from the gloom beyond the firelight, and hoped that my bedtime would be forgotten long enough that I could see what secrets the little packet held.
'Are you going to do the honours then Kath?' Iain said finally.
'Kath can't, she's given up' my Mum said quickly. There was laughter. Of course I didn't understand at all.
'I'll give up tomorrow' Kathy said evenly. She took up the packet and turned it over and over in her hands. 'Would you look at the price of these' she said to a chorus of shared disgust and contempt for the Government and its taxes. I was glimpsing a vanished time, the ceremonies of an era washed from the face of the Earth.
Kathy picked at the plastic with her thumb and forefinger. A tiny tab came away and she pulled it all the way round the box. The others watched fascinated as she slid the transparent plastic off the cardboard, opened a flap on top and tugged free a foil cover from just inside.
I came so close to the fire then that one of the adults noticed me there. I just managed to make out the odd little cylinders packed into the box and then I made a hasty retreat before someone could order me to bed. In the darkness again, I dodged about to see what was going on.
Kathy seemed to take a very long time deciding what to do next. For a minute I thought that the contents of the carton had been a disappointment but then the nurse carefully raised one of the cylinders from amongst its neighbours and offered its end to Charlie.
Charlie hesitated as if he was playing a role in a game. 'Oh I really shouldn't' he said, 'but if you insist. Thanks Kath.' He delicately pulled the offering out until it was free in his hand, and raised the darker end towards his lips. I thought that he was going to eat it. At the last moment though, he seemed to change his mind; he waited now, just studying the thing as Kathy continued to pass them around.
Everyone took one, even the adults who said mysteriously 'I don't smoke' or 'I haven't smoked since I was at school.' I will never forget the sounds of those bizarre, almost mystical phrases from the time before the village.
'Wait' my Dad said with a start, 'wait just a minute.' He ran off and came back with some flasks of his nettle beer. He went around and made sure that everyone had some, so that fags in their other hands, they sat there clutching the beakers or old cups to which each of them was particularly attached. 'Hugh' he said at last, and I thought that that was it; I was going to be sent to my bed. 'Hugh, you take this cup and have a little drink. Thank you for bringing us these, but remember I never want to see you doing what we are about to do.' A happy ripple of approval followed his advice.
'He should be so lucky' Iain added.
And then came the strangest part of all, so odd that on telling this story now I am often confronted with disbelief. The elders took up burning twigs and set light to the tips of the cylinders. As they sucked on the dark ends the burning tips glowed bright orange. They took great breaths into themselves, filling their lungs with smoke and blowing it out into the night air. I was amazed.
They all coughed and spluttered. Graham, who had said he had not done this since school, nearly fell off his little log seat. And now I saw what they meant by smoking. They all smoked from their mouths. I thought that they might burst into flames. Kathy gave only the slightest cough and then seemed to have been transported; her face relaxed and her eyes opened wide in the firelight. She gently issued smoke from her nostrils and with her next exhalation formed a ring of smoke in the air. I gasped in disbelief.
The smoke was acrid. Some of the grown-ups seemed to become decidedly uncomfortable; their skins turned pale and grey. Soon though they were all laughing and chatting. Conversation turned to the way the world had been.
And so they talked of "pubs" and joked about needing an "ashtray" and a "pint". Charlie reminded them then how smoking had been banned in public places, and how hard he had found it when they had made "Loftus Road" smoke-free. With a giggle and a little puff Carol remembered how much she had hated the smell of smoke in her house and how horrible it was to be in a car with someone smoking a "fag".
Not understanding everything that was said, I was still captivated as I listened. My head tingled, in part due to the nettle beer, but also because of the joy I felt at seeing the elders in deep reminiscence. They shared their memories and their knowledge; they concentrated hard to bring back to life, if only for a little while, a past long gone. An empathic door swung open in my still-childish brain.
Some of them took a second "fag"; some of them were happy just to drink more beer. 'Do you remember' my Mum asked 'when we all thought it could never come to this?' Her friends and neighbours nodded; Dad took her hand in his.
'Do you remember when they said that with all of the world working together the worst would be avoided?' Iain added. That brought the loudest laughs of the evening. They had all lived to see serious promises seriously broken.
They talked like this until only one "fag" was left. 'Better smoked than left' Kathy said. It was lit and passed around. Every single one of them took a turn.
Charlie pushed the last glowing tip into the ground and the contents of the box were gone. Dad picked it up and gave it to me. 'Keep this boy. It might be the last one there is.'
'I'd like to say something' Charlie ventured in a new and somewhat grave tone, '"fags" or no "fags" I'm happier now than I ever was then. Let's not get lost in regrets.'
The others seemed really touched by what the oldest of them had said. Some of them embraced then, some held hands and watched the fire together.
'I don't want to go back to the way the world was' Kathy added after a moment, 'but Hugh, if you find any more packets like that bring them straight to me okay?'
The evening ended in laughter and love. I was happy that I had made it possible and, even at that age, I knew that I had been lucky to hear the elders talk of the Old Time.
I still have the carton my Dad gave me and it retains the bitter-sweet smell that it had when it was first opened. I open it up from time to time, not to remember that once the world was very different, but rather to recall the generation whose work gave us all our home. I loved them all.
