Story 4: Kick the Can

Siobháin Bunni

It’s the summer of 1979. I could probably pick any day that summer; they were, in my memory, mostly good days. Great days. It seemed hotter back then, like rain didn’t exist and every summer day was a blistering one. The sun, fighting its way through the thick leafy canopy of chestnut trees that line the gently sloping driveway. A sea breeze, weakened but still fresh from its journey to cool our flushed little faces. The smell of the fresh-cut grass and the sound of sneezing noses it tickled. The tiered lawn, dry and hard enough to hurt, surrounded by all of those first-rate hiding places gifted by a garden so overgrown and wild with bushes, trees and shrubs.

Presiding over this great playground, the house stands majestic if a little sombre with its burnt red brick set into white render contrasting with the black slate roof that slopes over the beautiful residence: a strong, solid house with white-painted timber sash windows that rattle and moan in the wind. It smells like home. It is home.

In the heart of the garden reigns the laburnum tree, as bright as the sun in early summer, a dripping crown of sunny yellow blossoms draped protectively over the turn in the driveway, and the heart of our imagination. Depending on the day, the game and the players this sprawling tree is a house, a shop, a swing or a school, but today it is The Can, and today we’re all in.

Excited shrieks pierce this warm summer day, accompanied by the fast flurry of feet on the driveway, first one pair then two as they belt furiously towards the tree.

Only five of us then – it would be a few years yet before our “little princess” would join us but, none the wiser, we accepted an honorary sixth in the shape of our neighbour – as good as one of us. We were then two boys and four girls, but you couldn’t really rely on the youngest, because she could just about run, never mind hide. Even my older sister played that day, not too distracted by her Jackie magazines or Cliff Richard miming some happy-chappy melody on Top of the Pops, to join in. She’ll kill me for saying this, but when she wasn’t looking after us, she loved to sit and swoon over his quiffy hair and handsome 1970s’ smooth pretty-boy face.

“Kick the Can! I spy Layla behind Mum’s car!”

She, the youngest, was always seen but never caught first: the game would die otherwise as she would then be the next “It”. What good is the game without a race, the odds stacked against her and her unsteady, slow but adorable little-girl run with her golden locks jiggling behind her? But good to get her out fairly soon, we agreed – too young to count, too cute to exclude. We took this game very seriously, the challenging highlight of every summer.

Oh, the excitement at having found a new never-been-used-before hiding place, the disappointment at needing to give it up to go pee.

It is a game of hard-knuckle wits, to sit it out and watch, like a sniper. To bide your time and wait. To hold off until the seeker passes you by or strays sufficiently from The Can, lured by spying a protruding arm or an exposed leg or a peeping shoe. Then, when far enough away, the risk of leaving your hiding place to sneak slowly at first, creeping silently forward then dash with an adrenaline-pumping roar at the top of your voice.

“Kick the Can, I free all!”

Oh, the joy: to reach that tree first. To dive at the thick trunk and feel the first touch of rough bark at your fingers. The howl of encouragement and the air-punching leap of victory.

Likely we played until we couldn’t run any more, till our voices gave up or until a fight broke out amidst accusations of cheating as someone was glimpsed lurking darkly in the glazed porch. Hiding inside the house was always out of bounds, but too much of a draw to resist regardless of the punishing game-evicting consequences. Either way the day was thirst-quenchingly good and probably ended with gulps of lukewarm water and dinner al fresco, my mum in her brown-and-orange kaftan with the flowing sleeves and hair pulled back in a wide matching hair-band and Dad sporting a dapper cravat and slacks. If we were lucky he might be pulling on a sherry-soaked cigar and we could all get drunk on the sweet-smelling fumes.

We are together. United. Innocent. Happy on those days in our own company.

If I could go back to that time, for just one day, I would exploit my memory of the best spot we ever found and hide out to ultimately win the last game of the day – well, the trip back in time has to reap some selfish benefit! Then I would do nothing more than sit on that makeshift swing suspended from our yellow play tree, breathe deep and savour the moment, the laughs and the excitement. I would soak up the feeling and relive the moment where we were comrades together.

The simplicity. The innocence. Where our only worry was who stole our socks, who was rooting in our various rooms, what was for dinner or what trouble we were in when Dad got home from work after our day of high jinks, with his enormous weighted hands and fiery temper. For each of us, although me more often than not, the fearful words “You just wait till your father gets home!”, often shrieked in frustration, made our hearts quiver and knees tremble. My mother at the end of her tether. The consequential wait for the clockwork arrival of our dad at seven on the dot and without fail was torture. Would she tell or would she soften? A game of chance, often lost, rarely won. As Dad approached from his long drive home we could hear the purr of the engine as it descended the hill and pace its progress from the noise it made gearing down to turn its nose into the drive. And as it glided over the final few metres up the drive to turn and stop just outside the sitting-room window, I would retreat to the top of the stairs and listen out for the telltale mumbling and the eventual roar.

“Siobháinnnnnnn!”

And I knew I was done for. No softening today then.

It was never anything really bad. Just something really, really bold. A scrap with one of the sisters. An instruction disobeyed. A display of bad temper or cheek. As I got older, though, the boldness got a little bit wilder: missed curfews, stealing sweets from the local shop, sneaking out after bed to go to the Summit disco. And so a stint at a secluded finishing school for young ladies put an abrupt halt to my gallop. My mother says now that my eldest daughter, so headstrong and spirited, is her revenge on me. And I am both delighted and scared. I don’t know where she gets it from . . .

So my journey back for just one day would be to one of those days that summertime because after that things started to get complicated and the livin’ wasn’t so easy.

But there would be no quiet “in hindsight” inciteful whispers of inspiration to my young self. No secret words of warning or caution – knowing me then as I do now, I probably wouldn’t listen anyway, not even to myself – no clues or watch-outs-for-things-to-come.

I might give a gentle nod to my brother to avoid diving on his homemade rope swing above the rockery and save him a serious bloody gash to the back of his head. And I would definitely give particular counsel to my younger sister to be cautious in her future romantic dalliances, without freaking her out, if she’d understand. And out of divilment I might warn my neighbour of the harmless crush I would develop on him a couple of years later, but that would be it. Because what comes next is what makes us who we are, and who am I to influence that? They might not all be the great experiences or events that we’d hope for, and some are ones we’d rather not have; the ones that hurt us most are often the ones that shape us most. But collectively, combined with the persuasive events and positive encounters, they become the ingredients that flavour us and determine our futures. Who am I to decide what my siblings could or should be? And despite my flaws, and I have quite a few, I’m content, if a little challenged, by who I am.

So for me the moment would be about enjoying the carefree togetherness of my siblings. A wish to have our innocence back for just one more day. The innocence of ignorance and the bliss of a warm summer’s day, screaming for all the right reasons.

Born in 1968 in Baghdad, Iraq, Siobháin Bunni is one of six children born to her Irish mother and Iraqi father. A rebellious young lady, she was educated in Kylemore Abbey in Connemara before graduating from the College of Marketing & Design, with an Advanced Diploma in Environmental Design. Married to Ross since 1997 following a romantic elopement to the Amalfi Coast in Italy, they have three beautiful children, a boy and two girls. Together they live in Malahide, Co Dublin. Until recently she worked as a design manager with Eason & Son Ltd where she managed the development of the design of the new flagship stores and has now started a new contract as Interim Brand and Communications manager with Vodafone.