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August is my favourite month of the year. It’s a time to pause and ponder, a moment to take a break and relax, to have some fun and laugh a little. I count Augusts in the same way some people count Januarys, for me, they’re the start of the year. Nature is peaking, preparing to begin its annual cycle through death and re-birth, back to this summit. For now, everything is at its very best. Take the time to really look, my dear, breathe in the scents, enjoy catching sight of the flickering paths of butterflies as they circle around each other. They twist and twirl, up and up until they can barely be seen against the sun. Surely, it’s the males doing the chasing, lustfully circling and fighting for their opportunity? That’s the natural way of things, after all, whoever heard of females doing the chasing?
While there’s always something to be getting on with in the garden, August is one of the few months with more pleasant tasks than challenging ones. As if it isn’t only us that are too warm and relaxed to do much. I’m working on the onions today, I’m pulling them out of the ground while it’s so dry, but they’ll need a couple more weeks in the sunshine before we can plait them. I’ve grown red and white varieties this year, and I’ll braid them together, so they’ll look as good as they should. The first bite is with the eye, as they say, and once your eye develops a taste for quality, it never wanes. If they look good, you’ll believe they’ll taste good. These are sweeter than you might expect, my dear, you could eat them like an apple even if you think you don’t like onions. These are tart rather than sharp. Beautiful, delicious. Onions are the most satisfying thing to grow in the English climate, if you ask me, they are all the more perfect for being able to flourish where they’re put.
There are signs everywhere that the season is preparing to pass, but I choose not to see them. So many of the flowers wither as soon as the height of the summer has passed. I don’t go away on holiday anymore, but I imagine that many people leave for a week or two and return to find their garden has completely turned. What a shame to miss this fine display. Of course, my dear, I have some plants which bloom later, but those are yet to come into their prime, and I like to plan for this fallow period so that I’m not left adrift. That’s why I’ve a few buddleias dotted around my plot, in a similar manner to Gran’s polka-dotting of trees around her garden. I’ve let my butterfly bushes grow wild, and now there are purple strands of buds mobbed by Red Admirals and Peacocks, from our heads to our knees. Bees love them too, and they can have a few flowerings if you cut them back at the right moment. They give me something to appreciate at this time of year. That is what August is truly about, admiring and flourishing.
*******
Holidays have been a rarity in my life, unsurprisingly, I’m sure, but I met Frank on my first ever week away. Papa booked us a place to stay on the coast of North Wales, to celebrate a couple of years of good sales. Mother was keen for some respite from her twin boys, who were ten years old and raucous, she had high hopes of dozing on a sun lounger while they took care of themselves. It was not to be. The cooking and cleaning still needed doing, so it was more of a holiday for Papa and the rest of us than it was for Mother. I was almost eighteen, and frantic to avoid sharing Mother’s chores. I left the house as often as possible, seeing the trip as my big opportunity. My summer with Gran had shown me that there were other boys out there, other opportunities, other choices leading to other lives. I wanted to meet someone from another town, and move away from our sprawling suburb. Mother never said as much but I felt encouraged in my endeavours. At the time, I thought she wanted me to leave her alone with Papa and the boys. I was too young to comprehend, and too headstrong to question whether it was a wise aim.
The house Papa had rented was in a bay some way out of town. He wanted some peace, and there was plenty out there for him. Unfortunately, there was little sunshine to relax in. It was so dull, it took me days to realise which way the sun came up and which way the sun went down. Grey sky meeting grey sea, drawing back to reveal grey rocks covered with grey sand. Yet the sea was mesmerising, breath-taking, its rhythm hypnotising me. It rolled, and it grumbled, and it refused to stay still. I found it disconcerting as I could not tell if the tide was coming in or going out, so I would watch intently until I knew for sure. It seemed to shift, then pause for an hour in position, washing in and washing out again, stuck on a loop, in motion but giving the impression of progression. I was entranced, I could not stop staring. But the closer I examined the beach and the sea, the less I liked or appreciated it. It was wild, and it was life, but it was not my wildlife, not my home, not my nature. It was as if it were an alien environment, one which I preferred to admire from a distance.
As dingy as the grey beach was, the town was bright and colourful, and I was attracted to it like a bee to a flower. I walked into town every day, finding something new to interest me each time. It was so grand. There were four-storey buildings along the promenade overlooking the town’s bay, built with stone and rendered in vivid shades of white and blue and pink. It was arousing without being garish. The sea-air blew the smoke from the stream-train away from the sea-front, sharpening the freshness of the salt-laden breeze to the point of intoxication. The comparison between the dusty, smoky air I was used to was staggering. The town was busy, and even on the most overcast of days there were teenagers in the street, on the beach, in the park, on the pier. Young boys and girls, some known to each other, some meeting and befriending each other in that way only teenagers can. I was polite but I kept moving. I was determined to avoid being pulled into one group at the expense of any other, and I had my goal clear in my mind.
And so I found myself, on a warm but cloudy Monday lunch time, searching for a stage to waltz across, hoping to be chased like a butterfly. I walked past a dance hall and a cinema, three fish and chip shops, two amusement arcades and an ice cream parlour, before settling on a park bench to watch a football match which was about to begin. Boys who appeared to know each other, workers from the same town, heading to the beach when their factories closed for the annual holiday. Boys arguing to be skins rather than shirts, defining the pitch and aligning the goal posts, stubbing out cigarettes and jockeying for positions, attracting a few more female onlookers as they did so. The wildlife may not have been to my liking but the town life certainly was. This was the place to find myself someone different, and I was determined I would find him this week.
My interest in football was limited, my sole excitement came from the men wearing shorts rather than their scoring success. What this game may have lacked in competence, it more than made up for in style. My eye was of course drawn to those who were topless, those who were posing from the moment they removed their shirts, bodies built strong from hard work and heavy labour. White torsos with brown arms, currently without the reddened shoulders which would appear soon after the sun began to shine. I was sure I could find myself a suitable mate from these wonderful specimens. I could smell the testosterone. I breathed it in, it was having a peculiar effect on me, and I didn’t try to stop myself staring at the boys as they ran past. It was all getting rather hot and sweaty.
*******
My dear, you look horrified, were you expecting something chaste and proper? Just because it was 1959 doesn’t mean we were all dry-mouth kissing and waiting until we were married to become a little frisky. I was in my prime, I was on holiday, and I was feeling rather adventurous. Maybe it’s hard for you to imagine me as a seventeen-year-old girl, all curls and cuteness and cunning? Or perhaps you were hoping for something more dramatic? For a man I buried on my allotment, do you think I should have met him in a graveyard at Halloween or something? I’m afraid not. I met Frank on a Monday afternoon in August, while we were both on our holidays. Our futures were entwined together from that point forward, for better and for worse, ‘til death parted us.
*******
The boys chased the ball down the pitch, and back up the pitch, then down again. They shouted at each other a lot, pretending not to notice they were being watched. I realised too late that I did not have the best seat, despite having a choice I had committed myself to one end of the game. There was either lots of action or none, and I could only see properly those few players who hung about me on my side. A large group of giggling, gurning groupies had positioned themselves on a central bench and were whooping at the boys as they sprinted past them. As the game settled in, I was drawn to one player in particular. He was trying to score goals at my end of the pitch, and never seemed to go beyond the middle marker, past the tittering girls. I drew my hair back with one hand and lit my cigarette with the other, blowing the smoke over my shoulder in a way I had seen in films, pouting while trying to elegantly ease my skirt a touch higher, crossing my ankles and parting my knees to let a little air reach my inner thighs. I was hot, but not as sizzling as the man I was watching.
He had dark hair, almost black, brushed up in an Elvis-style quiff. His jaw was sharp, and his cheekbones pronounced, his tanned skin glistening from his exertions. Playing skins, of course, his shoulders were broad, his arms displaying the definition of one who lifts heavy things for a living. He ran, twisted and twirled, chasing the ball whenever it arrived near him but never leaving my vicinity. Around him scuttled a skinnier, whiter boy with blonde hair. He barely got a foot to the ball, but he could not be shaken off. He was like a terrier, snapping around the ankles of a black bear. He should have been cowered but he refused to be. The clouds began to part and the sun shone down, warm where it touched the skin. He was the type who would burn in only a few minutes, no wonder he had chosen to play shirts.
The football was a dark-brown leather one, heavy and slightly deflated. It looked hard to kick. The ground was uneven, the teams fresh and with scores to settle. I’m sure the quality of the sport was poor. But my insides were melting, I was drawn towards this man and I made no effort to hide my interest. I stopped watching the ball, keeping my eyes only on him, and by default on his opponent. He noticed first, shoving his counter-part with his elbow and nodding in my direction. There was some friendly jostling between them, and I thought they ran faster after that, became more competitive with each other. The terrier started to push around more, falling into the dust but springing up quickly again. My bear appeared to rise above it, and more than once I caught him glancing at me as the terrier rolled around at his feet. There was no question who was stronger, and I sat, smiling and smoking, awaiting an opportunity to speak with this beautiful man, a chance I thought increasingly likely as the game went on.
The ball was kicked high and long, with such force as to bounce at the terrier’s feet and go over his head, causing him to chase his tail, my bear turning and following the ball towards the goal, running with it at his feet, grabbed by the terrier and almost losing his footing, striking wildly at the ball and causing it to spin, to rise, to head towards my bench, my excitement rising, my bear pursuing the ball as it flew towards me, shouting, his attention fully on me, me smiling back at him, cocking my head upwards towards the sun, raising my chin and shaking my hair over my shoulder, blowing smoke through my painted lips, admiring him, not noticing the ball as it hurtled through the sky, hiding in the glare of the sun, unaware of its approach until it hit me, full in the face, causing everything to go dark.
*******
And that was how I met Frank. Of course, many times I have thought back over that day. Everyone wonders what else their life might have become, if only they’d turned left instead of right, if only they’d been braver, or less reckless. if only they’d ducked as the ball flew through the air. There were so many variations as to how that Monday afternoon might have ended, the odds were surely against me meeting my husband that day. It would be easy for me to wish the day had led to a different conclusion, and not only because my nose has been wonky ever since. I could regret choosing Frank, or get caught up thinking about the life I may have had if things had gone slightly askew. I’m not ashamed to admit that one of my favourite fantasies over the years has been dreaming up alternative endings to that football game.
Over time, I’ve come to realise that certain parts of our lives are fixed, while there are other parts which ebb and flow. It’s like the sea. The tide comes in, and the tide goes out, nothing that you can do to stop that. Of course, there are some big waves and some smaller ones, and that energy can give you the impression that something is happening. If you let yourself, you can spend all your days getting worked up about the waves, trying to control them, trying to keep them from overcoming you, trying to hold them back. You can spend your time building a wall of sand and it’ll work for a short while but the tide, well, that’s coming no matter what you do. I don’t know whose destiny was the tide and whose was the waves. Maybe Frank was always destined to be killed, whomever he married. Perhaps it was my fate that condemned us both, actions and consequences which were my fortune to endure, and poor Frank, the unlucky soul I chose to accompany me. Now, though, I’ve come to believe that we were perfectly matched. I cannot imagine my life without Frank as the central character in my story. I hope he would say the same, if he was able to make himself heard, that is. So, my dear, I regret nothing.
*******
I woke, nauseous, damp, with a piercing pain which spread from my nose and forehead around my head like a clamp. It hurt to open my eyes, even a crack. I coughed, raising my hand to wipe my nose only to find a bandage across my face.
“Ah, great, you’re awake, we were starting to think you’d snooze all day.” A woman brushed my hair from my eyes as I blinked, trying to focus on her and work out where I was. “Don’t try to sit up, take a moment.”
I needed to take a minute but soon the bright light above me, and a scream from a patient to the right of me, made it clear I was lying in a hospital bed. I couldn’t smell anything, and I regretted trying. The nurse prodded and poked me, before saying that I’d be fine, but I should get some fluids into me. She pushed a straw into my mouth and instructed me to drink. She was right, it helped. One more hacking fit, and the subsequent removal of some slime more red than green from my throat, and I felt better.
“How long have I been asleep? What happened?”
“Well, some lovely young man brought you in, he knocked you out with a football apparently.”
It came back to me then, the park, the beautiful, dark, strong man and the heavy brown ball.
“He’s waited all this time, I think he’s a little sweet on you.”
My hands felt around the bandage, each touch making me wince, and not only from the pain. My cheeks were swollen, one eye seemed half closed and with the other, all I could see was the bandage wrapped across my face, bulky against my broken nose. I brushed dried blood from my chin, then noticed that my blouse was ruined. I felt panicky as I thought about how hideous I must look.
“A mirror, do you have a mirror?” I begged the nurse.
But she shook her head and said, in a no-nonsense fashion, “If he’s the right one, then it doesn’t matter, does it?”
Yes, yes it did. But it was too late.
“Ah, and here’s the young man now, back from the smoking room, he’s been here the whole time, you know, waiting for you to wake up, so he can’t be too put off by your face.”
“Hi there,” he said, beaming at me while my mouth dropped lower and lower, no doubt improving my appearance immeasurably. “I’m Frank Thompson.”
“Hi... Maureen, I’m Maureen. Oh!” And off I went into another coughing fit, tears squeezed from my eyes with the pain of it, not only of my ruined face, but my dastardly luck. For it was not my bear who had been attending my bedside, waiting for me to wake. It was the terrier.
“Maureen, what a lovely name,” lied Frank, once he could make himself heard over my spluttering. He gabbed away, asking me questions but not pausing for me to answer, giving an appearance of a conversation while reducing the need for me to speak and risk sparking another coughing fit. He held my glass for me and encouraged me to sip. He joked and smiled and prattled and laughed and was genuinely lovely. He was determined and charming, and I found my spirits lifting as he spoke, my disappointment and pain ebbing away.
Then, abruptly, he stood, getting all serious. “Maureen,” he said, too loudly, taking hold of one of my hands and bending down on one knee. There was a round of cheers from some of the other beds, and I could feel my face getting warmer as everyone looked at us. Frank knew what it looked like, he knew what everyone would think was happening, I could tell from the glint in his eye, that he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Maureen, you must let me make this life better for you. If you’ll only say yes, I will spend every moment making you so happy, you’ll forget about your broken nose and your bruised face, and you’ll have a fantastic time, starting with the rest of this holiday. No-no-no, I won’t hear any disagreement from you, young lady, you let me take care of it all for you, darling Maureen.”
Well, what else could I say, but yes? I couldn’t get my words out though, because I was laughing too much, and that made me cough again. Yet now, it was a pleasant problem to have, and I found myself feeling brightened by the thought of this determined young man, with his sparkling blue eyes, soft hands, and enchanting smile. I was falling for his charm, as he was determined I would.
*******
Inseparable we were, we spent the rest of the holiday together. Days blurred, nights merged, time passed. Some memories stand out. There was an arcade visit where we won a load of pennies, playing that game with the sliding draws, then we pushed the coins back into the machine again, one by one, unable to dislodge any more despite our jolting and jostling. Frank bought me a strawberry ice cream which tasted tangy and creamy at the same time, though I had to turn my head over to the side in order to eat it without my bandaged nose interfering. I managed though, devouring it so swiftly that he laughed at me the whole time before buying me another, then laughing while I ate that one with my head bent over to the other side. There was a huge seagull which came flying along the pavement, no more than a foot off the ground and at least three feet across. It didn’t slow for the crowds, they parted as it called ahead, then they returned to their lives in its wake. I was amazed at its audacity. It had presence, just as my terrier did. I became enthralled by Frank and the promise of our lives together.
I had no doubt that Frank was a good man, in so many ways. He came from a good family, and was already a junior manager at his local factory. He was pale and slim because he worked with his brain rather than with his hands. He had ambitions, and I believe he saw a similar drive in me, it seemed he found something he wanted but couldn’t articulate, some confidence that I would not be a passenger in our marriage. I admired that determination in him, as well as his tenacity and his charm. Meeting Frank reassured me, I was right to be unwilling to settle for any of my local boys. I would soon turn eighteen years old, and so I was primed to be married. Frank was the right person, come along at the right time.
Frank joined us for dinner and bonded well with Papa. They were both entrepreneurial in their own ways, although Frank had grand plans for his future, while Papa had smaller dreams but some real achievements under his belt. Mother told me I had blossomed in those a few days, and she was confident that I was following my heart. But she insisted we wait until the following spring to be married, and then she would fully support me.
“Love,” she said, “starts with the heart. The heart must be present, but the heart is not a good judge of happiness. Give your head time to make its decision.”
It was good advice. I didn’t listen, of course, I was too old by then to listen to Mother, I was sure I knew what I was doing. I could not comprehend myself in my mother’s place, guiding her daughter through the most important decision in a woman’s life. She didn’t hold it against me though, nor did she remind me of it during the harder moments in my marriage. Perhaps it is necessary for girls to run caution-less into their future, otherwise life places such a weight upon you that you can no longer see beginnings, you can only see endings. I bloomed that summer, and moved from one world to another, my marriage creating the central pillar of my life story, in good times and in bad. I don’t believe life would have been different if I had listened to Mother, but for form’s sake, I wish I had.
*******
Oh, my word! At first glance, I thought we had a mouse infestation, but they’re sparrows, aren’t they? Sparrows galore. Grey on the wing, more of a brown colour when they’re at rest. When you first see them crawling like that, you don’t think birds, do you? Not until you’re close enough to see, but then, as we walked nearer they began bouncing between the tree and the ground, now, mice can’t do that, my dear. Now I’ve got my eye in, everywhere I look there are more sparrows. The grass paths were mown yesterday, that must be what’s attracted them all today, hoping to snuffle up some seeds or grubs. Not as co-ordinated as the starlings, these birds seem to be in family groups, separated slightly yet remaining in the orbits of each other while they dance to their own beats. Amazing how a giant mass can differentiate under close examination. How different all these garden birds are, despite being here at the same time, flying around and doing their thing, but with the same goals at heart. Gran taught me that the male bird is the attractive one, the one who preens and sings to attract a mate. Female birds choose. Humans are not so different from birds, not in my view, my dear.
It’s not as warm as I thought it was when I came outside. I’m never sure what to wear in this weather, is it very hot or merely warm? It’s never cold, of course, it’s always warm and bright, or warm and overcast, but then the sun will come out again and it becomes unbearably hot. But as the month passes, the sun makes less difference to the temperature. I find this softer sun of late summer to be kinder. It’s not as dazzling, it’s more discrete in its demands, it’s not to be avoided but to be embraced. It’s about good things coming to an end. You kid yourself that there's plenty of sunshine left, after all, the weather can be better in late August than earlier in the month. But there’s no hiding that it’s coming to an end. Some sunny days will follow but you know you’ve seen the best of the year already. Before we know it, it will be autumn.