We lay in the big bed, safe as houses. The frosted windows were tightly latched, their criss-cross pattern formed a darkened grid against the blackness outside. Beyond those windows there were thistles and weeds and bindies and dandelions. There were a zillion old tea-leaves , turfed out the kitchen window from the aluminium tea pot after a zillion cups of tea. There were old pavers and broken bits of crockery and shells. There were the neighbour's passion fruit vines laden with fruit. We didn't like it out there. It was prickly and dry and tempting. We tried not to think about out there too much.
On the other side of that big bed, away from those ominous windows, hung heavy canvas curtains. Dividing the room in half, they ran on a rail, tarnished rings clattering and rattling whenever we dived in or out of bed. They were bright, light blue, covered in huge yellow and orange and white flowers. So cheery and lovely, the morning sun made the flowers glow. We loved to draw them shut with a swish and pretend we had our own room.
At the end of the bed were some drawers and a mirror, and a big wardrobe filled with blankets and wetsuits and snorkels and other holidayish things. There were comics too. Piles and piles of comics in fact. Some of them were Archie ones, and there were some Little Lulu and Richie Rich ones too. My favourites, though, were the Disney ones. They were much read, battered and torn. Their bright covers had faded to the spotty matte of Fruit Tingles. Delicious. I loved the Beagle Boys, Daisy Duck, Huey, Dewy and Louie. Goofy and Pluto and Minnie and Mickey. They were cute and silly and funny and sweet, and they had really great ads in them for mysterious things that you couldn't get in Australia. Sea Monkeys. Exploding gum. Magic Crystals. Cool stuff with amazing powers. It made our eyes widen and our brains tick madly.
Our holiday nights were spent in that cosy-scary back room. Snuggled down under blankets and tightly tucked sheets, hot water bottle under toes, eiderdown pushed to the foot of the bed, the Milo went cold. A pile of comics was settled atop our tucked up knees. Seagulls calling, pages catching against the sheets, barbed wire rattling against the creaking water tanks, the low hum of boats chugging out into the bay, faraway sheep bleating, water bottles sloshing, the murmur of conversation from the next room. These were the lullabies of my childhood holidays.
On the other side of that big bed, away from those ominous windows, hung heavy canvas curtains. Dividing the room in half, they ran on a rail, tarnished rings clattering and rattling whenever we dived in or out of bed. They were bright, light blue, covered in huge yellow and orange and white flowers. So cheery and lovely, the morning sun made the flowers glow. We loved to draw them shut with a swish and pretend we had our own room.
At the end of the bed were some drawers and a mirror, and a big wardrobe filled with blankets and wetsuits and snorkels and other holidayish things. There were comics too. Piles and piles of comics in fact. Some of them were Archie ones, and there were some Little Lulu and Richie Rich ones too. My favourites, though, were the Disney ones. They were much read, battered and torn. Their bright covers had faded to the spotty matte of Fruit Tingles. Delicious. I loved the Beagle Boys, Daisy Duck, Huey, Dewy and Louie. Goofy and Pluto and Minnie and Mickey. They were cute and silly and funny and sweet, and they had really great ads in them for mysterious things that you couldn't get in Australia. Sea Monkeys. Exploding gum. Magic Crystals. Cool stuff with amazing powers. It made our eyes widen and our brains tick madly.
Our holiday nights were spent in that cosy-scary back room. Snuggled down under blankets and tightly tucked sheets, hot water bottle under toes, eiderdown pushed to the foot of the bed, the Milo went cold. A pile of comics was settled atop our tucked up knees. Seagulls calling, pages catching against the sheets, barbed wire rattling against the creaking water tanks, the low hum of boats chugging out into the bay, faraway sheep bleating, water bottles sloshing, the murmur of conversation from the next room. These were the lullabies of my childhood holidays.
xx Pip
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