Memories are strange things. Well mine is.
Some things, like our wedding and the children's childhoods, are a blur; other totally unimportant things I can remember with great and unnecessary clarity.
A couple of days I was reminded by someone's blog (apologies, can't remember whose!) of a little ditty I learned many years ago. I was reminded of it again yesterday by a post on Facebook advertising for pumpkin pickers.
Cue blog post.
I'm not the pheasant plucker, I'm the pheasant plucker's son; I'm only plucking pheasants till the pheasant plucker's done.
I was on a coach heading for west Wales. It was a first year university geology field trip. The 'cool guys' had taken over the back seat of the bus - I was about three rows forward, a mere hanger-on but already a devotee - and one of them was teaching the tongue twister to another: he was probably two seats in front, and a willing victim. 'That's easy,' he exclaimed, and promptly shouted it out and got it wrong, to the amusement of the whole coach.
The cool guy, whose name was John, came from London and supported Charlton Athletic football team. I must have been a little bit besotted to remember that fact!
But it also reminds me of a more shameful incident from that time.
The 'victim' whose name was Phil, and who actually was rather sweet with floppy dark hair and chunky glasses, in turn became besotted with me. (Hey, I was not bad-looking in those days.) When we returned from our week-long field trip he asked me out and I said yes. But I made the huge mistake of taking him home with me.
This was Easter 1972. My mum had died suddenly in the February and I was living at home with my grandparents. My gran had broken her leg in the car crash we were in on our way back from visiting my mum in hospital just before she died. My gran's sister had also died as a result of the crash. To say our home was under a dark cloud is putting it mildly.
I tell you that to try to explain my actions I suppose.
The thing was that Phil, who had a broad Bristol accent, also had darker than white skin. When he'd gone back to his digs after coming with me to my home my gran exploded. What was I thinking of? A coloured boy? What would my mother have said?
You get the picture. A good old racist rant.
Phil went back home for the holidays then and when he returned I never explained to him what had happened or why I'd gone along with it. I just cold-shouldered him.
I was naïve: he was the first thing that had come close to a boyfriend for me. Indeed before university I went to a girls' school, never went out in the evening, or met boys. I led a very sheltered and protected life, one that was dominated by my grandmother. I told myself I shouldn't inflict any more pain on her, that she had virtually brought me up and I shouldn't hurt her now at such a vulnerable time. I was a coward.
I was wrong and behaved badly in so many ways.
Strangely enough, the next boy I dated did the same to me i.e. was very keen then dropped me suddenly without an explanation. Karma - if I believed in karma.
Gee, I'd intended this to be an amusing post not a traumatic one!
3 comments:
We all learn some ugly things growing up, often from our friends and families who are otherwise good people except for their own, learned bigotry.
Ah yes, those prejudices. I was all set with a serious boyfriend at the (UK) uni, met his mother, the night I heard my mother had died, boyfriend trying to be helpful. His mom brutally unfriendly to me.
Later he suddenly dropped me. Wrote to say she would disinherit him if he married a Catholic. He went along, was deeply unhappy and guilty.
Later I realized it was just as well, if he couldn't stand up for his choice and pay the price. At the time I was pretty distraught.
So yes, on both sides there's suffering. A lot of it unnecessary.
Fig plucker in my version. We all do those things that, with hindsight, make us cringe. Part of growing.
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