20379
The Other Side by Sue England
SummaryA 2013 Memoir and Local History Competition entry Main Body
This is important.
Probably the most important event of my life and one that deserves recognition, as you will see.
There is my mother's version of the event and no doubt my memory is shrouded in her occasional re-telling.
As the years rolled by her tale shifted its shape according to any residual guilt, a desire for dramatic impact or merely her particular audience at the time but the essence remained intact.
The dramatis personae are six in total but the story starts with just three.
And those three are my brother, my mother and myself.
This part I remember clearly.
Because of my brother.
He was new.
Very new and I didn't altogether like him.
He had usurped my position at the centre of the family universe with his blonde, bland babyness.
His eyes were blue, his lips a cliché of rosebuds and he gurgled.
Bubbles frothed forth from that pretty little mouth to the delight of anyone old enough to know better.
Couldn't they see that he was already a schemer?
To reclaim attention I tried spitting.
It failed to please.
In fact it earned a reprimand.
Reprimands had come my way before my brother was on the scene and I had learnt to bide my time until calm and forgiveness were restored.
But now there was a new dimension.
Disappointment.
'Why can't you behave like Philip?'
Prolonged sigh.
Because he is a wretch, that's why.
Though to be fair I had been a difficult infant.
What you might call a screamer.
I suspect I had permanent constipation but that is altogether another story.
I was four years old.
Soon I would be going to school.
I truly believed I'd grown out of those troubling toddling times.
In the looks department we were at odds.
My hair was as dark as his was fair, my eyes witch-green.
I took after my father being exceptionally tall for my age and no longer an appealing roly-poly bundle with knee dimples and knitted angora layette.
So we were a threesome on Dovercourt High Road, joyous nonsense issuing from deep within the brown and cream coach-built 'pram', me hanging on grimly to the handle and Mum puffing slightly with the effort of pushing up the hill from town.
Coming towards us was a woman, a smiling woman.
I can't remember whom, it really doesn't matter.
She was cast member number four and we can call her 'Distraction'.
What a pain.
She had not yet seen the new arrival.
'Coo, coo little man.
Oh! Connie, he is the spit of you.
Such a bonny baby.'
Mum glowed with pride, fair enough.
But on and on it went.
I tried to be patient and cheery but when conversation veered into trivia of the daily round, a round that appeared to be the delights of Philip’s feeding and bowel habits, I gave up and wandered.
We were stood by the high wire fence enclosing the senior school and I peered through the gaps like a Peeping Tom.
Was the fence to keep me out or the children in?
I wasn't sure I would like this school.
But today there was nothing to see so I headed over to the roadside.
Mum and her friend were still gossiping.
No doubt Philip was bubbling.
Why are 'other sides' always so much more appealing than your own side?
The other side of Dovercourt High Road had shops, the cinema and trees and was also the necessary route home.
I knew that.
We did this walk often.
So I decided to cross.
Now it gets interesting.
Say hello to the bus driver, the fifth person involved in this mini-drama.
I confess that this next bit is a slight fabrication on my part.
The driver was real enough in his big green bus but I imagine him thinking about lamb chops for tea and his darling wife waiting with his slippers warmed and the newspaper folded neatly on the table.
His work shift would soon be over.
Only a few more stops to the quay and then he could hop on his bike and pedal home.
Back to reality, fabrication finished, a memory from so long ago flooding back.
If he was truly in any sort of reverie it dissipated rapidly with the vision of a rogue child seen through his windscreen.
I smell rubber and hear the squeal of tyres.
I hear screams.
I see the driver's petrified face behind the steering wheel of his bus.
I am frozen like a rabbit in headlights.
I smell fear.
It is mine, gushing from me in clouds.
I hear running footsteps.
From nowhere the sixth contributor to this story proves to be a hero.
He runs past my mother and 'Distraction' out into the road.
With barely a falter he scoops me up under my arms and continues to the other side.
This other side is no longer so appealing but he deposits me there gently and walks away.
My saviour goes.
Calmly, casually as if nothing untoward had happened.
No words of thanks required.
Nothing.
he bus has stopped.
I don't remember any other traffic.
I see Mum running across to me, hunkering down and embracing me in a tearful hug.
She is not cross, but she is shaken.
And that is as far as my memories take me.
No doubt we apologised to the bus driver.
Perhaps cups of tea were involved.
We obviously made it home safe, chastened and hopefully a little wiser.
We moved from Dovercourt when I was eight years old.
I have only returned once but will remain forever curious about the gentleman who saved me from certain death and am indebted to him for a life well lived.
My brother is still a wretch.
This is important.
Probably the most important event of my life and one that deserves recognition, as you will see.
There is my mother's version of the event and no doubt my memory is shrouded in her occasional re-telling.
As the years rolled by her tale shifted its shape according to any residual guilt, a desire for dramatic impact or merely her particular audience at the time but the essence remained intact.
The dramatis personae are six in total but the story starts with just three.
And those three are my brother, my mother and myself.
This part I remember clearly.
Because of my brother.
He was new.
Very new and I didn't altogether like him.
He had usurped my position at the centre of the family universe with his blonde, bland babyness.
His eyes were blue, his lips a cliché of rosebuds and he gurgled.
Bubbles frothed forth from that pretty little mouth to the delight of anyone old enough to know better.
Couldn't they see that he was already a schemer?
To reclaim attention I tried spitting.
It failed to please.
In fact it earned a reprimand.
Reprimands had come my way before my brother was on the scene and I had learnt to bide my time until calm and forgiveness were restored.
But now there was a new dimension.
Disappointment.
'Why can't you behave like Philip?'
Prolonged sigh.
Because he is a wretch, that's why.
Though to be fair I had been a difficult infant.
What you might call a screamer.
I suspect I had permanent constipation but that is altogether another story.
I was four years old.
Soon I would be going to school.
I truly believed I'd grown out of those troubling toddling times.
In the looks department we were at odds.
My hair was as dark as his was fair, my eyes witch-green.
I took after my father being exceptionally tall for my age and no longer an appealing roly-poly bundle with knee dimples and knitted angora layette.
So we were a threesome on Dovercourt High Road, joyous nonsense issuing from deep within the brown and cream coach-built 'pram', me hanging on grimly to the handle and Mum puffing slightly with the effort of pushing up the hill from town.
Coming towards us was a woman, a smiling woman.
I can't remember whom, it really doesn't matter.
She was cast member number four and we can call her 'Distraction'.
What a pain.
She had not yet seen the new arrival.
'Coo, coo little man.
Oh! Connie, he is the spit of you.
Such a bonny baby.'
Mum glowed with pride, fair enough.
But on and on it went.
I tried to be patient and cheery but when conversation veered into trivia of the daily round, a round that appeared to be the delights of Philip’s feeding and bowel habits, I gave up and wandered.
We were stood by the high wire fence enclosing the senior school and I peered through the gaps like a Peeping Tom.
Was the fence to keep me out or the children in?
I wasn't sure I would like this school.
But today there was nothing to see so I headed over to the roadside.
Mum and her friend were still gossiping.
No doubt Philip was bubbling.
Why are 'other sides' always so much more appealing than your own side?
The other side of Dovercourt High Road had shops, the cinema and trees and was also the necessary route home.
I knew that.
We did this walk often.
So I decided to cross.
Now it gets interesting.
Say hello to the bus driver, the fifth person involved in this mini-drama.
I confess that this next bit is a slight fabrication on my part.
The driver was real enough in his big green bus but I imagine him thinking about lamb chops for tea and his darling wife waiting with his slippers warmed and the newspaper folded neatly on the table.
His work shift would soon be over.
Only a few more stops to the quay and then he could hop on his bike and pedal home.
Back to reality, fabrication finished, a memory from so long ago flooding back.
If he was truly in any sort of reverie it dissipated rapidly with the vision of a rogue child seen through his windscreen.
I smell rubber and hear the squeal of tyres.
I hear screams.
I see the driver's petrified face behind the steering wheel of his bus.
I am frozen like a rabbit in headlights.
I smell fear.
It is mine, gushing from me in clouds.
I hear running footsteps.
From nowhere the sixth contributor to this story proves to be a hero.
He runs past my mother and 'Distraction' out into the road.
With barely a falter he scoops me up under my arms and continues to the other side.
This other side is no longer so appealing but he deposits me there gently and walks away.
My saviour goes.
Calmly, casually as if nothing untoward had happened.
No words of thanks required.
Nothing.
he bus has stopped.
I don't remember any other traffic.
I see Mum running across to me, hunkering down and embracing me in a tearful hug.
She is not cross, but she is shaken.
And that is as far as my memories take me.
No doubt we apologised to the bus driver.
Perhaps cups of tea were involved.
We obviously made it home safe, chastened and hopefully a little wiser.
We moved from Dovercourt when I was eight years old.
I have only returned once but will remain forever curious about the gentleman who saved me from certain death and am indebted to him for a life well lived.
My brother is still a wretch.
Usage
AcknowledgementTe Ao Mārama - Tauranga City Libraries
Relates To
Admin
AuthorSue EnglandArchived Kete Linkhttps://perma.cc/7YRT-TJNQType of ContributionCommunity storyTaxonomyStories | Events
Sue England, The Other Side by Sue England. Pae Korokī, accessed 10/12/2024, https://paekoroki.tauranga.govt.nz/nodes/view/20379
