Memory

 

I find myself thinking about childhood and those iconic bottles and packages that are printed on the memory, probably until the day I die.   It was just after the war and rationing was still in force and I was one of the first generation of National Health babies.

So this concentrated National Health orange juice, recently issued to families with young children, would have been ground-breaking.  Likewise the thick, viscous cod liver oil which my mother was convinced I would refuse but which - perversely - I used to love.  The morning ritual was this: as soon as I was old enough I would clamber up to stand on one of  the wooden kitchen chairs while my mother measured out a spoonful of the stuff.  I was now at her level, she didn't have to bend down and the oil didn't get spilled.   A special spoon.  Mouth open and in it went.

Then I remember the green gingham dress with parallel ruffles on the bodice.  The old wireless which we hung onto for years afterwards with all those names on the dial (Luxembourg, Cork, Hilversum. Moscow). Listen With Mother.  The flowering cherry just the other side of the back fence, bordering the gravel pit. One day in spring, maybe another sun-filled May day like today, the sight of the cloud of pink blossom against the bluest of blue skies is my first recollection of being awed by beauty.  I think my heart turned over.  

We moved from this house when I was five years old.