If I Was a Child Again Read online

  And he became the subject of my first ever publication. A poem, in the letters pages of the girls’ comic, Bunty. It was entitled “My Baby Brother” and began: “I have a baby brother, I wouldn’t want another.” The general comment about this line was: “You’re so right, little brothers can be annoying!” Which is true. There was the time we tried to complete a giant maze together. He abandoned me and was out in three minutes; almost an hour later I was still stuck in there and the manager of the fairground had to come in to get me. And there was the time when it transpired that “going for a swim” meant him cannonballing me until I had to get out of the pool.

  But he had his uses. Who else but a little brother can you make do anything, just by telling him you’ll time him? And that weekend we stayed on my great-uncle’s boat and one of us had to sleep on the floor: all I had to do was pretend Iwanted the floor instead of the couch and he kicked up a fuss, demanding whatever I wanted. Comfy night on the couch for me! He provided hours of amusement – I particularly like the one where Dad caught him on the phone to the Gardaí reporting my parents for making him eat his vegetables.

  He’s all grown up now. It’s been strange, watching him morph into a man. There are seven years between us – the kid basically had three parents growing up. But now he’s an adult it’s different. We’re friends.

  My brother was such an important part of my childhood that it’s hard to reminisce without mentioning him. But there is another reason he comes to mind as I write this piece. Within three weeks of my daydreaming paying off and my book being published, my brother’s own dream came true. He is jetting off to America, for at least one year. He loves the States. It is a big and colourful place, brimming with opportunities. He’ll do great there.

  So if I could go back, what would I say to that young girl who sat for hours at “Billy’s Table” in our living room (we called it that because my Billy in the Barrel toy used to sit at the corner of it) writing her stories and playing “Watch the Baby” while he slept in?

  I’d say that with your novel finally making it, and your brother leaving for the foreseeable future, you’re going to end up admitting the truth about those first lines of your first ever published poem. “I have a baby brother, I wouldn’t want another.” It was assumed I meant that I wouldn’t want a second brother, because they are such pains. Everyone seemed to find it amusing, so I never corrected them. But that isn’t what I meant.

  Can you not guess from my “I love everybody” and “Nice Nine” stories? I meant that I loved my baby brother so much I wouldn’t exchange him for any other boy. I wouldn’t want another child to be my sibling because I already had the best one going.

  So, young Jennifer, my advice is keep doing what you’re doing – keep playing with your little brother. Make the most of him while he’s little because he has big dreams and won’t be your baby forever (also he eventually gets a decent growing spurt and takes pleasure in standing beside you, looking down and smirking).

  Oh, and keep daydreaming. It’ll make a writer of you one day!

  Jennifer Burke is a Dublin-based author and solicitor. After winning the ‘Write a Bestseller’ competition run by Poolbeg Press and TV3, her first novel, The Secret Son, was published in September 2013. She is an active member of the Irish Writers’ Centre where she regularly attends events and takes part in a monthly novel-writing group. She also writes shorter fiction. Having been shortlisted in the 2012 Cork County Council ‘From the Well’ competition, she had her short story published in the resulting anthology. She was also shortlisted in the ‘Fish Publishing Flash Fiction’ competition in both 2012 and 2013.

  Story 6: The Perfect Day

  Colette Caddle

  I would wake up, at thirteen, in my very own bedroom. I was about sixteen before I had a room to myself. I think it’s only if you’ve shared that you really understand the luxury of having your own space, especially as a teenager. My room would not be pink and fluffy with wall-to-wall cuddly toys but probably quite plain and white with an enormous bookshelf crammed with all my favourite, dog-eared reads. My MP3 player – if I’m going back in time then I’m taking technology with me – would be in its dock complete with the best speakers and belting out Michael Bublé’s “The Best is Yet to Come” – hey, it’s a good song, he’s hot and I am only thirteen!

  My “actual” MP3 at the time was one of the most treasured possessions of my youth: a radio. It was a small but bulky contraption but that didn’t stop me shoving it under my pillow and listening to radio Luxembourg. It didn’t have anything as sophisticated as a “sleep” button so, if my dad didn’t spot and remove it when he was tucking me in, I was liable to knock against the volume key in the middle of the night and blast my ear off or it would play all night long. I went through a lot of batteries.

  I would start my day with a shower. A real shower, not those dismal yokes we used to have that hung over the bath and you had to run around underneath to get wet. And the temperature would neither leave me with first-degree burns nor give me frostbite; it would be a Goldilocks special – just right.

  I would be a cool kid and so I would dress cool . . . cheesecloth shirt, Levi straight jeans and clogs or desert boots – youngsters among you, just think Uggs. My hair would not be the untameable bush that caused me so much heartache in my teens but instead would have miraculously morphed into a mane of shining silken waves that would fall in a perfect curtain around my shoulders.

  Naturally it would be a beautiful, summer day with an indigo-blue sky and just the occasional puffy white cloud and the sun would neither burn me nor add more freckles. After a breakfast of corn flakes and buttery toast I would head off, full of excitement, to summer camp.

  You see, we didn’t have summer camps back in the seventies. We played against the wall with a tennis racquet and ball or churned up the garden to create an impromptu golf course or cricket pitch. We set up the family tent and pretended we were camping – I’m not sure why we had that tent – we never actually went camping. Not that I’m complaining. Damp ground, creepy-crawlies, scary noises and Irish weather guaranteed that it was never going to make my top-ten list of perfect holidays. On days when we felt really inventive we built a den or a go-kart – we called them trolleys – from any old planks, nails and discarded household objects that we found in our garage or shed. It was all good fun despite the bruises and skinned knees, but we were kids so of course we got bored from time to time.

  But I’m not sure that I would enjoy the standard summer-camp format. There’s too much sport and I’ve never been the sporty sort. But the camps that specialise in one activity would be a different matter entirely.

  When I’m checking out things for my sons to do in the long summer months I am mesmerised at the range of camps on offer and a tad jealous. So, if I could beam myself back to my fourteenth summer, it would be to go to summer camp. As this is fantasy fiction, the best ones with the best teachers would obviously be in my neighbourhood . . . work with me here, it’s make-believe.

  First my day would last longer than normal earth days. I’m not sure if I’m going with the Doctor Who or Hitchhiker’s Guide philosophy but basically a mediocre detail like time would not be an issue. So exactly what activities would I go for? First up, I would attend some sort of theatre summer camp. No, I do not mean one that attracts X-Factor hopefuls, involves ringlets, tap shoes or fake tan, but a serious one for kids who want to learn the craft, not become famous overnight. I’d like to go to one with a choreographer that would teach intricate dance routines which, naturally, I would pick up very quickly. The camp would have a vocal coach who would teach breathing techniques and send me home sounding like a mini Imelda May and of course I would be schooled in the serious business of acting. Now, I’m inclined to think that actors are born not made, but for the purpose of this story I would be the exception.

  With that under my belt an art summer camp would be next on my list. Now please don’t confuse art with arts and crafts. I have a ho
rror of all things crafty. All that glue, glitter, pastes and pottery is the stuff of nightmares and messy, sticky ones at that. I have no burning ambition to make a volcano – no pun intended – or a lopsided mug or a lumpy garish cushion with Best Mum on it. I’d simply like to learn more about drawing and painting, thank you very much.

  I loved art as a kid but when I chose to study the subject for my Junior Certificate it stopped being fun. I can’t say it was the teacher’s fault – I barely remember her – and I do know that a couple of my fellow students went on to make art their profession. Perhaps I was just put off by the fact that now it was work rather than play and, instead of spending the entire time with a brush in my hand, I was expected to study the history of art and learn the “rules”.

  But there are no rules in art . . . are there? Just look at Tracey Emin or Andy Warhol. Everyone knows now that the teachers who chastised children for not colouring within the lines got it completely wrong, putting limits on young imaginations and stunting creativity. So on my dream day my teacher would be innovative, nurturing, and fun, and I would trip happily off to camp full of confidence. It goes without saying that I would return home at the end of the day with at least one masterpiece.

  I actually took up painting again a couple of years ago when I was having trouble with a storyline and I needed something to calm and distract me for a few hours. I got such pleasure from experimenting with colours and textures and I found it very liberating to do something that was for my pleasure alone. It was okay to go a little bit crazy – and I did! I was like the proverbial kid in a sweetshop as I abandoned paintbrushes and used anything that came to mind to create the effect that I was trying to achieve. I messed about with plastic cutlery, a sponge and even a cocktail stick – absolutely marvellous for authentic-looking blades of grass. But I have to admit that I got the most fun of all from using my fingers to create a thunderous sky or a stormy sea. I know, I know, I’m such a rebel.

  I also think I’d have enjoyed a cookery camp. I did get lessons in school but they were more practical than inspiring and my rock buns were aptly named. Cooking wasn’t cool in the seventies and most of the TV programmes were serious productions with basic, sensible recipes and rather boring. The highlight was Keith Floyd getting tipsy and shouting at his producer. I rarely cooked at home as my mother was a brilliant cook and excelled at baking so why mess with perfection? But, once I started to eat more and got to try different cuisines, I began to experiment. Just like art I found it quite relaxing and therapeutic and to my knowledge I haven’t poisoned anyone yet. Just imagine what I could do after lessons from a top chef! I think someone like Jean Christophe Novelli would fit the bill. He would not only nurture my love for cooking but be the perfect heartthrob for the teenage Colette to moon over.

  There’s another summer camp that I’d like to attend on my perfect day . . . I’m sure you can guess. Yes, creative writing. English was always my favourite subject and any new schoolbooks were read long before the beginning of term in September. I enjoyed writing essays and I actually won a prize from the National Dairy Council for my essay on the story of milk. In hindsight, though, my success may have been because I wrote it from the cow’s viewpoint and included a racy paragraph about a bull rather than the quality of my prose.

  But, seriously, it never occurred to me that writing could be anything other than an enjoyable hobby. The dear little nun who took care of career guidance had a very simple way of looking at things. If you were brainy you went to university to study to be a doctor, a dentist, a lawyer or a teacher. If you were good with your hands, then you were encouraged to learn a trade. And the rest of us were told to take a typing/secretarial course and/or apply for jobs in the banks, building societies, insurance companies and the civil service. I did as I was told, it never occurred to me to do otherwise, and I was very anxious to have a monthly pay cheque and independence and so I ended up in an insurance company.

  Had there been a different attitude to writing and other creative talents would my life have turned out differently? Maybe not and perhaps it’s better that way. There is no doubt that the more of life you experience, the more you have to write about. But would I have enjoyed a summer course that was about writing, not for homework or an exam, but just for the pure love of it? Damn right I would. And so, on my special day, I would attend a course given by a brilliant teacher who would fan the flames of that love and make the possibility of writing as a career not so far-fetched after all.

  Under the guidance of my mentor I would write an innovative and exciting story that would amaze and enchant, and as the teacher would know an editor in a successful publishing company, within a matter of weeks word of my amazing book deal and six-figure advance would hit the headlines and I would be an overnight sensation. Live with it . . . this is my fantasy, remember?

  I should point out that between my various activities on My Day I would only be eating foods that I liked. Friends would not pull faces at my tomato or banana sandwiches or make fun of my love for bread and brown sauce, and dinner that evening would be a runny fried egg and chips complete with bread and butter to make the perfect buttie.

  Now to round off my day what would I do? I suppose again I would want to do something that was unheard of when I actually was thirteen: go to a concert. Yes, I had been to shows and pantomimes with my family but not to a live gig with a real-life pop star. My first concert was Kid Creole and the Coconuts – I was about seventeen – and my second, a year later, was Bryan Ferry. The only reason I was allowed go to either was because I was with my big brother. So if I could have gone to see anyone at all at thirteen, who would it have been?

  Ah, now this is the part of the story where I may live to regret my honesty. I had quite eclectic tastes – still do. But as the youngest of a family of five I was naturally influenced – after reading you may say tainted – by the tastes of my siblings. To say they were wide-ranging is an understatement. Step forward, Leonard Cohen and Neil Young, who I’m proud to say I still enjoy today. There was a little of Elvis, a lot of Neil Diamond – I went to see him quite recently and, laugh if you must, but I thought he was great! I also liked a lot of show tunes and musicals from My Fair Lady to Jesus Christ Superstar. Add to the mix some Horslips, Planxty, Thin Lizzy and Genesis and throw in a dash of angst via Janis Ian, Joan Armatrading and Carole King. And I make no apology whatsoever for playing James Taylor’s “You’ve Got a Friend”, Cat Stevens’ “Father and Son” and Jim Croce’s “Time in a Bottle” over and over again. Deep breath. Yes, it’s true. I also liked The Carpenters, Bread, Neil Sedaka and Barry Manilow. I loved David Essex – okay, it was his eyes and smile rather than his voice and, gulp, I had the most enormous crush on David Soul . . . I am never going to live this down, am I? But we all have our musical skeletons. At least a Bay City Roller record (that’s CD, youngsters) never entered my house and I didn’t fancy Gary Glitter . . . perish the thought, shudder.

  But one icon that I loved then and still admire today gets to play Dublin in my fantasy concert and that’s David Bowie. I imagine his Ziggy Stardust would have been a night that I wouldn’t forget in a hurry. As Ireland’s newest VIP I would be in the front row and when David saw me mouth every word to every song he would draw me up on stage, look into my eyes and sing to me. I would be invited to the party backstage afterwards where on discovery that I was Ireland’s latest and greatest author he would beg to read my book and then introduce me to one of his best friends who just happened to be a movie director.

  The book would become a bestseller and the film would go on to be a blockbuster with David and me obviously playing the lead roles and after I was nominated for an Oscar – oh, you’re leaving? Okay then. Turn the light off on your way out, would you? And keep the noise down, I’m quite enjoying this dream.

  Colette Caddle writes contemporary women’s fiction. She was first published by Poolbeg Press in 1999 and as a result of her first book, Too Little Too Late, holding the number one spot in Ireland for
three weeks, she became the subject of a bidding war among eight UK publishers. She is now published by Simon & Schuster and has written thirteen books, which are available in Ireland, the US, the UK and commonwealth countries, and have been translated into seven languages. Her books are also available in e-format through Amazon. Her next book, First We Take Manhattan, will be published in Ireland in January 2014 and go on general release in August. She is married with two sons and lives in north County Dublin. You can contact Colette through her website colettecaddle.com, find her on Facebook at Colette Caddle Books or follow her on Twitter: @colettecaddle.

  Story 7: Rocks for Sale

  Janet E Cameron

  I’m the oldest in a family of three girls. When I look back, I remember a lot of good times: noise, energy, rushing up and down the stairs, one idea after another that would end up transforming the whole house. We’d decide we were going to build a tree house or put on a play in the garage, turn the backyard into a race track. Or we’d make up long rewrites of fairy tales and act them out into a tape recorder – usually these just involved the princes and princesses belching at each other. The house was full of clutter and chaos, cats, dogs and guinea pigs, junk from everyone’s hobby of the moment.

  It was probably inevitable that we’d get in each other’s way – and we did, almost every second we were together. Insults and arguments. Elbows knocking against elbows at the dinner table. Car rides that were sites for hours of psychological warfare.

  “Dad, Judy’s looking at me! She’s breathing on me!”

  My dad would shake his head wearily from the driver’s seat. “Girls, stop looking. Stop breathing.”

  My sister Judy was a year and a half younger than me, and the smartest person I knew, though back then I never would have admitted this. Fighting with her seemed like a matter of survival. Neither of us could let the smallest thing go. I remember telling her I never learned to whistle. But it was no big deal, I went on defensively, lots of people couldn’t. Judy was on the phone in seconds going through a list of all her friends.