If I Was a Child Again Read online

  And that ritual was not just confined to Sundays. When I was five or six and attending primary school my grandfather was already retired. My granny did occasional work but was largely home-based and so I enjoyed that most blessed of gifts – close proximity, on a daily basis, to both my grandparents. School was a five-minute walk from their house and every day, when I emerged from the confines of the low-rise, red-brick Irish Society school buildings, there he’d be at the school gates – my granda. An erect, handsome, grey-haired figure, with a gentleness about him and a smile never far from his lips, he was easy to pick out as he stood there, chatting to all the assembled mothers waiting to collect their offspring.

  Then down we’d go to Long Commons, in through the door of Number 47, in to Granny, and to whatever treat awaited me. And then, fed and watered (and, if it was a Thursday – pension day – having received a shilling for myself), off Granda and I would go, heading for my own house on the Portstewart Road, one of the main residential roads leading out of the town to the coast.

  A long walk? Not really. At a brisk pace we’re talking fifteen, twenty minutes, tops. But for me and my grandfather it was a daily ramble, an odyssey of sorts, and so it became a journey that could take us up to an hour.

  “Give me that schoolbag, daughter,” he’d say. “You can’t be carrying that on your back – you’ll be all humped up!” And so he’d relieve me of what he considered my back-breaking burden and we’d walk and chat, chat and walk. Down Brook Street, past the church hall, up the incline in the road, Circular Road off to the right now, heading for the crossroads at Union Street, me skipping along and he greeting passers-by and the townspeople he knew on the way. Time for a pit-stop – so into the little shop on the left-hand side of the road before the crossroads for a quarter of Midget Gems, perhaps, or some other such sweetie delight.

  Then on we’d go, over what was (and is still, in our family) known as the Tip Head. Then past the playing field and along by the hawthorn hedgerow with the “secret” path behind it. In there I’d vanish, only to emerge to “surprise” Granda, and he, content to humour me, never tiring of playing along with my childish imaginings. No, he’d tell me, somewhat appalled, when I’d want to pull the full-bloom hawthorn to carry home for my mother and father returning later from work. “No,” he’d say, shaking his head. “You couldn’t bring hawthorn into the house, child – it’s bad luck.”

  Back in the Long Commons, meanwhile, behind my grandparents’ house and just outside the gate of their backyard, a laneway ran along the backs of the terrace of houses. On the other side of that laneway each house had its own small garden. An oasis on a summer’s day, theirs was the first place I ever encountered lupins, grown in profusion along the back wall there – in pinks and purples and pale yellows – by my green-fingered grandmother.

  She loved flowers, as her own mother had done before her, and her daughter after her. It’s a family addiction that has passed down along the female gene – a Bradley birthright of sorts. Indeed, lupins are still one of my favourite summer flowers – as they were Granny’s. And peony roses, those beauties of vibrant cerise that appear in early summer, fading to palest pink before death overcomes them. “Piney” roses my great-grandmother called them, so my mother tells me, when she grew them in her cottage garden in Magilligan. Now, in my parents’ garden – in the same house that my granda walked me home to after school half a century ago – peonies still bloom in the shelter of the wall every summer.

  There were daisies aplenty too, of course, in that Long Commons garden, and it was there that I first learned from my granda how to make a daisy-chain. Years later, when he was a very old man, he was still at it, making daisy-chains for the youngsters who then lived nearby. “I can’t come in for my dinner yet,” he called to my granny one day when she called him in to eat. “I’m making a daisy-chain for Joanne.” When he died, aged eighty-five, not long after that, a delicate spray of flowers from little Joanne rested on his coffin.

  Beyond the garden in Long Commons lay the children’s playground – within sight of the back lane but far enough removed to feel like freedom. I played there, naturally, the swings and slide and roundabout all magnets in any childhood. But, to be honest, I wasn’t seeking freedom, for I was far too happy being inside with my grandparents in the bosom of Number 47.

  Fragments of those long-ago, day-to-day memories still linger. Granny pulling out the armchair to put a shilling in the gas meter concealed by a curtain behind it, pottering around, a petite, apron-clad figure, in the scullery or the back room, doing her daily chores. Making Camp coffee on occasion, a real treat in a tea-drinking household – pouring the dark brown chicory-flavoured liquid from that distinctive bottle, heating up the milk (she always made it completely with milk) and carrying in the steaming hot cups for the two of us.

  Granda, meanwhile, sitting by a torcher of a fire on a winter’s afternoon, Perry Mason on the television perhaps, or some other detective drama that had him captivated. In summer, however, in the late sixties and early seventies, there was no escape from Wimbledon. He loved it, as he loved all sports, and I’d sit with him as he’d watch, riveted, from his armchair, as the shots sizzled back and forth across Centre Court. The Australian star Rod Laver was in his heyday back then and the British player, Virginia Wade, was coming into her own – “Mr Laver” and “Miss Wade” my grandfather always called them, slightly in awe. Ever the gentleman.

  Certain childhoods last longer than others. And some, where the good ghosts of yesteryear still live so vividly in our memories, last a lifetime.

  Roslyn Dee is Associate Editor of the Irish Daily Mail and the Irish Mail on Sunday and formerly Assistant Editor of the Sunday Tribune. An award-winning travel writer and broadcaster, she is joint author, with her photographer husband, Gerry Sandford, of A Sense of Place: Irish Lives, Irish Landscapes. She was the editor of Who We Are: A Collection of Essays on Life in Contemporary Ireland, published by New Island in 2010.

  Story 13: A Letter to my Future Teenagers

  Caroline Finnerty

  There isn’t too much that I would change about my early childhood years. In fact, I had a pretty idyllic childhood, almost to the point of cliché. When we weren’t in school, our days were spent exploring fields and jumping ditches and not returning home until it was dusk. It was all fancy paper, Glenroe on a Sunday night, picking our favourite Rose of Tralee from their profiles in the RTÉ Guide, Coke floats and SodaStreams. But one minute everything was hunky-dory and then somewhere at around the age of twelve, it wasn’t quite so rosy any more.

  You see my memories of the latter part of my childhood are mainly of a young girl who was plagued with huge doubts and full of desperate insecurities about herself. I wasn’t quite sure where I fitted in or where I belonged. I was so self-conscious of every little thing as I tried to find my footing in the transition between childhood and adulthood. Some days I wanted to grow up faster than my body could grow, pushing the boundaries and the limits, and other days I wished I could go back to the uncomplicated days of playing with my Barbies and reading my Famous Five books.

  I was good in school and had always been studious but I started to lose interest at around the age of fifteen. I could see teachers grow frustrated with me. They knew I was very capable but I think I thought it was cooler not to try. I also fought a lot with my parents, over and over again. My mother always says I was such an easy child but I more than made up for it as a teenager. If I could go back to being a child again for one more day let’s just say that those teen years wouldn’t exactly be at the top of my time-travel list but if you forced me to go back there (that is, dragged me back kicking and screaming), I think I would have a little pep talk with myself and tell the younger me that it really does get better and to cheer up and ditch the green hairband. I would also be much kinder to my parents because now that I’m a mother myself I can appreciate how hard it must have been for them dealing with me and my ungrateful strops.

  Some people
are lucky and will sail through their teenage years without too much carnage and I, like all parents, hope that my children will be like that. But, just in case, this is a letter to my future teenagers:

  To My Future Teenagers

  When you came into this world, my life was forever changed – in the best possible way. We changed your nappies, worried when you had a temperature, held your hand on your first day of school, and now you’ve reached that age where we are a source of mortifying embarrassment and you don’t want to be around us any more. If you’re anything like I was at the same age, you’re probably not even talking to me right now. I know you would rather listen to your friends than us and that’s normal, but I thought I would write down some advice for you based on my own memories of being a teenager and also of things that I have learnt along the way. Who knows, it might be useful to you and if not you can always use the paper to doodle on. Here it goes . . .

  When I think back to myself at your age I hated everything about how I looked and, although you are perfect in my eyes, I know that you probably think that you have bad teeth/spotty skin or that you are too tall/too short (tick as appropriate). Unless you are really lucky, you will probably find something you obsess over. But guess what, whatever it is that you are insecure about, is a big deal only to you. The chances are that everyone else is too busy worrying about their own issues to really pay too much attention to yours. You don’t know this now but I promise you one day you will look back on photos of yourself from this time and wish that you had appreciated yourself more. And no, you are not fat, so stop obsessing about your weight.

  Friends are important so if you find a true friend, who loves you for you, realise how lucky you are and hold onto them with both hands. If a friend doesn’t make you feel good about yourself then maybe you need to rethink whether they really are your friend after all. And if someone says something spiteful about you, remember they are showing up their own insecurities – the only reason people say bitchy or mean things is because they are jealous of something that you have. Use that knowledge to your advantage, but it also has a flipside – if you find yourself badmouthing others or excluding someone, use it to see what you are lacking or are worried about in yourself. Nasty behaviour is like an inward mirror, so be careful about what it is reflecting.

  Pursue a sport or hobby – yes, I know I’m a hypocrite as I’m the least sporty person I know and the girl who begged for a note to get out of PE (you can ask your nanny about that one) but it doesn’t have to be a sport. You can help a charity, join a drama group, play music or even write, like me. Whatever it is, it is good to have an interest outside of school. When I ask other adults about how they found their teenage years, it is usually the ones who played a sport or had a hobby they loved who came through relatively unscathed.

  I really don’t mind what you do when you grow up, as long as:

  a) It makes you happy

  b) You can make a living out of it

  and

  c) It is legal.

  So go after something you are passionate about and put your heart and soul into it. You’re going to have to put yourself out there – you will feel exposed and vulnerable but you have to take a risk. Yes, you might get knocked but it also might just happen. And if it turns out that you do fail, then you have learnt something that you didn’t know before and you’ll be a step closer to achieving your dream. I would rather you took a risk and went after something than played it safe, never to realise your potential. Go after it while you’re young because, once you have the responsibilities of a mortgage or children, the stakes get even higher. It doesn’t matter if you don’t know what to do with your life after school. Sometimes you have to take the long way around so enjoy the journey and trust you will arrive there. As the saying goes: “Do something you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.” And don’t worry about what other people are doing – you have no power over other people, so it is futile. But what you can control is yourself, so just put that energy into that and it will all turn out fine.

  Love is the same. Sometimes you have to let down your barriers in order to let love in. It can be scary opening yourself up to another person but if the feeling is reciprocated you won’t regret it. Don’t let Hollywood cloud your expectations of relationships: they take work. Don’t cast it aside if it’s broken, try to fix it first. Be kind to one another; romance is a two-way street – you get back what you put in. And, yes, I know you are going to have sex one day but please wait until you are old enough to choose wisely. Sex is a complicated, emotional thing, not to be given away easily or casually thrown around. Make sure it is with someone who loves you and cherishes you. Pressure isn’t love. If there is one thing as a parent that I can give you it would be that you would value yourself as much as I value you. Without going all Oprah* on you, if you love and respect yourself, others will treat you that way too. And for my son, always respect the wishes of the girl you are with. And all of you, please be responsible!

  Smile even when you don’t feel like it. You look better that way and people will be more receptive to you. Try it – it’s contagious.

  There will come a time when I won’t be there with you and you will have your own choices to make and I have to trust that I raised you to make the right decision. There will be times when it will be easier to follow the crowd. When everyone is going one way, it can be hard to turn against the tide and go your own way, but listen to your gut – if something doesn’t feel right then it probably isn’t.

  You’ll be glad to know that I’m nearly finished but the last thing I want to say to you is that I hope we will always talk. You might feel as though your music understands you in a way no one else ever can (in my day the band was Radiohead in case you’re interested). You may not imagine that I as your mother could possibly know what you are going through but although things are different for teenagers nowadays, the same worries, pressures, doubts and insecurities still exist.The one thing that we have in common is our feelings and I don’t think those things will ever change for teenagers. So if you are finding things difficult at the moment, I just want to say that it does get better, I promise. You are only at the start of your journey; there are a lot of exciting things in store for you. And lastly, as Oscar Wilde sums up perfectly: “Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.” You are perfect exactly as you are;there is no one more beautiful than you.

  My love always,

  Mom xxx

  * If you are wondering who the hell is Oprah, she was a talk-show queen in the nineties and one of the richest women in America – Google her.

  Caroline Finnerty lives on the banks of the Grand Canal in County Kildare with her husband, three young children and their dog. A graduate of NUI Maynooth and the Michael Smurfit Business School, she worked in the retail pharmacy sector for many years before giving up the corporate world after her twins were born in 2011. Her first book In a Moment was published in April 2012, her second The Last Goodbye in July 2013. As well as compiling If I Was a Child Again, she is also working on her third novel. She has had articles published in Woman’s Way, The Star, The Daily Mail as well as various parenting magazines. You can find out more on her website www.carolinefinnerty.ie or she can be found on Twitter as @cfinnertywriter.

  Story 14: Sunshine, Short Socks and School Dinners

  Vanessa Fox O’Loughlin

  What are your memories of school? I wonder if the pictures in your head are the same as mine?

  Like Polaroid snaps, I see partial images – blurred at the edges, someone’s shoulder obscuring the shot, the back of someone else’s head; but like Polaroids, my memories are full colour. Some of my earliest childhood memories are of Skyswood School in St Albans, Hertfordshire, where I grew up. They are disjointed and patchy, like someone tipped the album upside down and the memories floated out of it, landing in a jumble on the floor, but as I sort through them to write this I know they are all very happy, and now I come to think of it, in almost every one of them
, the sun is shining.

  I started primary school when Carl Douglas was “Kung Fu Fighting” and the Osmonds were hot on his heels with “Love Me For A Reason”, Harold Wilson's Labour government was struggling through recession and Ford made the ill-fated decision to pardon Nixon. It was the year of The Man with the Golden Gun and The Towering Inferno. At five years old my memories are more of yellow cars and platform lace-ups, of the roughness of the carpet in the reading corner, the tables in the infant classroom that were just the right size for me.

  What else? First-day nerves dissolved by the discovery of wonderful folders full of words. With orange card covers they opened to reveal slots for little white slips of card printed in bold black type. The Word folders were magical to me, contained the building blocks of sentences, sentences that were to form and reform and open the door to the world of reading and writing – and books. I devoured Roger Red Hat and Billy Blue Hat, reading one every night. And then the comprehension books came, their edges soft with use, covers asymmetric designs in green, white and black. Packed full of stories with questions to answer, 1 to 10 – hardly work at all.