Memories of Summer by Clare Greenwood

For as long as Ryan could remember the summer holidays had included a two week break with his nan and her husband.   His real granddad had died before Ryan, his first and only grandchild, was born and although he got on ok with his nan's husband, Ryan didn't have the special bond with him that he had with her. 

Ryan loved his nan's bungalow.  The decoration might be a bit old fashioned and the rooms overcrowded with masses of mismatched furniture but it was so much more homely than the tiny flat he shared with his mum.   Every available shelf space was packed with his nan's treasured knick-knacks and there wasn't one that she couldn't deliver a full blown history on.  Ryan would patiently sit and listen to her stories about the china cow-shaped cruet set his mum had brought back from her first school trip, the hand painted clogs which were a gift she nearly didn't receive when his great-aunt's case went missing at Schiphol Airport, the doll in the red flamenco dress that her husband had insisted she bought on their first holiday together - her first abroad - and which she'd never really liked.  Ryan felt like he'd heard each and every story a hundred times but he didn't care; he'd have loved to listen to his nan telling her colourful tales forever.

The best thing about the bungalow was how close it was to the beach.  If Ryan stood on the orange flowery ottoman in the back bedroom he could see the sea through the curly glass window.  Whilst her husband was out fishing or down at the bowls club, he and his nan would pack a picnic and spend whole days at the beach.  They'd have competitions to see who could throw stones the furthest or collect up the most shells in the shortest time.  Invariably Ryan was victorious but when he asked his nan if she'd let him win she'd just smile and say ‘it was all fair and square lovie'.

She'd always buy them an ice-cream from the van which came into the seafront car park at 3pm; his choice a screwball with a bubblegum in the bottom, hers a simple cornet - ‘no room for ice-cream and chocolate' she'd always say as she turned her nose up at the prospect of a 99.

They'd wander back to the bungalow at the end of the day and his nan would clatter about in the kitchen getting together one of her high teas; jam sandwiches cut into dainty triangles, little bowls of assorted crisps brought in especially for Ryan's visit, mini jam rolls, chocolate tea cakes and trifle.  Always trifle.  Even now, fifteen years old, cool and streetwise, just seeing a packet mix in the supermarket would conjure up memories of those special summer teas for Ryan. 

It was nearly time for the Chelsea Flower Show again.  Juliet couldn't remember a year when she hadn't got tickets for her and her mum.  She'd be ready on the first day they went on sale so that there was no chance of missing out on this event which signalled for them that summer was just beginning.   She'd ring her mum to confirm that the tickets had been secured and they'd make plans for the annual pre-show shopping trip.  A big town was always chosen; somewhere her mum could buy a suitable outfit, something befitting the show's royal status and something she would probably never wear again. 

Juliet had given up trying to convince her mum that she didn't need a new outfit years ago, as she had also stopped trying to persuade her that a hat wasn't necessary.  It was all part of it for her mum.  For about a month before the show she'd drop it into conversation with her friends, shop assistants, bus drivers, anyone who'd listen to her.  ‘My daughter and I got our Chelsea outfits' she'd say.  Then, if the slightest spark of interest was shown by the listener, she'd go on to describe where the ensemble had been purchased, why it had been chosen and everything about it - including the all important hat - down to the tiniest detail.

After the event this audience would be subjected to a blow by blow account of the day; favourite stands, new specimens, celebrities spotted, purchases made.  She'd always make a big thing of the flowers she'd brought home; ‘directly from the supplier' she'd say.  Juliet's mum was a great believer in meat being purchased from the butcher, bread from the baker and flowers from a florist or smallholding, most definitely not - her lip would curl at the thought of it - from a bucket in a supermarket.

Chelsea Flower Show time again, Juliet thought.

‘They're changing guard at Buckingham Palace; Christopher Robin went down with Alice.'  Archie would never be able to hear that song without thinking of his wife.  For her birthday every year they'd make the trip to London to see the Queen's Birthday Parade, joking that he must be Christopher Robin as his wife's middle name was Alice. 

The planning had always been meticulous; train tickets purchased in advance, picnic prepared, hair do sorted, shoes polished.  She'd get in a little flap at the station, worrying if they'd get on the right train, that there'd be room for them to sit together.  They'd get off at Waterloo and stroll over Westminster Bridge.  She'd stop and wonder at the size of Big Ben, make him take a photo of her in front of it every year. 

There'd be no ‘dilly dallying' as she was fond of saying.  They needed to get over to the Palace and find a good spot.    It was never the first location they'd plump for; there would always be some objection - noisy foreigners, a tall man, someone with strong perfume.  When she was happy with her position they would be rooted for the day, munching their ham rolls as they stood with their eyes glued to the Palace, awaiting the moment.   She'd have lectured him all the way about his fluid intake; ‘you can't afford to be caught short' she'd whisper on the train, ‘d'you need a little stop, Archie?' she'd question as they passed every public convenience.

There would be tears in her eyes as she watched all the pomp and ceremony.  ‘Doesn't she look lovely' she'd say as the Queen came into view.  After the event she'd swear that her Majesty had made eye contact, given her a special royal wave.

Then they'd get the train home again and London would wait for another year.  It held no further allure for her.  Just that one special summer's day at Buckingham Palace.

A little stroll along Bognor Regis esplanade; now you couldn't beat that, Pearl thought. 

It had become a bit of a ritual as she and her sister were growing older; a short break in Bognor to blow away the cobwebs every summer.  They'd stay in the same B&B, on the corner of a quiet street just a block away from the seafront.  They'd have a twin, it gave them the opportunity to catch up.  They'd giggle as they chatted into the night, remembering childhood days when they'd shared a room and their mum had come storming up after she'd given their father his supper because they were still talking.

They'd have fish and chips their first night, a nice stew and cobbler - the speciality of Mrs Ricketts who owned the B&B - on their second and then treat themselves to a steak on their last.  Pearl was always a little more adventurous than her sister and would sometimes opt for whitebait or taramasalata, rather than just prawn cocktail, to start.  She'd have her steak medium rare whilst her sister liked hers virtually burnt to a cinder.

They'd buy cardis at the shop which specialised in high quality knitted items, Pearl opting for bright colours whilst her sister tended towards browns and beiges.  Presents would be purchased for family and friends, including jars of toffee for Pearl's assorted grandchildren and a single stick of Bognor rock for her sister's only grandson.  They'd say goodbye at the coach station, swearing ‘same time next year' as they blew kisses through steamy windows heading in opposite directions.

The weather was never that special, the accommodation was basic.  It was all about the company.  That was what made those summer Bognor days.

‘No doubt you have all taken these few minutes of silence to reflect on your own special memories of Summer Alice Williams.'  Reverend Pallister surveyed the congregation.  ‘Over the years I have known her as one of my parishioners I have often reflected on her name; the only Summer of her generation yet so apt as her nature was generally warm with the occasional cloudy spell'.  Gentle laughter rippled around the church.

‘I hope, before we finally say goodbye to her, that you will allow me the luxury of sharing some of my own memories with you.

My first would be a hot August day when I officiated at my first wedding at St Johns.  I recall this whirlwind chief bridesmaid questioning my every move, fearful that a novice may do something to spoil her sister's special day.  I am pleased to report that the clouds passed over and both Summer and I performed our duties perfectly.    As many of you will know, that day turned out to be the start of a long, happy and fruitful marriage for Pearl and George.'

In the front aisle of the church Pearl held a hankie to her eye and George squeezed her free hand, nodding affectionately at their large clan of children and grandchildren as he did so.

‘Then of course there were two weddings for Summer herself.  She was just as questioning of my abilities at her first but by the time she found her second husband, a love we all feared she may never have experienced after losing her beloved Sidney at such a young age, she had more faith in me.  Her and Archie's wedding was a joyous occasion which I remember fondly, and one which I'm sure many of you gathered here today will also recall.'

Archie coughed self consciously as all eyes in the church turned in his direction.

‘In between the weddings of course there was Juliet's Baptism.  I've seldom seen prouder parents than Summer and Sidney.  Everything had to be perfect for their precious bundle of joy; the flowers, the Christening gown, the order of service.  I hate to admit it but there was one small moment when we almost came to blows, Summer and I.  Everything had been going swimmingly until she refused to hand little Juliet over to me for the anointing.'

Juliet smiled at this anecdote which had been laughingly shared with her time and again over the years.

‘And then another Christening in the family; her beloved grandson Ryan.  Poor Juliet had very little say in the day's events, even down to the names.  Once again Summer took charge in her own special way to make everything perfect for the new precious young man in her life, Ryan Sidney Bartholomew.'

Ryan shuffled in his seat, silently thanking God that none of his friends were present to hear the middle names - those of his granddad and great-grandfather - that his nan had insisted on.

‘So now we say goodbye to Summer Alice Williams, a wonderful wife, mother, sister and grandmother.  A woman we will all miss with all our hearts.'  Reverend Pallister paused as he swallowed a small lump in his throat.  ‘But please do not shed any more tears.  As I said, Summer by name and summer by nature.   I'm sure she would have wanted brightness and cheer. 

As you leave her here to rest please do so with a smile on your face, with joy in your heart and with the one thing that can never be taken away from you; your memories of Summer.'

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