by Ely Tinkler

Created on: January 30, 2007   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

A Saturday afternoon in May. The air was cool but not cold. I have clear vision of a bulky wooden climbing frame, with a brilliant yellow slide attached. Then to the left an ageing shed, slightly concealed by a mass of tangled creepers draped over a dying tree. Vibrant, emerald, well-kept grass leapt out at me and the scene was lined with soaring pine trees. But there was a shadow cast over the land which doused the vividness of the colours. A shadow of mind and a shadow of cloud.

Pierre, Sarah, Beth and I were spending the day together in Beth's garden. At the age of three Sarah was at a slight disadvantage despite her enthusiasm to join in and her stubborn independence. Pierre was also an outcast, being a boy, and three years younger than Beth and me. Really we were together simply as a distraction for my brother and me. An attempt to occupy our minds and to mask the sorrow we felt at home. A fairly successful attempt I have to say, at least for a short while.

We became engrossed in the task of transforming the shed into a hideout away from prying parents. I had obviously been reading too much Enid Blyton, and stories of the Famous Five were crowding my otherwise rational mind. How thrilling it would be to lead a life like the children in her stories.

Deck chairs, mini trampolines, plastic sheets and hundreds of other things were emerging from the depths of the spacious, musty shed. Everything was in turmoil so we set about organising it to make space for us to sit. I have a vague memory of creating curtains and taking squash and biscuits down there to make it more homely. Sarah ended up in tears among the activity and had to be given something more suitable to do. Pierre was thrown out from the game; being locked out to occupy himself some other way.

At some point during this childish activity Leslie's voice came floating down from the house. Pierre and I were required at the house. Once inside it was apparent something was not quite right, especially on the appearance of my father who was not supposed to be here for a few hours yet. His face was a picture of misery and his movements gentle and unhurried. He knelt down and beckoned us to him. We perched, one on each knee. I do not remember precisely what he said at this point but I know the content of his words. Tears threatened dangerously and there were deep ridges of fatigue around his eyes. He had aged considerably these past months as a result of constant effort and tension.
He asked us each whether we

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