“Me, Polly Garter, under the washing line, giving the breast in the garden to my bonny new baby. Nothing grows in our garden, only washing. And babies. And where’s their fathers live, my love? Over the hills and far away. You’re looking up at me now. I know what you’re thinking, you poor little milky creature. You’re thinking, you’re no better than you should be, Polly, and that’s good enough for me. Oh, isn’t life a terrible thing, thank God?”
From Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas.
If my memory serves me right, we were in the 4th year of secondary school, modern day Year 10, reading Under Milk Wood in English, sort of acting out the play in class, which was really just reading out loud from our desks. I was delighted to be Polly Garter, though I can’t sing and I can’t do a Welsh accent. She’s feisty, flaunty, flighty and a bit naughty, the talk of the wash-house and I love her. It was hard to read aloud, willing myself not to blush at the mention of ‘breast’ while the boys made stifled sniggers and whispered comments. We were that silly age. Well, the boys were. I liked the image of Polly and her babies, though not the absent fathers. I liked the idea of a family full of children.
We get what we’re given and a big family was not on the cards for me. Now, with four grandchildren, the family might be as big as it is going to get until the next generation. I don’t intend to tempt providence here. It’s lovely, and great to have fun times when they are all here together. It can be hard work if they’re squabbling, or if someone needs to be sent out of the room, but that’s kids. They are all wonderful with their own personalities and I love having them around me. Echoes of Polly. Babies arrived close together, which put our travel plans on hold for about four years, then Covid lockdown meant cancelling the booked trip to the Channel Islands. We’ll try again, before we forget what we were doing and old age takes over.
Ah, just to mention Jelly Babies. Nasty things that made one of my children so sick, they can’t look at them even decades later. It’s not an allergy or anything serious, just eaten too many. I don’t know how many packets and they didn’t come from me. I don’t give sweets, only chocolate, and never fizzy drinks. My grandchildren take delight in telling me if they’ve had something on my banned list. Little darlings.
My poem,
The time came to dismantle the cot.
There’s no more babies, I’ve had my lot.
Infant things vanished without a trace,
A three foot single now fills the space.
A house of laughter, a home of joy
For a lovely girl and a cherished boy.
The children took over with their stuff,
Of books and toys, more than enough.
Years come and go as time flies too fast,
A quiet house, empty nest, at last.
Soon, grandchildren filled the vacant spot,
Took turns to sleep in the rebuilt cot.
Gorgeous babies, one, two, three and four,
I think that’s it now, there won’t be more.
The single divan is back in place,
But it is moveable, just in case.
PMW 2024
Thanks for reading, Pam x
