My eldest grandson liked to enclose himself in the book corner. He discovered that by opening a door to the toy cupboard and a door on the fitted unit, he could comfortably place himself behind them, almost hidden and with plenty of room to look at books or build Duplo. He liked his own space even before a brother and sister came along to disturb his peace. It wasn’t long before he worked out how easily all the cushions came off the sofa and what a good idea it was to sit there and fashion himself a den by using the large ones to make sides and a smaller one for the top, or a roof. Sometimes a blanket was brought from upstairs and draped over the entire construction and he would be in there with a book or watch TV through a gap. A good den is great comfort.
1967. For the first time in my life, we were living in a
house instead of a pub. It felt weird, so quiet, no juke-box filtering through
the building, no babble of a thousand indecipherable conversations. The house itself was very nice, a three
bedroomed detached with a garage in what estate agents would describe as a ‘sought
after’ area in South Shore. We weren’t there for very long, the way things
turned out, and I have some happy memories, in spite of it being a miserable
time in my life. My mother was seriously ill, having surgeries and treatments
and it was better for her to have the privacy the pub didn’t have, which is why
my parents bought the house. I started senior school, a school I didn’t want to
go to but had to because I’d failed my eleven-plus. My friends passed and went
to the school I longed to be at, but it wasn’t to be. Failed! I’ve been trying
to make up for it ever since. On the bus I was regularly picked on by pupils
from another school. I had to take two buses and often chose to walk the
longest part of my journey rather than be at the mercy of the bullies. The house became home with us in it and our
cosy furniture. We had gardens, front and back. Dad got a swing for me and my
sister and the wooden shed at the end of the back garden became a den. A deck
chair, a cushion from the house, a drink of orange and whatever book I was up
to in Enid Blyton’s Malory Towers series was all I needed. The shed housed the
new gardening tools propped up in a corner. Gardening became my father’s
weekend chore. As the air chilled and the daylight lessened, I moved to an
indoor den. My sister’s room, which must have been massive when I think what
was in there and all the space to play, had her single bed and also bunk beds
where I slept when our grandparents stayed over and had my room. The bottom
bunk made a great den by using the tartan blanket on the top bunk as a curtain
for the length and borrowing a big towel from the airing cupboard to hang over
the end. The fun was short-lived. I wasn’t supposed to ‘mess’ in my sister’s
room, even if she, aged about 4, didn’t seem to mind. It sticks in my mind how
cold that winter, 1967/68 was. No central heating, but the house was cosy with
a coal fire in the back living room and hot water bottles in bed. To add to my
misery, I developed chilblains on my feet and a seemingly ever-lasting verruca.
1968 brought joy and normality. My mother had made a good recovery and we were
moving back to the pub. School remained a nightmare until 4th year but
everything else was good.
My grandchildren can make a mess, make a noise and make dens
to their hearts content. They can also tidy up afterwards.
My poem,
“I’m in my den!”The voice, muffled
By the cushions
Forming a cube,
Of a fashion,
In the place where
There’s a sofa,
Now and again.
And giggling
While I pretend
I cannot find
Him, in the blocks
Of patterned green,
And I’m blind
To the red socks
And toes wiggling.
PMW 2022
