Summer time

Summer time

“Summer time and the livin’ is easy.
Fish are jumping and the cotton is high”

It’s funny how a song can bring the memory of a time and place to mind more clearly than almost anything, except smell.

I was standing at the kitchen sink, hands immersed in bubbly hot water, staring through the window, across the garden to the fields beyond. It was summer and we had been blessed with a weekend of heaven after a plague of storms. Pure skies, blazing sun and a fridge full of lager. Pity about last night’s pots covered in dried on Chinese takeaway!

Desert Island Discs babbled away in the background. The guest, as usual, was someone I had never of. He had been a peace envoy who had overseen the signing of an African peace treaty, just before Nelson Mandela was freed and apartheid ended.

The lyrics had taken me back to another scorching summer in Kazakhstan. Trekking in the Himalayas for charity had changed me in many ways. It’s curious to discover that the further away you are from your usual way of life, the easier it is to gain a focused perspective on the things that are really important to you.

“Your daddy’s rich, and your mamma’s good lookin’” the song burbled from the radio and in my mind I walked through a meadow of huge butterflies and loudly buzzing insects. It had been beautifully surreal; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see Bambi to appear with Snow White following on!

This song had become our trek song, performed nightly by two fellow trekkers who were our self-nominated singer and guitarist in residence. To be honest, I hadn’t liked the song and by the end of the week was heartily sick of our musical duo who were beginning to believe their own publicity and insisted on dominating the campfire sing-along every night.

I chose not to join in. I can’t sing and I’m not good at being part of a crowd of adoring admirers. Instead, I wallowed in the luxury of being alone in the midnight darkness, feeling it’s velvet whisper touching my skin and hiding my very existence from even myself. The sensation of flexing muscles was all that revealed my hands’ movement to me, sight was useless.

The volume on the radio increased and a stern voice broke my reverie.

“This is an urgent announcement from the BBC. We interrupt this broadcast and go live to Zimbabwe where we are receiving news of Robert Mugabe’s latest attempts to clear shanty towns and drive the population back to the country.”

Screams shatter the lazy morning. Explosions burst through the kitchen and I’m back from the mountains.

“This is Lynn Lomax and I’m in Mboto, Zimbabwe. I can see bulldozers and soldiers, tanks and armoured cars. There are houses being razed to the ground, people are trying to get away, some are trapped or just too old or sick to escape. People are dying everywhere, some crushed in their homes, but the machines just keep coming.”

I hear the words but I can’t think. That damned song is there……..

“So hush little baby, don’t you cry.
One of these mornings you’re going to rise up singing”

Returning to the studio, the newsreader continues, “It appears that Mr. Mugabe has stepped up his actions to drive the poor urban population back to the country. We are receiving eye witness reports and pictures from our undercover reporter Lynn Lomax. She is live in Mboto where tanks, bulldozers and armoured cars are razing dwellings to the ground, driving people away at gunpoint. There was no warning, at 6am in Zimbabwe the onslaught began. Families have been given 5 minutes to evacuate, before armoured vehicles smash down their homes. People have died and there are many casualties. Tony Blair is reported to be at Downing Street and is expected to make a statement within the hour.”

I sat down on the stone tiles, soap bubbles sliding down my forearms and settling in the crook of my elbow.

“Then you’ll spread your wings and take to the sky”. The song was still there.

The chill of the tiles made me shiver and the bubbles were released to continue their journey. Their dribble tickled my elbows and I shuddered.

……..”Over to Lynn, live in Zimbabwe.

I can see a couple, a man and a woman, running towards the tanks. I don’t know where they came from but they are running towards a row of corrugated iron huts. The tanks are only moments away. Everyone else is running away. I can see two children coming out of one of the huts, one carrying the other. The tank has paused, its turning, but the adults have made it to the children. Thank god!

But wait, the tank is moving again. The family is running for their lives, each parent carries a child. Wait, it looks like they’ve made it. At the edge of the chaos, people are gathered; some are in shock, some tending to the wounded. The noise is ………..sssssssssscscccchzzzzzzzzzzz

I’m sorry, we seem to have lost the link to Lynn. We’ll get back to her as soon as possible.”

I struggled to absorb what I had just heard but a niggling melody was playing in my mind. The final lyric popped into my head.

“But till that morning, there’s a’nothing can harm you, with daddy and mamma standing by.”

The phone rang.

“Hi Mum, yes I’ve got the radio on…………. I know; Lynn’s there………don’t worry, I’m sure your granddaughter will be fine.”