Caroline Barden

Caroline Barden

Wednesday, 19 April 2017 12:56

The garden in April

There are six apple trees and their tight, pink buds draw your eyes around the garden, where, damp from the drizzle and in the gentle light before the sun breaks through, newly emerging leaves show a multitude of greens. 
The lawn is central, long grass perfect for cats to pounce in, and defined by shrubs and tangled flower beds. Dark spears of mint stand strong like a miniature forest and angelica seedlings force their way up through winter stems and shrivelled daffodils. 
A solitary rose has opened with delicate petals of the palest pink and a wonderful fragrance. And at the back, by the wall, a silver birch tree reaches high up to the sky, its leaves small and fresh, rippling and dancing in the breeze.
Wednesday, 19 April 2017 12:52

Three games

Even when the sun shone at my grandparents’ house we would put up the card table to play Mahjong with our Granny. We were evenly matched, my sister, brother and I, and, although we had no betting and played slowly and carefully, there was just as much competition as in the noisy games played in the doorways in London.
We built walls, to keep the enemy out, with beautiful bamboo tiles that clinked and slid under our fingers. Then we collected runs and sets and special favours, giving no quarter to our opponents. How I longed to pick up an intricately painted flower or the tropical bird of the one-of-characters; and how hard to disguise the disappointment when I drew another set of circles.
We played game after game, comparing scores and remembering scores from the day before, until Granny announced it was time for tea. Then we ate sticky cream buns and reviewed our strategies for tomorrow.
Racing Demon
My dad always said I had reactions as quick as a cat’s when I was young. On rainy afternoons we would gather with our friends and play Racing Demon. For those who have never played, Racing Demon is like Solitaire played against other people at top speed. On the floor or on the table? The floor was best, it gave you more opportunity to lunge and grab. 
‘Start off by counting your pack of cards, you never know if the person before you has cheated and hidden a card under the rug.’
Some packs of cards were better than others, slidey or slippery to speed the process of turning over, or with patterns of tears on the back so we soon learned the face value. 
‘Get your cards ready, sit on your knees ready to lean over the circle, then … go!’ 
Everyone focused, watching what the others were putting down and slamming cards down in the middle. 
‘Work quickly, the quicker you turn the more you’ll get out. Keep your eye on the queens, then with your king in your hand dart it under your opponent’s and shout ‘king!’ with glee.’ 
We played until our concentration started to wain and our knees got sore, then sprawled on the floor unpicking our wins.
Table Football
The pub by our house had a games room for those underage and we would meet up with friends and have lemonade and toasted cheese sandwiches made in a new-fangled machine. The room was stark, with dingy red walls and half a dozen hard wooden chairs, but the best thing about it was the table football game. 
We would crash and spin the handles and cheer and groan loudly. When we played with a partner it was even noisier, as we shouted instructions and encouraging words to each other. We all thought we were the best as we flirted and jostled and tried out our teenage emotions, until the coins ran out and we drifted away.
Monday, 10 April 2017 14:54

The Summer House

We slept out in our Summer House on hot nights, breathing in the smell of varnished wood and dust from the fly husks in the corner. We ate treats for a feast, and, with the taste of gingernuts on our teeth defying sleep, we opened the door and gazed at the stars, pretending to know all their names.
In the daytime, we had a secret club with badges and codes and ‘keep out’ notices. We would race our snails on the ancient grey floorboards and tell stories of ghosts and bravado.
One summer a hedgehog crept in by mistake. Returning from holiday we pulled open the door. The air stank of rotten things while bluebottles buzzed around our heads, their eggs glued in all the cracks.

Everything was spoiled, the magic gone, and our Summer House returned to the silence of being a shed.