Swings, Roundabouts and Pink Bubble Gum

Swings, roundabouts and Pink Bubble Gum

Well, you wouldn’t believe it would you but it’s true. Just for us, us oldies. We still like to play you know, even though our bodies might be a little bent and our minds a little scrambled. You’re never too old they say, all those clichés; age is inevitable, ageing optional, or something like that. You’re only as old as you feel blah blah blah…

But this, this is total magic. Oh, if my grandkids could see me now. They’d be impressed of course, but my kids merely disapproving.

You’ll hurt yourself, we don’t want you ending up in hospital with a fractured hip, and so on… They’ll be old someday, I keep telling myself.

Its fine today. After a stillborn spring, summer has at last come out to play. I tug at the dog’s lead. She’s getting old too, and a bit stiff around the joints but she’s still up for a daily walk.

Well, here I am, bus pass at the ready. I’m glad they don’t ask for your passport or your driving licence. I’d never remember where to find them. I approach, enter bus pass ID and press the green button and I’m in. The gates open slowly, creaking like elderly joints. I’m meeting Tom again today.

A large sign stands at the entrance to the park:

Over 60s 0nly. No Children No Dogs No Barbecues No Ball Games

I look around me. It’s busy today. An early summer day and the air is all mown grass, and rich damp earth. Soft ground in case I should happen to fall.

Here come Terry and Sue; It looks like they’re an item now, his face scarlet with lust and sunburn and his Aviators perched on his head like a pair of sparrows. Matching shorts He’s got his hand on her bottom, his fingers dancing to the rhythm of her bouncing buttocks as they hurry red faced and panting towards the swings. In the background cars hum, and dogs bark, but all I can hear is laughter and screams and the occasional voice raised in anger. There are too many people perhaps, queues everywhere. Even George is out today, his skateboard tucked under his arm and a back to front baseball cap on his balding head, instead of his judges’ wig.

Father John appears at the bottom of the slide, his greying tennis shorts flapping in the breeze. Nice legs though, it’s funny how you never think of a priest having legs. He’s pulling himself up now, his hands on the steel frame, a look of Holy joy on his face.

Tom is here. I watch him as he makes his way towards me, his body slightly bent, the sun polishing his bald scalp, and freckles like specks of dust on his cheeks. He smiles, showing the gaps in his teeth. I’d get those fixed if that was me, but then that’s men for you. Today he’s wearing navy shorts and his brand-new trainers, snowy white, with a red flash like a streak of blood on the soles.

‘Fancy a go on the seesaw?’ he says. I observe him working out our relative weights. Well, maybe I’m a bit on the tubby side; not obese you understand, and he’s taller than me but a bit scrawny, an ancient tree bent by the wind. Mind you that paunch must weigh a bit.

‘OK,’ I say, and we head towards the dinosaur, lowering ourselves onto the seats. It’s a kind of dirty green, the dinosaur that is, and it smells a bit of dog pee. I look around checking that Doris is still safely tied up. Dogs aren’t really allowed in here, but I can always pretend she’s my hearing dog.

Up and down, up and down, my body leaning forward and back, feeling the sun on my face, laughing as we go faster and faster, and I hear my mother’s voice tight and anxious:

‘Slow down Shirley, you’ll fall,’ but I don’t take any notice because I’m five years old again and life is good. A memory so clear it startles me. There’s a boy in a pair of navy shorts, his red hair like Heinz Tomato Soup and a mass of freckles on his cheeks, and a big red bus as it rumbles past and then the memory is gone.

George and June are waiting, tutting as we laugh. They’ll have to wait; it won’t hurt them.

What next. The slide, yes, only Joe waiting to go down now, his shirt tails flapping, his pink comfort chinos snug around his belly, and his new Converses. Whatever happened to men? They’re all at it now, trying to look trendy. It’s become a bit of a dating site up here, people pairing off over the swings, buying each other ice cream and fizzy drinks at the kiosk. It beats internet dating any day.

Oh yes. I knew you’d be surprised. We’ve all tried it you know, us oldies. I even had a date once but of course he was lying about his age and there was me thinking I had got myself a toy boy. There are no toy boys here.

I climb the steps to the slide, my knees grating and my shoulders aching, Tom is close behind me. I reach the top and sit myself down. My heart is beating a little faster as I bend forward, feeling my body tense. I love this moment, the moment of take-off, the feeling of letting go, of losing control, and then I’m rushing towards the ground feet first, the wind on my face, gravity pulling me down until I land in a laughing heap at the bottom, and I tell myself that’s it’s never too late to play.

I haul myself up, ready for another go.

There’s a queue for the slide now; I can see Elsa in her flowery shorts. Only six months ago she was performing hysterectomies. Oh yes, we get all sorts here, and status means nothing when you just want to play. I’ll come back later, perhaps give the climbing frames a go. I look up and they’re they are, reaching like spires towards the sky. Tom takes my hand.

 ‘Fancy a go on the swings,’ he says.

I settle myself down. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze these days, but I’m in and Tom’s pushing me higher and higher, and I’m flying, flying, and I think I can see the boy in the navy shorts again and remember the pink bubble-gum and the smell of fish and chips from the café across the road.

 It’s still there, that café. Perhaps we’ll treat ourselves later and sit on the park bench together, remembering the layers of greasy newspaper. There’s so much catching up to do.

Tom’s on the roundabout now. I can see the red flashes on his trainers appearing and disappearing as he uses his feet to accelerate. He sees me coming and slows down, using his foot as a brake, and that memory flashes past me again, a boy with red hair and navy shorts. They didn’t have flashy trainers in those days, just white plimsolls.

 ‘Coming on then Shirl,’ he says. I can hear laughter coming from the flying fox. George is helping Mary onto the rope ready for the final push.

I get on, positioning myself on the opposite side. Ergonomics they call it, getting the spacing right for the ultimate experience. Round and round, round and round until I’m dizzy. I can remember the fizz of sherbet dip in my nostrils and the smell of frying. My hair is flying, my breath coming fast.

‘Faster, faster,’ I yell, as Tom keeps up the momentum with his new trainers. We’re both laughing now, alive with excitement And it feels so good, just like I’m a child again, and I feel my mother there, hear her voice again, loud and shrill.

‘Slow down, slow down, you’ll break your neck.’

Tom slows down, brings the roundabout to a stop, and moves across to help me down and I wonder if he’s remembering too. All those years lost, never knowing where he was. They don’t do that these days do they? They try to keep families together if they can. That’s what Mum would have wanted.