I remember, I remember

I shuffled from the cold porch into the village hall, stamping my feet to get rid of the fast-melting snow, my nose dripping and my glasses steamed up.

The hall smelt of damp wool, mince pies and alcohol. Men in navy blazers or tweed jackets, freshly shaven and smelling of Old Spice and Brut, embraced freshly-coiffed women in knitted suits or smart jackets, who smelt of face powder and old-fashioned perfumes with hints of rose and violet. There was a scattering of Christmas hats and the odd embroidered Christmas cardie or jumper; old soldiers sporting medals on ribbons – their wives, strands of pearls and cameo brooches.

I headed for an empty seat near the little wooden steps that led up to the stage, wrestling with the buttons on my coat, my frozen fingers prickling in the heat. I folded my coat over the chair, then sat and smoothed down my new red dress to a crackle of static.

An old man sat down heavily next to me, coughing wetly into his hand. I looked away, rubbing my thumbnail down the spine of the heavy book cradled in my lap, scratching at the flakes of glue on the webbing where the green card had peeled away.

The last stragglers took their seats, and the audience settled down as my sister Sue and cousin Lucy appeared from behind the faded red velvet curtain to a smatter of applause. Great Uncle Tosh, the club secretary, walked painfully across the stage and asked what they’d be playing, and they told him it was, “The Dance of the Blessed Spirits,” by Gluck. Tosh, who was rather deaf, announced, “The Dance of the Brussel Sprouts”, causing tittering among those of the audience without hearing problems, and as Sue pulled out the piano stool, I could see that she was biting her lip in an effort not to laugh. It was worse for Lucy, who struggled to breathe normally as she raised her flute to her lips. For a few seconds Sue’s hands hovered above the keys, and the room grew silent as, centre stage, Lucy blew softly across the mouthpiece of her flute. Lucy nodded her head and silvery notes filled the hall.

After three duets, Sue got the stage to herself, filling the air with the rise and fall of a Mozart sonata. Paper chains and tinsel stars danced above iron radiators, the room creaking and groaning in the stifling heat. Faces reddened, and heads began to loll and nod, and a whistling snore puckered the cheeks of a man in the fourth row, his purple paper crown tilting and slipping to the floor.

Plumbing the depths of my pocket for something to wipe my glases on, I discovered a half-sucked sherbert lemon, which I rubbed clean, white flakes drifting softly to the floor. I licked my dry lips, then popped the sweet in my mouth, and sucked it until it cracked releasing a flood of bitter-sweet sherbert. My hands, already slick with sweat, became sticky too.

There was applause as my sister finished playing and took a bow. Behind the curtain an unseen hand pressed play, and my cousin Linda pirouetted plumply onto the stage to the strains of Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy”. I shifted uncomfortably on my seat, and took a sip of water: I was on next.

As Linda left the stage I climbed the wooden steps, swallowing dryly. Then, turning to face the rows of white and grey heads in the audience, I lifted Palgrave’s Golden Treasury of Poetry in shaking hands, and started reading Thomas Hood’s poem, “I remember, I remember”…


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