Cawsand, Friday 6th April: Enid Blyton

“We must watch out for the sea,” said Dick. “I can smell it somewhere near!”
He was right. The car suddenly topped a hill – and there was the shining blue sea, calm and smooth in the evening sun. The three children gave a yell.
“There it is!”
“Isn’t it marvellous!”
“Oh, I want to bathe this very minute!”

Living a cliché can sometimes be great fun. I am just so in the mood for pretending that we are living The Famous Five – hell we even have a “Dick” on the back seat. I have been trying, spectacularly unsuccessfully, to get J. to read The Famous Five. I loved them as a kid. Not so J. … but then again when I read them out loud again I begin to understand why. The language is very, very, dated. Being a kid of the 70ies I’m beginning to realise that our generation was possibly the last to still be in some kind of tune with 1950’s Britain. Millennium kids just don’t get it any more.

In any case, forget all the ginger beer, awfully, marvellous, jolly gosh and Dick jokes. One of the main reasons, I think, that J. can not identify with the books is that he simply can not relate to a bunch of kids who are allowed to go off sailing for a whole week-end with a wave from a grown up and a simple “ … do be back in time for tea on Sunday children.”

Lucky Aunt Fanny, I think. I wish I could wave five kids off my hands for a whole week-end as easily as that. Being a woman of the 1950’s she doesn’t even need to worry that they’ll contact her by mobile phone. Once they’re off over the hill then that’s it for the next couple of days. I imagine what it must be like…

“OK Off you go then, J, K.M, L. R and friend. Rucksacks all packed I see. Jolly good - see you in a couple of days. Have fun. Bye.”

Think of the freedom – just think of all the possibilities. A whole week-end to do the things that I want to do …. but that is in the realms of fantasy… and I digress

We have been given a free CD “Five on a Treasure Island”, which L. likes to listen to on long car journeys. J.’s objections are over-ruled. We discover that G. is very, very good at doing an “Uncle Quentin” impression. He cocks his chin right back into his throat; raises his voice considerably; looks stern, and:

“You, Ann, give that treasure map here at once.” and

“What’s the matter with you children? Don’t you trust me?”

Although I read “Five on a Treasure Island” about 30 years ago I still, to this day, have some vivid memories of the book. One of the first is when Julian, Dick and Ann arrive in Cornwall seeing the sea of the first time and feeling very excited about it. Since then every time I first glimpse the sea – from where ever in the world it may be I get the “Treasure Island” kick out of it. As we drive along the west country leaving Stonehenge behind us and enter Somerset I suggest:

“A prize for the first person to spot the sea.”

“I’m not joining in because I always lose,” is K.M.’s response.

“Boring” says J.

L. looks out of the window.

For once, just for once though, on this Easter holidays, the weather is on my side allowing me to live my imagination. It’s a beautifully sunny day and when we do finally spot the sea over the crest of a hill it sparkles, shines and fulfils every damn cliché that you can imagine.

Upon seeing the sea for the first time Dick shouted:

“Oh I want to bathe this very minute”.

Upon seeing the sea for the first time J. announced.

“I want to catch a wave when we get there?”

The language changes but the desires, seemingly, not.


“I am NOT sleeping in this room”, J. announced when Clive showed us around the top floor after we had all fallen out of the C8 and clambered with bags and books and one toddler up the stairs. I was happy as Larry having already grabbed our room. A light blue room with the most amazing views over the bay. My cliché was just getting better and better. Every thing was going swimmingly.

Admittedly this particular children’s room was painted a very pretty lilac and had lace sheets on it. Just so not J.

K.M. and L. pushed past us.

“We want this room, we want this room”.

Luckily another “boys” room was available also painted blue and with beds covered in a sailing boat fabric. The sheets were still frilly but J., seemingly, was prepared to ignore that on this occasion and plonked his bag down.

By this time it was around 3.30 in the afternoon and we still had to unpack the car and get some food for supper. We’d been living off biscuits, chocolate and bread for the past three days.

Beatrice rang.

“Hi, there train is still on time. Are you still on for picking us up at 6.30 from Plymouth.”

“Sure, no problem. Looking forward to seeing you and George.”

6.30? I was so sure it would be 7.30 – this made timing tight. It takes roughly an hour to the station.

“G. - lets just go for a quick walk into Kingsand and get some stuff for supper because you need to pick Bea. up an hour earlier than I had thought and I need to be back to cook supper. Otherwise we won’t be eating until nine or so and the kids will get hungry”

“Sure.”

“Children, we’re going for a walk into the village but it’ll be difficult to go swimming because we have to be back on time to pick Aunty Bea and George up.”

K.M., as usual, is happy with whatever. R. is too small to care. J. and L. on the other hand have their own determined views of how the next hour should played out – and it does not involve a quick walk around Kingsand and a trip to the village shop.

“No, you promised I could catch a wave – I’m going swimming. You promised.” J. glares at us and defies us to change our agenda.

“ I want to go swimming. I want to go swimming. I want to go swimming. I want to go swimming.” L. wails incessantly.

“I know, I know, I know but we don’t want to keep George and Aunty Bea. waiting at the station. Sometimes plans change. Tomorrow we will go down to the beach I promise you. First thing tomorrow.”

The time by now is pushing 16:00 – there is just not enough time to get all the swimming gear sorted out, carry it to the beach get all four kids ready for a swim; give them enough time to get out again; dry, dressed – and go to the shop and get back again. In any case R. will probably start being difficult at some point because he is getting hungry and tired …and I don’t want to face it all on my own whilst G. goes to Plymouth.

“You liars! You promised us. I’m going to catch a wave. You promised! You promised!”

“I want to go swimming. Ahhhhh ahhhhh ahhhh. I want to go swimming.”

G. and I are tired and still have a lot to do. We’re not getting anywhere with J. and L. We have no parental authority.

“Try and be flexible. Plans sometimes, unexpectedly, have to change. Its getting late and there is just not enough time left. Tomorrow we go to the beach.”

But we just get more of the same anger from J. and L. who can’t control their disappointment. In the meantime R. decides to join in the swing of things and begins to wail and cry as well. The noise level in the flat is beginning to reach nasty, ugly proportions. It begins to work on our nerves. No tactic will work on these two kids. My happy cliché is crumbling around me.

G. gets seriously fed up. He has driven all day. In the end I just go with K.M. into Kingsand and to the shop. I enjoy the peace and harmony of having just K.M with me and the freedom to walk around the village at will. K.M. is so flexible and happy to come along. I, quite clearly get the pleasant deal.

G., on the other hand, is left at the top of the stairs trying to deal with a crying R. an outraged J. and a wailing L. We haven’t even been in the house for an hour and already we are shaking its beautiful old walls with dragon noise. Poor G. – and his impersonation of Uncle Quentin is so convincing - so authoritative.