A Moment in Time and Place

Illustration: Barbara Grafton

I am lying on my front at the river’s edge. My hands and forearms, their shapes distorted, are deep in the water. The river weed, snake-like, winds around them. I feel a tremor, half-fear and half-delight, as a minnow darts between my fingers. The river smells of the earth and the sky, of living creatures and decay. I move my head closer to the water, unfocusing my eyes, submitting to the blur. I hope a Water Baby will rise to meet me, or the Little Mermaid will beckon me to slip into the depths, and I will be carried far away. 

In the background, a hum, sharper calls like the shrieks of tropical birds, laughter, instructions, warnings - nothing to do with me. Time slips by like the river that carries my imagination. As I withdraw them, my hands and arms are cold, the skin whitened. I may have chased a sister or my brother, menacing them with my icy touch.  

We are at Nursling Mill where the track down to the River Test has been marked by our family’s feet many times. I have marshalled my three younger siblings, helpful, never ‘bossy’ me. 

There would have been sandwiches, a thermos flask, apples, lemonade, a picnic rug or a tablecloth. Nets made of Mum’s discarded stockings stretched on whippy bamboo hoops and canes. A seaside bucket, and a jam jar each with a scratchy twine handle. And I know I would have wandered away a little from everyone, from the noisy family interactions, and the self-imposed responsibility required of ‘Big Sis’. All I really recall of that day is the bubble I created, just me and the cold clear water, and then, later, the sunlight filtered through tall stems of wheat.

I recall finding a small clear place amongst the wheat in the adjoining field, feeling the earth pressing along my length, the prickle of dry stems through my thin cotton frock and on bare skin. I watched the sky through them, feeling the difference in temperature on my face as clouds came and went, enjoying the changing patterns on the insides of my closed eyes, drowsy then asleep in my secret, solitary nest.

It’s been many decades since that day, yet I can still recall the registration number of Dad’s gigantic black Humber Hawk that transported us to the world of the river and beyond: LHO 791.

Barbara Grafton