The cottage stood at the foot of a hill many miles from the nearest town. The peasant farmer that lived there worked long and hard cultivating the poor soil around it; furrowing it, digging it up, and planting things to grow on it so he could feed his family. He had six mouths to feed: a wife and five children; four boys and a girl. The girl was the eldest at 12 years old and the youngest was only 3 with the others in between. The family lived on the farm on a diet of soup, potatoes and fresh air. During the day the youngest of the lot played and shrieked from morn till night. He’d run amok at the front and back of the farmstead terrorising the geese that roamed around freely. The older children helped around the farm; gathering the geese, milking the cows, feeding the hens and helping Ma in the kitchen.
At seven in the morning, at noon and again at six in the evening, Ma would stand at the entrance to the kitchen door, and at the top of her lungs, would shout out to her brood to feed them. The children would storm in, in varying degrees of filth and disorder, and seat themselves according to age at the wooden table which was burnished with wear. Ma would then clip them all around the ears for not washing their hands first; except the little one who never got clipped. The mouth of the littlest one scarcely came up to the top of the kitchen table and all you could see were his beady little eyes poking above the table tops like flies. Pa would finally come in and wash his hands under the tap and then once seated Ma would lay the food on the table. They’d be boiled potatoes, stale-hard bread softened in the water used to boil the potatoes, half a cabbage and three onions which they would all devour and fill there bellies with, till they were full and content. Ma would feed the youngest herself pushing the food into his mouth. On Sundays, a small piece of meat in a stew was a treat for one and all. Pa especially enjoyed Sundays. The children always behaved themselves on the table, but as soon as Pa left, they’d be kicking under the table and a ruckus of blame games would ensue always culminating in a scrum and tears of some sort or other.
So this is how time flew on the farm and it was the same every day and the family ploughed through it stoically; not complaining and thanking the dear Lord for good health and everything else besides. Pa was too poor to send his children for schooling and all, but the Pastor from the nearby church would come by once a fortnight, and give lessons in reading, writing and the words of the Lord Jesus Christ. It wasn’t much but Ma appreciated him coming round nonetheless, and would on that day bake a cake especially for the Pastor, to repay his kindness - for he refused to accept charity. At first the children hated the Pastor with an evil-eye that only children can muster, because his lessons got in the way of their playing and all, but as soon as Ma made a habit of baking a cake in his honour, they’d warmed to him instantly - for they always got pieces in the end. The littlest of all, who was too little for reading and writing, would nonetheless come in with pencil and paper ready at hand, sit diligently besides his brothers and sisters who were busy writing, his chin barely above the table, and watching them he would copy their motions; pretending. He’d watch them with one corner of the eye and with the other corner he’d be watching the cake.
Pa worked hard in the fields and in the evenings, with the days work over and the sun set behind the hills, he’d gather his children around him; and with Ma knitting away and the littlest one on his lap, he would start the 'evening’s entertainment'. Pa had been to the city once and entertainment was him recounting the wonderful story of that long ago visit. The children loved hearing his story and he would repeat it over and over again, changing it now and again to give it variety, occasionally adding flourishes to keep it fresh, and sometimes he’d ‘remember’ a detail that he had forgotten about, and they would sit around him listening and enraptured. And It was the best story ever too and longer then Homers Odyssey - sometimes it even felt like a family heirloom; something to pass down generations; there being nothing else to pass down and all. Pa would describe the buildings in the city as ‘high as clouds’ the roads choking with cars like ‘columns of marching ants’. He’d talk about wonderful places called: ‘restaurants’ where you sat down and chose what you wanted to eat from something called the ‘menu’, and then a lovely lady would come by with the plates of food you had asked for, just like Ma did on the kitchen table, but unlike Ma she didn’t do it cos of love and they’d be more meat’ (and at this he’d wink at Ma).
Then there were the stories about the sweetshops – the children loved hearing about the sweetshops where ‘laid in front of you were rows and rows of towers and towers of sweets that stretched and stretched for ever like the corn fields’ .There were so many varieties too: chocolates, gum-buddies, fudge-doodles, jaw-breakers, sherbets, tongue-lashers, cola-bottles, bubble-gums. The littlest one especially loved the sweetshop stories. He’d be sat on Pa’s lap and as soon as Pa talked about the sweetshops the little one would look up at Pa, his little mouth dribbling away, as if sweets were pouring out of Pa’s mouth! At this sight the whole family, Ma included, would burst out laughing at the little one – but he never knew what they were laughing for cos he was too little and would continue dribbling. ‘Sweetshops!’ he would say sweetly. And he would climb down Pa’s lap and run around screaming ‘Sweetshops!’ ‘Sweetshops!’ He’d chase the chickens shrieking ‘Sweetshops!’ ‘Sweetshops!’.
The children loved Pa. Pa knew so much about things and he'd been to the city too. Ma hadn’t been to the city so she didn't know as much, and she didn’t know half as many stories as Pa but they were less afraid of Ma. Pa could get angry and then he would bellow like thunderclaps and the whole house would shake – but that was only when they were naughty though. And he didn’t get angry often.
So like this the days passed, the seasons skimmed across the farm, the cows gave birth to little Suckling’s, and the wheat in the fields grew tall and sturdy.
One day in winter the littlest one got ill. He’d come up with a sudden fever. Ma cradled him all day, his little chest wheezing and puffing weakly. He didn’t know what was happening to him and he clung on to Ma all day and all night long. They called the doctor around and he shook his head and gave some medicines. What he suggested was for Pa to take him to the hospital in the city but Pa couldn’t half afford the trip. The other children continued to play and work. Occasionally they’d pop their heads in to see what there little brother was up to, but seeing that he couldn’t play and was still lying in Ma’s lap, they’d go back out again and resume their games. The geese no longer had anyone to terrorize them with sticks and so they were enjoying their new freedom; perhaps they even missed him. The goats too no longer had anyone to throw missiles at them and as a result became quite brazen and would sometimes poke their heads into the kitchen – I’m sure they didn’t miss him.
Then one day, the littlest one’s breathing stopped, his eyes closed for the last time, and he died, with the final words ‘Sweetshops’ etched on his tongue. He was buried in a little grave round the back of the farm. Ma and Pa we’re sad and all. Everyone from surrounding villages, who the children had never seen before, came round and everyone prayed. The grave was small with a little headstone. Everybody missed him; especially at dinner times when there was nobody dangling their legs from the chair and Ma had nobody to feed. Pa’s stories were somehow different and he never mentioned the sweetshops again. Lessons with the Pastor were quieter and there were more slices of the cake to go around. But slowly, as the seasons went by, as winter moved over to summer, as the cows fattened, as the birds sang their love ditties, they missed him less and less. The only reminder was the little grave out back, with it's tufts of weeds sprouting at the edges. Whenever they passed that way, on there way some place, they'd always look at the mound of earth, the hillock, under which there little brother was buried, and they would walk pass it silently always looking down at the ground. But as soon as they had moved farther on, there gait would straighten, their heads would rise, and they would continue cheerily on, as if suddenly they had been unburdened of some sad memory.
And then one day, many years later, when memories were foggy, old and frail, they no longer stopped to even look at the grave. Only Ma did. And she never failed to lay fresh flowers on it, to look after it, keep it tidy and tend it, and keep it free of weeds.
When I was young I used to wonder why Ma loved my little brother so much and whether she loved me as much and whether she would do the same at my grave. Deep down I think I knew she would and because of this I never got jealous of my dead little brother.
Now, though I am older, whenever I pass a Sweetshop I always pop in and buy two. One for me, and one for my little brother.
