Sweet Georgie Brown

Today was one of those days you know won’t leave you in a hurry. It didn’t start well. Grey clouds had settled over our cottage in their usual dreary fashion, and a playful wind wanted to shake every tree and bush it ran through. It was also a Sunday, which meant today was usually set aside for long walks and roast dinners. When I looked out the bedroom window, I fancied neither. I turned to Carla and asked what should we do? She spoke enthusiastically of a Jazz band that was playing at Shibden Hall in Halifax. It was billed as Jazz in the Park, which was strange because Shibden Hall was in fact a stately home and the park in question was really just its grounds. But who am I to judge? I looked out of the window again and saw two rooks huddled together on a phone line, shaking. It doesn’t look like Jazzy-kinda weather, does it, I said. She then looked at me the way she does when she knows I’m going to say no to something she really wants to do, and while disappointed, she will agree with me because she knows me and knows I will only be miserable if I’m forced to a place I don’t wish to go. But I was feeling quite bold that day, brave you might say, and a little annoyed with the English summer, so I agreed. Even Amelie, who had been sat quietly on her rocking chair, let out an audible gasp, as if she too was taken aback by the remark.

We arrived in plenty of time, and because a car drive is akin to a healthy dose of chloroform for Amelie, she was asleep. The sky was beginning to show signs of improvement too, and when we got out of the car with the usual ten ton of provisions needed for any trip, the wind had run out of steam and was now lazily drifting among the rest of the visitors while whistling a merry little tune. Shibden Hall is a pleasant place. It has a small café that serves the usual fare, along with various different coffees that would please even the most staunch city dweller. It also has a small boating lake, which is split in two halves, one is for the aforementioned boats (and peddalos), and the other is for some wild ducks and geese. A miniature railway track runs around the lake, and not five minutes will pass without you hearing the small train ring its bell aloud. At the top of a large hill sits the impressive Tudor style Shibden Hall. For a small fee, you can walk its rooms and learn more about its history. To the south of the park is a small playground, which leads to a short woodland area. Its appeal is its size, for it is not too big to attract the wrong type of crowd, and not too small you run the risk of becoming overly friendly with any of its visitors.

The band was due to start at 1pm, which meant we had 30 minutes to our disposal. Amelie was now awake; the smell of fresh air combined with the cry of lively children had been the smelling salts needed to wake her from her slumber. We took to the café and bought two crapocinos so we could feed Amelie her cod and vegetable slop without feeling guilty. The place was full of young couples doing the same thing, and like it is at such venues, most of the time was spent comparing our child to theirs, their buggy against ours, and how deep and dark their eyes are to our own. I think we came out of it okay, considering. We then left and found a spot on the grass before the stage where the Jazz band was due to play. After a long wait, five men dressed in black shirts, black trousers, and bright red ties, came over and began tuning their instruments. If I tell you the youngest was probably in his mid-fifties, and the oldest was nearing his seventies, and that their groupies were three frail old women with blue-rinses and walking sticks, then you’ll understand why we weren’t expecting too much. In truth, they had a lot of energy about them. As soon as they broke into the first song, When You’re Smiling, I felt my foot tapping. I looked around, and other people were doing the same. I looked to Carla, who was holding Amelie, and both were staring toward the stage, rocking from side to side, and sharing the most wonderful of expressions – one caught between shedding the vestiges of their mistrust for simple enthusiasm. Even the sun peeked its head from the clouds to see what was going on. It was strange, but the music was actually making people happier. We let Amelie down on the picnic blanket, and she, with the determination of a whippet released from the cage, set off down the hill on all fours. Though the music was drowning out most of the ambient sounds around us, we could still hear her pants of pleasure as she took each stride toward the unknown. When it became too much, she stopped, and look around for us, and we were there, smiling. She smiled back, and then turned again, as if the joy in our faces was the permission she needed to carry on at break-neck speed. A small terrier dog stopped her in her tracks at one point, and instead of fearing the animal, which was only small must have been the same as a grizzly bear on its hind legs to Amelie, she smiled and offered her hand to stroke its fur. Of course, like most dogs, it had better things to do and ran off, but her gesture warmed me inside. When the distance between us was becoming less impressive, and more worrying, Carla ran toward her, gathering her safely in her arms and swinging her skyward. She planted a kiss on Amelie’s cheek, and I noted both mother and child were sharing a moment, one of complete and utter joy and love. She then carried Amelie back while two stepping, and swinging her hips in time with the music. She sang the lyrics in Amelie’s delicate ears, which made her smile and wave her arms at me. I silently prayed to God to allow me one more minute of sight, because seeing the two most precious people in my life so happy was humbling.

We stayed for a short time before taking a long walk around the grounds. When we reached the Hall, I took Amelie in my arms and ran down the hill that overlooked the lake, much to her enjoyment. When Carla arrived, the band were playing Sweet Georgie Brown, and for whatever reason, be it the music, the sun on our backs, or the natural high obtained by seeing your child so happy, Carla and I took each other’s hand and danced. We danced like young lovers, swaying our hips and twirling each other pirouette style, and all the while Amelie looked on between us, smiling in her own unique and touching way. And while it must have looked a little silly to those sat watching, or passing by in their expensive buggies, I knew that one moment in time would be with me forever. With all my heart, I am indebted to those elderly jazz players for giving me memories that will cleave to my every part, and allow me to never take life for granted.