Carol has written as part of her career. She is now enjoying writing to tell her stories.
I stood in front of the large two-storey house. It seemed like a fairy tale house, much bigger than where we lived then. Looking back however, I cannot remember the house we moved from, only this house that we moved to.
The house seemed to twinkle in the sunshine, its windows beaming down at me. We went around to the back of the house where there was a large section that cascaded down in terraces. The front, which would eventually hold my mother's roses, was like a roughly furled field the sods of dirt interleaving. Why did the front garden look like a field? It didn't seem to fit. It was like Gran and Grandad's place; they lived in the country where they grew berries, collected eggs, fed the goose that pecked angrily at the back door.
Are we going to live here? I asked my mother.
Yes, she said.
I had conflicting emotions. Excited and scared. I felt very small looking up at this big house that appeared friendly but imposing; like a gentle giant towering over me with a puffed up chest. My mother and I walked around the house hand-in-hand. I can't remember going in. Maybe she didn't have a key.
I was a little shocked when I re-visited this house in 2008. It was humble and not very big. I had grown much taller. The garage my father built, and that had housed his beloved Rover, was still there. One of the first cars in a street of houses that were all the same. The imposing giant had vanished.
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Deborah thanks Rangimarie Kelly and Pikau Digtal for website design and artist Karen Jarvis for her image ‘Writers at the Devonport Library,’ (2023)