Sunshine After Rain

Poignant Read

Looking out of the lounge window I can see it’s one of those sad, grey days where a weak sun is playing peek-aboo behind a veil of cloud. Summer is nearly over. “What do you think, Lucy? Will it rain?” I turn back to my daughter who’s play-marching her doll along the glass topped coffee table. She makes the doll leap over my book about Hygge.

“It’s the new thing, Nai,” my sister Michelle said when she gave it to me for my birthday last month. “From Denmark. Hygge’s about making every moment special in some way.”

“What a super idea,” I’d said, hugging her. “Thank you.”

I’d read a few chapters in bed that night. Although it was a lovely theory, I wasn’t sure I could apply Hygge to my life. How could I make it a special moment when the gas bill arrived and it was much higher than I’d budgeted? Or find the magic in missing my bus to work?

Or, I thought looking out at the moody sky now, find the joy in staying indoors with a bored five-year old? Lucy needs constant entertainment.

We’ll be all right later. There’s a fête at the community centre this afternoon. It should be fun with a barbecue and a local tribute band playing. If Lucy’s too tired to go, I can open her bedroom window and we should still be able to hear the music.

There might even be fireworks when night falls. She loves to watch them. Colours are certainly her thing. I hope she’ll be arty like her Auntie Michelle.

Of course, Lucy hasn’t answered my question about the rain but then I’ve long given up expecting her to. Besides, it’s a grown-up question and even I can’t guess the answer. That’s the only trouble with the British summer; you can never be sure of the weather.

“Right,” I say, imagining what the author of the Hygge book might suggest, and making a sudden decision. “Fleece and shoes on. We’re going out.”

Hearing the last magic word, Lucy perks up – reminding me of the old spaniel Michelle and I had when we were growing up. Donny would bark the second I rattled his lead.

Dropping her doll, Lucy looks at me with an excited expression in her pale blue eyes, mirroring Donny’s expectation, and her smile, never very far away, dances across her lips. “Loll-i-pop?” I grin and pretend I’m not pleased with her choice of possible venue by rolling my eyes, but then I make a show of relenting and say, “OK, Lollipop Park it is.” Lucy gives a little cheer. She’s a natural when it comes to Hygge. She sees the special in everything, I think, pulling her fleece over her head.

It’s soft, pink and very Lucy. I bought it from the Saturday market where we go most weekends. She looks so adorable I can’t resist a hug. You see, like most mums, my child means everything to me. She’s the sun and moon rolled into one and I’d give her the world if I had it.

I’d do anything for my kids. Weall saythat,don’twe, I think, as we slip out of the front door, my fingers threaded in Lucy’s. Yet for most parents that vow is rarely put to the test…

Through the creaky gate, we turn left along Brickfield Lane and set off to Lollipop Park. It’s not really called that; it’s Lucy’s name for it because she thinks the shaped bay trees that edge the Tarmac path look like giant lollipops. With their whopping heads of leaves and spindly trunks I feel she’s got a point.

Lollipop Park isn’t flash like the one they have in town that has a zip wire, monkey bars and a steel climbing frame. No, Lollipop Park is just a spread of patchy grass with a couple of benches, some ancient swings, a slide… Oh, and in the centre, there’s a mock pirate ship.

Still, the park’s a useful place for us

I’m baking in BLAME every time I DROWN in her TRUSTING EYES

to visit – and if I pick the right time it’s quiet there. It’s better for Lucy to play outdoors when it’s quiet.

Rain’s been falling overnight and it’s made the grass slidey. Still holding hands, our progress to the park is toddler-slow. It’s probably too damp to go this morning but I’m driven by the need to take Lucy out to play whenever she wants to go.

I always feel this guilt, coupled with a desire to do as much as I can for her.

I’m baking in blame – of course, I am – every time I drown in her trusting eyes and marvel at her lopsided grin. She’s everything to me and yet I can’t help feeling I’ve let her down. I’m sure everyone else thinks it about me, too, and that makes me feel worse.

At times, I want to shout, “I didn’t

mean it. I just wanted a child to love. A chance to have a family before…”

How can I Hygge that feeling into something positive?

We reach the iron gates at Lollipop Park and I can see straight away that there aren’t many children here today. The weather is Bank-Holiday bleak and the small play enclosure with the slide, swings and pirate ship is almost empty.

However, there’s one small boy circling the swings. He’s wearing a yellow top and blue shorts and looks a little older than Lucy, I guess.

I’m begging for him to stay; that his mum won’t take one look at Lucy and make an excuse to leave. I love her playing with other children. She’s so friendly and it makes her day when they talk to her – although, all too often, they don’t.

It’s all very PC, the world we live in now. Everyone makes sound bites about “inclusion,” and how “everyone’s the same,” and that, of course, “every child matters…” And all the people who claim this really, really mean it – until it extends to them inviting Lucy to a party or round to theirs for tea one afternoon or letting her join in with their game of football.

Fed on a diet of prejudice, they shy away from her as if she’s a leper rather than just… special.

There are spits of rain in the air and the branches of the beech trees sway in the cool breeze.

I take a chance and sit down on the wooden bench next to the woman who I assume is this little boy’s mum. She’s Kindle-busy. I know that vibe. The one that says, Please don’ t talk tome. I want you to think I’ m too involved in what I’m doing to chat.

“Hello,” I say, ignoring her body language, as I peel away a strand of greying curls that’s blowing across my mouth. “Are we in for another downpour, do you think?”

I hold out my hand as I say this, as if I can judge how soon the heavens will open by the dampness in the air.

The woman doesn’t answer; I’m not surprised so I concentrate my attention back on Lucy. The brightly painted pirate ship is her favourite so she’s toddled over to it where the boy’s now

running up and down, without purpose, as if he’s on speed.

As soon as he sees her, he stops and watches. Then, full of older-child importance, he spins the steering wheel for her. It makes a loud rattling sound and she laughs.

I breathe the sigh of relief I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. The little boy hasn’t noticed – and neither has his mum. Yet…

“I hope it doesn’t rain,” she suddenly says, looking up for the first time. She’s younger than me but there are dark shadows under her brown eyes. “I’ve hung all our sheets on the washing line. Although I don’t mind bad weather when I come here. It tends to keep people away from the park.”

“I like it here when it’s quiet, too,” I blurt out, delighted she’s answered me. “I’m Nai – short for Naomi – and my little girl is called Lucy.”

“I’m Sue… Ben doesn’t play easily with other children,” she explains as she lays her e-reader on her lap. “Especially when he’s excited.”

Sue’s wearing jeans. There’s a small ragged hole in the knee. I think of the Hygge theory about seeing the good in everything and decide she might be making a fashion statement like those rows of purposely torn jeans in the High-Street stores last winter.

“Lucy loves playing with other children… when she gets the chance.” “She’s not at school yet?” “No – not yet.” The dread that she’ll be ignored – or worse – hides behind my hurried answer.

Tottering after her new friend, Lucy waves to me and Sue.

“Adorable,” Sue says and waves back before adding, quietly, “Down’s?”

Her question is so gentle, so natural, that I can’t help but nod. I wait for the tinge of accusation to coat her next words. Down’s Syndrome is a condition where the mother’s age can be a contributing factor. Sometimes I feel I should wear a T-shirt proclaiming, Please don’ t judge. Just love her– thesameasIdo.

I didn’t purposely fall pregnant at forty-seven – although I’m very, very glad that I did.

The wind rustles through the leaves on the trees that embrace the playground area and I shiver, almost not catching Sue’s next words.

“My sister’s son has the same condition. Jessica had him when she was only twenty-two. She didn’t know where to turn for help at first. But Adam’s done really well for himself. He works in a supermarket, he has a girlfriend and they live in a flat with a carer who calls in once a day. Jessica’s so proud of him.”

Twenty-two…?

Sudden rain lands in splodges on the path and mixes with my tears as the sun pops out of the dull sky, looking like a clean spoon left on a dirty plate. We call the children over to shelter.

Huddled under the trees, Ben tells Lucy, “Don’t worry, the rain can’t hurt you and we can play in a minute again and I’ll let you spin the wheel and everything.”

I smile, thinking that today in Lollipop Park, Hygge is getting easier and easier to perfect.

“Look, Mummy – rainbow!” Lucy points, and nudges her new friend.

For a moment, I can’t see it – only the grey clouds – but then I just catch sight of the palest arc of colour.

“Is it magic? Where does it come from?” Ben asks his mum.

As Sue tries to explain simply to the children how rainbows are formed, I think science spoils the mystery a little. Rainbows are enchanting when you’re tiny. I wish I could view them like that again but I suppose I’ve seen too many in my time to think they’re unique.

Although we don’t have an English word for Hygge, rainbows are the perfect embodiment – miserable weather being cheered up by the gift of bright colour.

Through my tears, I feel warmed by the idea of making the best of every experience and inside me, something’s changing. A new understanding.

Sue’s sister was young when her child was born. It happens…

Lucy’s like this rainbow. Special but not that unusual. Like this little boy. Like his cousin, Adam.

Blame spoils things. It makes you only concentrate on the cloudy skies and lose sight of the rainbows. It’s not always possible to see the Hygge in life but Lucy’s teaching me we should try because no matter what happens

“I don’t mind BAD WEATHER; it keeps people AWAY from the PARK…”

everyone’s special. They truly are…

The rain stops and Ben and Lucy wander off again.

“Those two are getting on like a house on fire.” Sue smiles.

“Aren’t they just,” I say, watching them clamber back onto the pirate ship. “Look, there’s a fête over at the community centre later. Fancy joining us? There’s a bouncy castle, barbecue, music – that sort of thing. It’s fun.” Then I add, “No, it’s not just fun – it’s fabulous. It really, really is…”