Hot Cross buns

 

I always fell asleep in moments at home. Mum had her secret mum ways of convincing you of the magic of the cold night outside, with you so warm and snug under the blankets and counterpane. I would strain to hear the trains announce themselves at the dark level crossings down past Claudlands showgrounds, and almost never succeed, gone already.

At the bach it was different. In part, in those first few years, I think it was because I still couldn't believe the little fibro house right there up against the sand dunes was actually ours. 

I would turn to the wall in the small bedroom we shared, close my eyes and the constant rumble of the unseen waves would bring images of us catching huge fish, scaling dark swells  in wooden fishing boats, finding treasure washed up by storms, on and on.

Weather then, there, seemed unspoken, clockwork. The torrential rains of the winter field days, the still heat of December waiting for Christmas and the escape to the beach. 

And Easter was storms. 

I would wake to the chill, turn over and realise your bed against the far wall was empty, unmade, so it must be early.

Wind would be roaring, so loud I had to concentrate to know the rumble which had finally lulled me to sleep was still there. Rain would clatter the roof and flash in under the eaves to be thrown sideways across the windows, always heading for the dark hills nestling the long swathe of the beach.

The louvred windows of the kitchen would catch little pieces of the wind and shriek, fall silent, shriek again, on and on.

A beautiful warmth and that scent would meet me as I came through the narrow doorway, into the kitchen with the wind shrieking for attention again.

You would be in front of the old upright oven, tea towel in hand. The yellowed light through the oven door giving a glimpse of the small buns so nearly ready.

Some time in the afternoon we would convince ourselves there was a break in the weather, the cloud not quite so pressing, the wind dropping to a growl.

We would put on old jumpers and jackets and head over the dunes. There would be broken pieces of kina shells and huge horse mussels, the deep crimson of half scallop shells loosed by the anger of the night and flung across the dark sand wrapped in tendrils of weed from the harbour. 

The sea would be so rough, the water opaque with waves running at crazy angles, assaulting each other and throwing up curtains of spray which would hiss away in the constant squall.

We would make it back to warm clothes and the radio, and another round of hot cross buns with the butter melting. 

Heaven.