11
AUTUMN PASTIMES
October 1944When we got back from our seaside holiday, Mum and I took up a new routine: standing by any sign saying ‘Road Up’ in order to inhale the whoop-curing properties of pure cooked tar.
“Breathe” Mum ordered, as she had when we had sensed the powerful ozone of Mablethorpe’s expanse of North Sea vigour, “Breathe in slowly and hold the smell inside you.”
I was wearing my new fleecy-lined liberty bodice, thick lisle stockings and a chunky tweed coat that Mum had made from a pre-war one of her own. Suspenders, attached to the bottom edge of my liberty bodice, dragged my stockings so badly that I had to stoop to avoid the strain. My neck tickled from the angora pixie bonnet ties. I felt sick from the fumes.
“Can we go home now? We’ve been here ages. Please.”
“We’
