BISCUIT PUBLISHING : Remember Elvis

Do you remember Elvis?

by Fran Tracey

"Mum, are you old enough to remember Elvis? It's for school. I've got to do a project."

Lydia's question threw me. Did I remember Elvis? Hard to say. You still hear the songs on the radio all the time, don't you?

"Mrs Jackson said people usually remember exactly where they were and what they were doing when someone really famous dies."

"Did she tell you when it was, Lydia?"

"Oh, Aeons ago. 1977 I think she said."

I smiled. Of course. Aeons ago. I was just Julie back then, not Mum. And I did remember the summer Elvis died. We were in Wales on holiday. In a caravan. The same holiday our family had shared together for years. And the summers were generic in my mind, except that one. How could I forget the summer of 77? Generally our holidays were for a fortnight, but appeared to stretch to months. During that particular summer I was allowed to do things forbidden at home. And I didn't question why, just made the most of my freedom. Romping in sand dunes, being away for hours. Only returning for crab paste sandwiches and weak orange squash. I would snuggle into the sand with a favourite book. A day soon became a lifetime of lassitude. I would hunt for clues to solve a convoluted mystery existing only in my imagination. Thought I was a great detective, a rival for Nancy Drew. I made friends from neighbouring caravans; kids I'd never see again once I returned home. Though we might become pen pals, for a while. But that didn't matter. We had the summer. The world slowed for us. Oh, and there were the ants too. I remember the ants well.

"Mummy," my brother Andy cried, running towards the caravan, hysterical and strangely black. And the black was moving, swarming over his body. I was poking a stick into the riverbank in a futile search for fossils or treasure, cross at being interrupted at first, then interested by the commotion. What on earth had Andy found?

"Calm down, love," my mum said, looking frantic. "Why's your father never around when he's needed?"

Andy had sat on an ant's nest, and thousands of the industrious creatures were attempting to colonise him. I was fascinated. Wanted to stir things up with my stick, but didn't dare.

"Does it itch?" I asked, my voice fading under Mum's glare. It took a long shower and two Curly Wurly's to calm my brother down.

* * *

The atmosphere was frosty when Dad finally returned.

"I've been to see a man about a dog," he slurred. Even then we knew this meant he'd been playing snooker in the pub with newfound holiday mates.

"I thought you were supposed to be helping with the kids," Mum hissed at him. I felt indignant. I didn't think we required help and threw myself down in front of the TV in a huff. Nobody seemed to notice.

A newsflash interrupted cartoons.

"Mum, Elvis is dead," I called, knowing the event must be important for Tom and Jerry to go off air.

"Is he Julie?" Mum sounded uninterested, distracted, but it's hard to trust my memory.

* * *

That long summer ended abruptly. We left early, despite my protests. The journey home was silent. Then Dad went to live in a flat, never returning home. I felt deflated, not least that my detective skills had failed to spot the unravelling of my parent's marriage. Sometimes Andy and me saw him at weekends. He told us things we didn't understand. About irreconcilable differences between Mum and him. Feeling embarrassed, we would scuff our tennis shoes against the café table leg. We nodded, serious, desperate to get to the park.

But of course that summer had an impact on us. Broken families were scarcer then. I was teased at school, bullied even, but I didn't tell Mum. What could she do to change things? And Dad was never coming back, that was for sure. From then on our summers were spent at home. No more trips to a caravan. No more adventures in the sand.

"Mum, are you listening? Do you remember?"

"I don't know, Lydia." And it was the truth. Was I remembering stuff that was happening to me at the time, or the death of someone I never knew? Elvis dying felt like an anchor, somehow. An event that froze that long hot summer in time. And my world was never the same again.

	Do you remember Elvis? by Fran Tracey "Mum, are you old enough to remember Elvis? It's for school. I've got to do a project." Lydia's question threw me. Did I remember Elvis? Hard to say. You still hear the songs on the radio all the time, don't you? "Mrs Jackson said people usually remember exactly where they were and what they were doing when someone really famous dies." "Did she tell you when it was, Lydia?" "Oh, Aeons ago. 1977 I think she said." I smiled. Of course. Aeons ago. I was just Julie back then, not Mum. And I did remember the summer Elvis died. We were in Wales on holiday. In a caravan. The same holiday our family had shared together for years. And the summers were generic in my mind, except that one. How could I forget the summer of 77? Generally our holidays were for a fortnight, but appeared to stretch to months. During that particular summer I was allowed to do things forbidden at home. And I didn't question why, just made the most of my freedom. Romping in sand dunes, being away for hours. Only returning for crab paste sandwiches and weak orange squash. I would snuggle into the sand with a favourite book. A day soon became a lifetime of lassitude. I would hunt for clues to solve a convoluted mystery existing only in my imagination. Thought I was a great detective, a rival for Nancy Drew. I made friends from neighbouring caravans; kids I'd never see again once I returned home. Though we might become pen pals, for a while. But that didn't matter. We had the summer. The world slowed for us. Oh, and there were the ants too. I remember the ants well. "Mummy," my brother Andy cried, running towards the caravan, hysterical and strangely black. And the black was moving, swarming over his body. I was poking a stick into the riverbank in a futile search for fossils or treasure, cross at being interrupted at first, then interested by the commotion. What on earth had Andy found? "Calm down, love," my mum said, looking frantic. "Why's your father never around when he's needed?" Andy had sat on an ant's nest, and thousands of the industrious creatures were attempting to colonise him. I was fascinated. Wanted to stir things up with my stick, but didn't dare. "Does it itch?" I asked, my voice fading under Mum's glare. It took a long shower and two Curly Wurly's to calm my brother down. * * * The atmosphere was frosty when Dad finally returned. "I've been to see a man about a dog," he slurred. Even then we knew this meant he'd been playing snooker in the pub with newfound holiday mates. "I thought you were supposed to be helping with the kids," Mum hissed at him. I felt indignant. I didn't think we required help and threw myself down in front of the TV in a huff. Nobody seemed to notice. A newsflash interrupted cartoons. "Mum, Elvis is dead," I called, knowing the event must be important for Tom and Jerry to go off air. "Is he Julie?" Mum sounded uninterested, distracted, but it's hard to trust my memory. * * * That long summer ended abruptly. We left early, despite my protests. The journey home was silent. Then Dad went to live in a flat, never returning home. I felt deflated, not least that my detective skills had failed to spot the unravelling of my parent's marriage. Sometimes Andy and me saw him at weekends. He told us things we didn't understand. About irreconcilable differences between Mum and him. Feeling embarrassed, we would scuff our tennis shoes against the café table leg. We nodded, serious, desperate to get to the park. But of course that summer had an impact on us. Broken families were scarcer then. I was teased at school, bullied even, but I didn't tell Mum. What could she do to change things? And Dad was never coming back, that was for sure. From then on our summers were spent at home. No more trips to a caravan. No more adventures in the sand. "Mum, are you listening? Do you remember?" "I don't know, Lydia." And it was the truth. Was I remembering stuff that was happening to me at the time, or the death of someone I never knew? Elvis dying felt like an anchor, somehow. An event that froze that long hot summer in time. And my world was never the same again.