Back to School!

How I used to hate that phrase when I was teaching! It seemed that scarcely before you'd waved the little darlings off on their summer holidays (and heaved a huge sigh of relief that one of your colleagues would have the benefit of educating psychopathic Johnny or precociously obnoxious Joan next term), the signs would go up in the Woolies window: 'Back to School!' The shelves would fill with cheap pens, pencils, maths sets and calculators, and suddenly the six glorious empty weeks in front of you seemed less of an eternity, more a few seconds' respite from the chalk face.

Later, of course, when I became a parent of school-age children, 'Back to School' became a promise rather than a threat. Dearly though I love my boys, when they were younger keeping them from murdering each other was a constant task, made worse by the long, unregulated days of the summer holidays. I've never been one of those mums who thinks her children need to be busy, busy, busy all day long - French after school, gym on Friday, tennis at the weekend, charts and structure and educational 'play'. Much of my own free time as a child had been just that - free, freedom to read or walk or draw or just dream without adults poking their noses in - and one of the reasons for moving to the country had been to give our children the sort of childhood where they could go out on their bikes, meet friends, explore, build dens or dams and generally (in a phrase not current when I was ten or eleven) 'chill out'. However, no responsible parent, however relaxed, is going to allow a six or seven year old out alone and unsupervised, and I was no exception. So they were confined to the garden, and all too often my parental role became that of referee, when I was not in goal, fielding, or suggesting that the Lego which seemed to spread of its own accord all over the house should be put back in its box before it was lost, or maimed someone unwary enough to tread on a piece barefoot.

By design, our summer holidays were carefully broken up: a week away (the Forest of Dean, Wales, Devon, Cornwall and Swanage all feature heavily in our holiday snaps), plus five days or so visiting Granny and Grandad in Suffolk. There were huge advantages to this: it was free, in the lovely setting of my own childhood, there was a pool, tennis courts, cricket pitches, even an assault course, and the whole park with its woods and grounds to explore. The downside was that my parents, well into their seventies when the boys were born, were not used to their boisterous behaviour and still less to the four-letter words which every modern schoolchild knows from Reception onwards. Despite drumming into them at every visit the importance of behaving nicely and not swearing, one or two choice epithets did emerge, and Dad in particular was worried by Patrick's temper and Hugh's cheek. I was always sorry to leave - when your parents are elderly, you always wonder if that's the last time you'll see one of them - but at the same time relieved that we were going home where the boys could let off steam without causing tension. Mind you, when I think back to what my sister and I did to each other - she broke my finger stamping on it, I punched one of her wobbly teeth down her throat and put a spider in her hair (she's arachnophobic) - Hugh's and Patrick's spats seem mild by comparison. We ended up good friends, and I'm pleased to report that my own lads have done the same. Although the three years between them mean they don't go out much together, they talk enthusiastically about bands, music and sport, and I can't remember the last time they had a serious argument (touch wood!).

Those six weeks always seemed to go on for ever, until at last the great day arrived: the alarm set, the uniforms ready, holiday work collected, and off we would go. When they were still at the primary school, there would be the pleasure, for me, of chatting to the other mums, finding out what everyone had been doing, hearing news, exchanging opinions and gossip. My social life always leapt up in September, as our breakfast group started again, and people who'd been away for much of the summer returned to our orbit. Between the hours of nine and three, every weekday, my time was suddenly my own, to write, do my pottery class, seeing friends, shopping forays to Bath or even London. 'Back to School' meant parental freedom, and after an exhausting summer it was very, very welcome.

Strange, after nearly fifteen years of slavery to the academic year, that it won't be long now until 'Back to School' no longer resonates in our household. Hugh is off to Uni in a few weeks, Patrick is just starting in the sixth form. I'll miss the days of their childhood, I love having them around, but there's one thing I'll be looking forward to this autumn when they've both gone 'Back to School' - at last, unrestricted access to my laptop!

I Don't Like Cricket ... Much!

Heretical, I know, when you consider my family background - my father played for Essex before the war, and for Suffolk after it. My earliest memories of cricket are of sunlit days, playing with my toys behind one of the stands at the Felixstowe ground, or at Saxstead Green in the shadow of the windmill. Later, attending a boys' school, I had the chance to play, but proved useless - a single run was my biggest score. My sister, rather better at sports than I was, was the only child in the youngest group able to bowl overarm. When the First Eleven played, on Saturday afternoons, we all had to watch. In my case, it meant that I could roll up in my rug and surreptitiously read - until one day I was hit on the head by a boundary I hadn't seen coming, and my shameful secret was exposed to all. Going to a girls' school, at the age of thirteen, meant I was able to exchange the boredom of cricket for the horrors of hockey and netball. Honestly, I don't know which was worse.

Cricket came back into my life with my two sons. My dad's sporting ability - he played cricket, golf, football and squash to a very high level - had passed me by entirely, but surfaced in Hugh and Patrick. We bought a cheap set of bat, ball and stumps and I began playing with them in the garden. My neighbour, knowing nothing of my unusual childhood, thought it was strange that I knew the right terminology and the rules, until I told him why! It soon became apparent that both boys were good, though not exceptional. Dad was impressed with Hugh's bowling, and gave him some coaching and much confidence. We joined Devizes Cricket Club, and began the summer routine shared by parents across the land: training sessions one evening a week after school, matches every Sunday. One of the nicest things about playing in Wiltshire is the lovely locations of many of the grounds. Erlestoke in a walled garden nestled beneath the hills: All Cannings at the foot of the downs: Bishop's Cannings down a little country lane: Devizes itself with lovely views, and a ringside seat when the police helicopter took off. Both boys were enthusiastic players with potential: both, surprisingly, bowled left-handed but batted with the right.

Alas, to my Dad's disappointment, their cricketing careers fizzled out. For two consecutive seasons, Hugh didn't play: appendicitis one year, a broken collar bone (diving for a catch!) the next. Then he had back problems and was unable to bowl as fast or as accurately as he once had. Patrick was a good bowler with a rather eccentric action (if not reminded, he tended to throw), but unfortunately the club changed to a more competitive league and the team was rather cliquey: he went for match after match without either batting or bowling, which would sap the enthusiasm of the keenest player, and eventually he gave up altogether. I was sad for them, for I always thought that with better coaching and regular match practice they would both have done well in adult teams, but selfishly didn't miss those long, tedious hours with the Sunday paper, hoping vainly that Patrick would at last be given the chance to shine, or that Hugh wouldn't slog it straight to slip.

And now it's the Ashes again, and it brings back bitter-sweet memories - because exactly four years ago my mother died very suddenly, leaving my dad alone for the first time in his life. In the agonising days between her death and her funeral, the final Test provided a very welcome distraction for my poor father, who did not know what to do with himself. For hours I sat and watched it with him, and in the process learned far more about the finer points, technical and tactical, of what he called 'the beautiful game' than I ever had before. And when, eighteen months later, he gave up the miserable struggle to live without her, I wrote this poem for him in tribute to a true English gentleman, and it was read by my nephew Matt at his funeral:

A GOOD INNINGS

The shadows are long and the day's play has ended,
The last ball bowled to his crease.
But though he is out we remember the glory,
And rejoice that he now has found peace.

He's said his goodbyes and gone home to his wife,
But the pavilion still rings to his name,
How, winning or losing, he always played fair,
And without him it won't be the same.

It's a beautiful game, he said once to us,
And though it was cricket he meant,
His life was the same and he never gave up
Whatever the bowler had sent.

So he's had a good innings, one of the best,
Filled his time with success great and small,
And as we look back at his long happy life,
We salute him with bat and with ball.

If England win this weekend, I'm sure that somewhere, he will be smiling.

I think he is.