Autumn Story

In previous years, the horse chestnut tree arching over our roof wasn't on top form, and only yielded a modest sprinkling of fruit amongst the mountains of leaves. Not so this year; unexpectedly we have been treated to a bumper crop of conkers. At irregular intervals throughout the day and night, the tree detonates little bombs of shiny round mahogany nuttiness on our heads. I can't sleep with all the deafening racket, and I fear for the cat, who is happiest playing up on the roof, in the tree's direct firing line.

None of this tempers my joy at the simple fact of conkers. To pick one up, cradle the smug squat oval in your palm and admire its smooth brown skin is to be supremely satisfied. Being born a girl-child in a tropical country meant conkers were only a mythical object, invented by Enid Blyton and Roald Dahl, and I had never held one, much less swung one in a playground, until very recently. To discover that they truly existed was a marvellous revelation. I also discovered that they have been a part of Being English since the dawn of Englishness, and have a magical ability to unite people in appreciation.

As I was sweeping up the debris the tree had strewn over my driveway a few days back, a man with a head of untamed white hair stopped on his way down the cobbled mews in search of milk and the papers, and watched me for a moment. "Well, aren't you going to play conkers this year?", he demanded of me, feigning outrage. I smiled apologetically. He selected one from the pile and pocketed it, almost slyly, before ambling on down the lane.

But the greatest moment of my favourite season happened yesterday. I was woken from an afternoon nap (one of the perks of being a freelancer) by the dim buzz of an excited young voice beneath my window. I realised that I had been hearing the voice through a fog of sleep, and that it must have been there for some time. It belonged to a small boy, in his school uniform, who was standing under the tree and awaiting each plummeting conker in a barely contained frenzy of anticipation. Every time one fell he would dash over, scoop up his prize, and convey it to his mother. This paragon of patience was standing on the pavement with an open Melrose and Morgan bag; Madam, I salute you for being the kind of mother I long to be! Taking my cue from the young boy, I dashed up onto my roof and filled my pockets and hands with as many conkers as I could reach and then descended to the front door. I selected Polite English from the stock of accents (South African, North American/Canadian, Loose London and Polite English) that I use where appropriate in daily life, and went out to hand over my loot. The boy was still young enough to be overcome by a fit of shyness and fling his face into his mother's skirt, but her gratitude and the joy of her offspring made me feel like Santa's Elf and the Tooth Fairy. As they went back up the lane, I realised I have rarely been happier. And, hopefully, there was at least one champion conker in their bag.