As a child, I lived in Maida Vale, and went to nursery school a short walk away from our apartment. Although we moved out of the city when I was five years old, I have a lot of memories from living in London. But today one rose up out of nowhere, one that it seems I had all but forgotten. As I said, nursery was a short walk from home, and so every day I would be walked to and from it, sometimes by my mother, occasionally my father, but usually my nanny. I can't remember how old I was when this happened. I can usually judge by picturing my brother or sister in the memory and guessing, but here, I'm not even sure which of them was with me at the time. There was a pram. We had a double-buggy, so it could have been both of them. My sister would have been one at the most, and my brother three, if they were there. They must have been. But if they were that old, perhaps I'd have been at school already. Was it really nursery we were walking back from?
Between the nursery and our flat was a corner shop, and outside the shop was where it happened. We were with my nanny, I think. I can't picture her face, I can't tell you which one. Maybe we weren't; maybe we were with my mother. It wasn't my dad, in any case. Definitely not.
She'd gone in to the shop for something. At first I thought it might have been ice lollies. But I remember looking at a poster for Opal Fruits lollies in the shop window as we waited, and that might be why I thought that. I think it was a sunny day. I was standing facing the shop and the buggy was in front of me. I can't picture my brother or sister, because they were hidden from view. But they must have been there.
This is what happened. A large, metal grate was propped up against the shop front. The kind some shops put against windows when they're closed, a metal frame with rigid criss-crossed wires. Without warning, it fell. It fell, and in my memory, it was going to land on the buggy, but I caught it. I was five at most and must have been tiny, my arms were weak, so I couldn't completely stop the momentum, and it landed against my shoulder. I remember struggling with it, trying to keep it from slipping down onto the buggy and hurting my siblings. I can't remember if I cried for help but soon my nanny rushed out (definitely my nanny) and pulled it off me. I think she shouted at the shopkeeper. But I could be wrong.
I don't know if it really would have hit my brother or sister, but in my adult mind, as I replay the scene, the damage would have been fatal had it done so. But as a child the grate would have appeared much bigger, much more capable of harm. My memories are all cluttered and unclear.
But I'm certain it happened, because I remember touching the welt on my shoulder and feeling it sting. It was red and yellow and purple and a piece of skin was slightly peeling away. That is the part I remember the most. Part of me wants to ask my mother about it; if she was there, perhaps she'd remember. Part of me fears that it never happened at all.
The dregs of childhood memory swill around in the bottom of my mind. Some of these, clearer than the others, stand out. I consider them to be certainties, and I believe that as experiences, they helped to form me as a person. What if someone were to turn around and tell me they weren't true? How would that feel? Confusing, at best. Debilitating at worst.
Looking at photographs of ourselves as children, we remember, perhaps, that particular trip to the beach, or that particular birthday or that particular t-shirt. But are we really remembering? Think about it. Do you remember the photo being taken? Did you say 'cheese'? Is your smile real or fake? Who took the photo?
You feel lost now, don't you.
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