Lost In Acacia Avenue (And Twice At That)

Natalie Robinson suddenly became extremely popular, which must have felt odd to her. She wasn't by any definition a sensual beauty – but, she came apparently, from a family big on naturism.
Once that news spread around the playground, everyone wanted to go visit Natalie. Well, everyone, like me, who happened to be a boy. She asked me if I'd like to come to the Robinson family sports day the following Sunday, by an odd coincidence, and, given my penchant for competition - I was happy to accept. Acacia Avenue and the Robinson homestead were on my paper round, and with the revelation of rampant nudism in the leafy suburbs all of those funny-looking magazines I had delivered there made sense.
On the Sunday morning I found my cricket bat, the one I'd last used to notch up two hundred and sixty-eight not out in one of the all-time classic backyard knocks. In England we never adopted the six-and-out philosophy. I loved that bat, the way it felt, smelled even, and despite the grip being repaired with tape and the split at the bottom, I still felt reasonably confident about setting a new record at the Robinson's Sunday sports. With the bat wedged across the bike's handlebars I set off to Acacia Avenue, with little thought of nudism on my stupid mind. I mean, any sensible kid cycling to a nudist's house with a cricket bat might have paused to ponder the wisdom of being bowled a googly by a butt-naked middle-aged man. But not me. I hadn't even dwelled on the prospect of a naked Natalie at first slip, or a wobbling Mrs Robinson in all her Sunday glory fielding in deep mid-on. Hell no, all that was lobbing around my head was the thought of yet another glorious century, maybe more. I was never one to walk on dubious appeals or because the fielders were dog-whipped.
Everything looked reasonably ordinary upon my arrival. I mean, no one was down to the bare essentials. Mr Robinson, in his Panama hat and shorts, was carefully mowing the front lawn, an impressive sweep of well-kept grass. A kid like me could do a lot of damage on a lawn like this one. Mr Robinson waved happily to me; the poor fool, within an hour or so that guy would be close to cardiac arrest lumbering to and fro in pursuit of my big hits. I waved back, cheerily.
I had the bat slung over one shoulder as I stood in the cool of the porch – the porch I knew well, you recall, due to my early morning exertions. Mrs Robinson appeared. She was pretty fit for a housewife with more time on her hands than God. She told me to go around the side, through 'gnome-alley' to the back garden where I’d find Natalie and her sister and brother. Uhm, two more fielders more than I'd envisaged, best to stick to the sweep early on in the innings.
Natalie smiled at me as I emerged into the hazy, liquid sunshine of a late spring Sunday afternoon in England. It was one hell of a spread, one of those Country Life gardens; all well-clipped and lovingly raked. But not the ideal ground to play cricket on, not with all those immaculate borders, rose bushes, ornaments, ponds, hedges and god knows what else lurking beyond. As soon as I sat down at the table I could tell that the Robinsons weren't intimately acquainted with visitation protocols. For a start, the boy, who I didn't recognise, was still in his jimmies. The sister, who I guessed was older than Natalie, was shovelling jam into her mouth with her podgy fingers, straight from the jar. The sister was hauling a lot of unnecessary weight and not only that, she dribbled. Maybe Natalie had been the only sibling judged sane enough to attend school?
The boy, whose name turned out to be Crispen, had never seen a cricket bat before. I was both surprised and delighted, this would be like taking rusks from a teething babba. The sister, Ruth, just carried on shovelling in the preserve. Mrs Robinson came out carrying a tray of glasses and a stack of cookies. I smiled politely while she scolded Ruth over the jam-gorging and told Crispen to hurry up and get himself washed and brushed. I had heard about washing, but brushing was a new one, god forbid that Crispen was some kind of wolf-child. Mrs Robinson asked me a few test questions, digging around to see, I suppose, if my true motive for attendance lay in manhandling her only normal offspring. Satisfied with my answers she made haste to the cook pot. I had no idea what to say to Natalie and thankfully she asked if I wanted to see the gardens – she pluralised the offer. Sure. I said, and off we set.
Natalie knew a lot about plants. Too much probably for my liking, but I humoured her, feigning interest in variegated leaves, climbers, ramblers, annuals, perennials and every other kind of green thing backyard horticulturalists swoon over. At the bottom of the garden was the orchard and strange little huts buzzing with activity that Natalie explained were beehives. How very English, I thought, cricket, bees, apples, cut grass, eccentric parents and fruit-loopy kids sheltered from the real world beyond the long and winding gravel driveway. By the time we got back to the small patio, Crispen had washed, and, I suppose, someone had groomed his body fur. Ruth had been taken around to the side hose to have her sticky fingers cleaned. Mr Robinson was now sitting at the garden setting eagerly reading some magazine with butterflies on the cover, oohing and ahhing over the centre-spread. Mrs Robinson arrived wearing one of those English country-wife aprons that English country wives wear in magazines; even though this wasn't technically the country it was far enough out to be considered semi-rural. England is a small place.
Mrs Robinson had nothing on under her apron, other than her skin. Hello, I thought, this isn't so bad after all, and who really cares whether Natalie feels in the mood for nakedness or not? Given that Mummsie obviously does. As Mrs Robinson bent to re-fill my glass with homemade lemonade, one of her mammary glands slipped loose its mooring and stared me straight in the face, nipple first.
Is it time for honey, mother? Mr Lepidopterist enquired breezily. Ruth, the sweet-toothed junkie, slobbered at the mention of fresh nectar, like my granddad's boxer. Dog-boy bared his teeth. Natalie just smiled at me, a tad unevenly I noticed. The nipple was, by now, almost upon my lips, like an invading wart.
Do you like honey? Mummsie asked me.
Yes, I replied, trance-like.
Me too! cried Ruth, as slobber splattered everywhere.
Oh, I see you brought your stick! Mother said, but before I could answer, she had added – And oh my, isn't it far too warm to be bothered with an itchy apron? And off it came, her thin modesty. She carried on as if nothing untoward had occurred, telling me that my stick was the queerest looking croquet mallet she'd ever seen.
A few moments later Mr Robinson appeared attired in sandals, big red gloves, and a hat with netting on it that dropped below his chin. Apart from that he was swinging low. Off he marched in the direction of the bees. It seemed strange to me that a man would go to the bother of hand and face protection when his goods were free and easy . . . but I had no time to dwell on the horror. Mrs Robinson was back with rock cakes; I felt something odd in my gut, and something odder in my loins – perhaps I had brought a croquet stick after all. We four kids ate in silence, waiting for screams of agony from somewhere near the beehives. Mrs Robinson fussed about us as I tried to keep focused on Natalie, not her over-proud mother. Though, by god, it was a fraught task.
The only people who wanted to partake of naked croquet were Mr and Mrs Robinson. They set about banging little hoops into the ground here and there, then giddily got out the mallets and ball and began playing with each other. I had decided to slip away between rubbers, or chukkas, or humps, or whatever it is croquet players play . . . Natalie walked me around to the front garden, in silence.
Do your folks get up to this kind of thing all the time? I asked her, as I mounted my bike. Which, given the circumstances, was the only thing I was ikely to mount today.
Uh huh, she replied, glumly.
Do you? I asked, slipping my bat between the handlebars.
With my mother always in attendance? she answered. I saw her point.
I liked our back garden. It was rustic in places, well-worn in others. My dad mowed the lawn with his clothes on and my mother never served homemade lemonade, either dressed or naked. We didn't have beehives, gnomes, ornamental water pumps, cart-wheels, or a croquet set. I live a normal life, I realised. I don't need to know, right now, what birds, bees or the Robinsons on Acacia Avenue do for kicks; all I need to know right now is who is playing wicketkeeper.
It was several months later, some ways into the frosty throes of an ever-lingering English winter, when I again found myself on Acacia Avenue through no other reason but boredom. Summer, with its cricket, insect life and naturists had vamoosed, and, all we had left were bare trees and frozen sods. I'd thought about Natalie a lot, over the preceding months, of how awful it must be being burdened with parental units mad to shed their kit at the drop of a serviette. Perhaps in my own practical way, I could bring Natalie back into the pulsating world of normal childhood and, into the bargain, be rewarded for my efforts with something more substantial than a peck on the cheek. I rode up the crunchy driveway on my trusty bike, dismounted and rang the doorbell, the one that played Greensleeves. How odd I hadn't noticed it before?
Mrs Robinson answered, attired in her flimsy Sunday finery. Oh my! She exclaimed excitedly, as she all but yanked me into the warm confines of her glorious mansion. I began to sweat immediately, given that I was, after all, dressed for the season at hand. The family immediately gathered around me, like ghouls. Things had obviously slid a tad further since the last days of summer and the last pot of honey. Under any circumstance my tolerance for groping hosts is mild at best – but, I had after all, come of my own accord and thus, within a matter of minutes several sets of nimble fingers had successfully removed my coat, mittens, hat, scarf and extra pullover. It was when one of those sets of fingers reached for the belt buckle that I immediately drew a line in the sand, or, on the shag if you will. In all of the ceremonial welcoming rituals and de-clothing customs I had all but overlooked the fact that Mr Robinson was wearing slippers. And, nothing else. The wolf-child Crispen wasn't so far behind in coming forward either, though at least he had had the common decency to keep his Wombles underpants on. As my eyes adjusted to the strange, fallow light, that barely-radiated at all within the Robinson house of wax, I began to realize that even Ruth, and, dear god, Natalie herself, were in the various-states-of-undress situation themselves. I had mistakenly presumed that with the onset of an English winter, the Robinsons might refrain from nudity for the sake of frostbite at least. But no, the whole lot of them were still going at it hard behind the tightly-drawn velvet curtains. Harder in fact.
That was about when I saw the Twister mat layed out on the Axminster. Oh dear Lord, what on earth had I stumbled into this time? Do you know Twister? Mrs R asked gaily.
I had no heart to tell her I had three American cousins who always brought me great American inventions like the Frisbee, the Hoola Hoop and the Pitch and Mitt. That indeed, along with Parcheesi, I was somewhat renowned for my Twister cunning and elasticity. No. I told her.
Obviously they'd bent the rules of what was, by design, a wholesome family game, into something far more underhand and slippery. Oh come on! It's such great fun, isn't it mumsie! Natalia chivvied me. I was sure it was, strip-Twister, in a certain time, place, and with the whole healthy Garden-of-Eden thing forefront in the two player's minds. But not, when it was being played out by an extended family of clothes-discarders. I bade my leave, as was, and still is in fact, my way.
Naturally, or, should I say nature-ally, they were sorry to see me go so soon. That was the second time I rode home from the shennanigans of Acacia Avenue stumped for thoughts, let alone words. In my house we never played Twister, and that, was a definite bonus. Twister, unlike backyard cricket I might add, involves close physical contact with your nearest and dearest and that kind of gig was never something we English had taken to. But, like I've said, I had played Twister on the odd occasion – in the backyard tepee of my aunt June's with her three, supple daughters and their varying stages of development. To play games of any nature, whether sensibly attired or down to the gizzards as it were, there has to be some kind of positive spin-off.
I asked Mr Lampfrey, the newsagent of long-standing, to take me off the Acacia Avenue paper-delivery route, even though they tipped generously up around those parts at yuletide. He must have known something too; as he merely sighed and re-assigned me to another patch.