First of April.
First birthday.
First grandchild.
Generations were squeezed into the tiny living room of the second floor flat; grannies, great aunts, uncles, aunties, cousins and even one or two neighbours.
The wean, not long wakened from his afternoon nap, was passed from lap to lap, accepting cuddles and giving out damp kisses. He smelled of baby shampoo. His hair was slicked up into a single curl. His rosy apple cheeks reflected the colour of his red and white sailor suit.
In his new navy leather Clark’s sandals, he balanced a little unsteadily against the low coffee table where his Granny Chrissie placed the birthday cake she had carefully crafted.
And what a cake!
A virtual merry-go-round!
A large stick of pink rock protruded from the centre of the creamy fudge icing which was embellished with toffee coloured swirls. Attached to the rock were glittering streamers of brightly coloured gift ribbon which descended to the margins of the plate, held down by tiny toys.
Murmurs of admiration trickled round the room. Cameras clicked, recording the event for posterity.
Using a long match, Dad lit the single candle. A chorus of “Happy Birthday” accompanied the wean’s first effort to blow out the candle.
Unfortunately, the candle did not go out at the first puff of breath but set light to the ribbons. Black blobs of melting ribbon dropped on the pale icing. The room filled with acrid smoke and noise as everyone called out helpful suggestions.
The wean began to cry.
One sensible adult dived into the kitchen and returned with a damp dish cloth which he slapped unceremoniously over the cake.
Drama over, the damaged icing was scraped off. The spongy cake was sliced and handed round accompanied by cups of strong tea.
As the wean played happily with the wrapping paper from his presents, the family tucked the afternoon into their memory boxes, to be savoured again and again as the anniversary returned.