Jelly

I must have been about twelve: on the cusp of being old enough to know better. It was about 1983. I was staying with my uncle and aunt in Kent. There were two cousins: Christopher, aged four, and his brother, Edward, younger still.

We were downstairs early one morning, in the kitchen and there were no adults about. There was enough of an age gap to give me a sense of superiority. But it was Christopher who was the more self-assured. He announced that he was going to make jelly, whipped a saucepan from a cupboard, and found a packet of jelly cubes. I seem to recall expressing doubt about his proposed course of action, but was assured that “Mummy lets me”.

Standing on a chair but still barely able to reach, Christopher stood over the hot stove, stirring the melting jelly cubes frantically with a wooden spoon, his brother Edward watching solemnly. I felt a vague sense of unease. There had been some recent episode when young Christopher had set fire to something, hadn’t there?

Suddenly, my aunt, his mother, whisked into the kitchen, in her dressing gown. No doubt she had smelt fumes emerging from the kitchen and come to investigate. Before I could say a word, start apologising for my inadequate supervision of small children, Christopher said sheepishly: “Mummy, I made some jelly by accident.”