Llanito runner-up

‘Anderson House’

By Sophie Macdonald

Cuando yo era chica, hermana y yo nos criamos en Anderson House, adonde el sweet scent de los olive trees se mezcla con el earthy dampness of old limestone walls. Volviendo allí siempre parece, well, surreal. El Calpe is a place adonde la brisa del mar curls around its sun-dappled shutters; it stirs not just the ghosts de los merchants and soldiers that once marched up its winding hills, but las historias de mi familia.

The blurry vignettes, the stories of our childhood, are woven into lo very stones del block. Me acuerdo that we would spend our days peleandono about who could use the piglet’s in our Sylvanian Families set that day, o a quién le tocabar a cantar the lead in a Camp Rock song y hacer recording la otra en la camera. Every afternoon would, inevitably, end in screeches for “MUMM!” cuando una de nosotras wouldn’t get our way. She would tell us, cada vez, que when we grew up to be best friends, we would regret it.

She was right. Pero, these moments, even Anderson House itself, would become a base around which we would grow. Anderson House always seemed to loftily tower over us — to our tiny bodies, it seemed limitless. Shutter after shutter, stories of families were kept firmly, a dentro de sus murallas. But el block became our playground: on rainy days playing con lo scooters en el patio turned into modelling down stairways en el porton. Our walls, stained burgundy by our shutters, glistened con el reflejo del mar. They were the perfect platforms pa our shadow puppet shows. Tambien, rollamos los meblies along the glitter-laden cracks del suelo, much to the disdain de nuestra vecina de abajo. The walls of Anderson House nurtured us; within them, the storied pulse of our childhood beats on, like a silent, steady rhythm woven into las mismas piedras del bloque.

Era de Anderson House que my mama would pick us up para llevarnos a la escuela. We would hold her soft hands, con sus uñas siempre rosas, por todo la cuesta, searching for miniature figurines that peppered lo bannisters on the side of the street leading to Sacred Heart. Along the same road we would venture out con mummy, who, asustada de lo ghosts que hacian haunting lo walls de our home, would have us march down to mama’s house con our blankets, ready for a sleepover. We would give each other knowing looks, both thinking “que loca estaba mummy”. My mama would sit there, waiting for us con galletas marias splayed across her famous mantel, decorated sparsely with outlines of bright lemons and oranges. This time, the look Anna and I gave each other was one of pure joy, thinking “fufff no vea, que bueno!”.

A veces my mama would also come and stay at our house – her protective powers were certain to fight off any ghosts. Or, al mejor era el humor de mi hermana that kept them entertained -- al mejor se sentaban en un círculo, watching her perform, as if she was a stand-up comedian. Durante las noches que my mama se quedaba a dormir en mi casa, the four of us would gather round together pa our nightly prayer. Mi hermana siempre ha sido graciosa, so, claro, tenia que poner su spin on the traditional prayer. Después que my mama finished reciting el sign of the cross, my sister preguntaba a God to “please leave a message after the beep … beeeeep”. Esto ponía my mama histérica – todavía puedo esuchar her sweet, comforting laugh that to sound después del chiste de mi hermana. Similarly, durante las noches que my dad no trabajaba, he would watch episodes de Mr. Bean con nostoro. Anna se chalaba a copiarse del awkward dance de Mr. Bean, where he bursts into disjointed motions, con sus rodillas bent shaprly, hips thrust and arms flailing.

A mis padres le encantaba cuando Anna bailaba asín, especialmente por que, anque ella se sofocaba baliando in private, era notoriously shy in public. Siempre se escondaba under my mum’s long skirts cuando alguien se acercaba a ella. Growing up, siempre fui más alta que mi hermana, y the taller I got, the more she’d hide behind me too. Until she caught up to me. Eventually, she found her feet, con la confianza que me gusta pensar that she gained from the times que que jugamos los tiches — from our times in Anderson House.

It’s stately façade always seemed to protect us in some way: whether it was its shadow protecting us from the hot summer sun after the beach en el patio detrás del block, or the cosy walls de mi casa that helped us develop. Es adonde our sisterhood turned into friendship. Me gusta pensar que, as we got older, I took on that same role for Anna as the House once did. Anna, quien se consolaba escondiéndose detrás de mí, in the same way that we hid at home, nestled together, playing. Ya Anna esta mas major, y ya no vivimos en Anderson House. Pero our childhoods remain warmly wrapped within its walls, y espero que ella sepa que she can always hide behind me if she needs to. Ademas, después de todo, todavía soy un pocito más alta que ella.

Judge’s Comments:

A story that recounts a time that many Gibraltarians will recognise: the childhood games, las galletas Maria, el patio, la mama and the hills of the upper town. The narrative weaves a tapestry that pays homage to Gibraltarian childhood of times gone by. Readers will enjoy the nostalgia: those who were there will remember their own childhood fondly; and those who were not will be transported to a very different time, before smartphones and Netflix.