My Charlie

Is My Charlie coming soon?

He’ll be down the allotment,

Digging up the leeks.

He’s won prizes for them, you know,

and his marrows - you should see them,

Big as your arm! I stuff them with mince and onions

The way my mother taught me,

and we always have left-overs.

Is that my Charlie now? He’s a great man, my Charlie.

Treats me like royalty, nothing’s too much trouble.

D’you know he calls me Queenie?

Short for Queen Bess. He’s the only one as does that,

I’m Elizabeth to everyone else.

He’ll come soon, I know it, and then you’ll see.

Is he here yet? My Charlie?

I bet he’s down the allotment, picking strawberries

For supper. He’s famous for his strawbs – such plump

ripe fruit, we eat them straight from the basket,

Red juice dripping down our chins,

No need for sugar and cream.

He’s won prizes for his… what are they called,

The long green ones, I forget.

He got a blue rosette at the garden festival,

Got it from the Mayor, he did.

I was that proud!

My Charlie, where is he? Do you know?

He said he’d be back in time for tea,

I’m making his favourite – cottage pie

With peas from the allotment.

He’s got green fingers, my Charlie,

And green thumbs too,

With dirt under the nails

But I don’t pay that no mind.

He scrubs up well for Sunday lunch

When the kids come round

And the house is filled with laughter.

Oh where is my Charlie? I need him now,

It’s getting dark, I know he should be here.

He never lets me go to bed without a kiss

On the forehead,

“G’night, Queenie my love,” he’ll say

and squeeze my shoulders with those big hands

With the dirt under his nails.

It’s late, and I don’t want cocoa,

Or to watch the telly with the other old biddies.

I want my Charlie!

Where’s my Charlie?