The Park - In 6 Parts

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Michael G Kimber

The Nightwriter

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The Park
Part One - A place for all

The Park, only fifty yards from my home, was central in my young life; it was at varying times a meeting place, a place to demonstrate ones fearlessness, or ones sporting prowess. As one grew older, it became a place to engage in those first awkward meetings of girl and boy when boisterous play provided an acceptable opportunity to touch; and be touched. For some it became the ultimate place of dreams; a place to fall in love.

At the bottom of the park, a large area was set aside as a play area. Indeed goal posts had been erected, but such was the side to side slope of the pitch, that a wayward kick would often result in a long delay in the game until someone was dispatched to find and collect the ball. Below the pitch was the park boundary, where the slope became so steep that the only way to descend further was to slither and slide (with care) a manoeuvre ending at a road in the valley bottom.

The park therefore was our playground; a place where all the kids from our street, and those from the streets on the other side would meet, where they were separated by natural selection according to their age and activity. One of those invisible factors was to be seen here, for as the years went by, and as we naturally migrated into the next age groups, so the number of girls would increase, until, at the mid or late ‘teens’ level, a kind of equilibrium was established.

Of course the park was a centre of attraction for others beyond the streets bordering it, involving as it did, the wider neighbourhood. Mothers with their children, babies in prams (no push chairs then) and playful older ones. Old folk would walk their dogs or congregate in small groups to talk about matters of national importance, more often than not - football. Many would make their way to the bowling green, to spend a happy afternoon with their contemporaries. Indeed the bowling club was an important institution, and at the week-ends was the venue for many a tense battle of wits between our team and the visitors. Here too the younger and middle aged men (and some young ones) who were working during the week, would endeavour to put the older players in their place, reminding them that ‘bowls’ was not just a game for the ‘old folks’.

The tennis courts however were just the reverse, for here the young men and women were dominant. These were the days when television was in its infancy, and long before the concept of the computer. Engagement in some kind of sporting activity was the norm, and most youngsters were keen to demonstrate their skills, both to their friends, and to kith and kin. For me and for my friend Brian, the tennis court became our battle ground and our theatre. In our mid teens we were strong and fit, agile and energetic, and keen to display our mastery of the game to whoever might have been watching. Keen too to make our mark to gain acceptance in the tennis club, and to win a place in the team. Two factors of the invisible type (previously mentioned) were probably now at work, though even now it is hard to be certain of their order of priority. One was that both Brian and I had been gifted with some talent which allowed us to play the game somewhat better than most of the others youngsters in our community. (I will not put it stronger than that). The other was that by now we had started to suspect that activities on the court with the boys, were not entirely unconnected with our activities off the court with the girls (I will not put it stronger than that). Unfortunately, as this fact is clearer to me now than it was then, I failed to take full advantage of the 'possibilities' it offered.

The park then was an important institution for most people (often I suspect without them fully realising it) during the years following the second world war. It became a meeting place, a social amenity, and a vibrant hub of the community. From the toddlers taking their first shaky steps, to those at the other end of life's journey, some of who's steps were once again just as shaky as the little ones.

Part Two - Any Old Iron

One of those curious early ‘park’ memories that somehow never quite disappears, is of the time when the ornamental gates and railings were removed from the perimeter, to be melted down and turned into guns and tanks during the war. Before that the park was closed at dusk, abandoned to the night, and to the lucky few who were slim enough to squeeze through where a rail had been prized open a little wider, and who (usually just two) had their own reasons for wanting a little privacy.
However, another casualty of this iron and metal gathering, was the bandstand. Situated in the middle of an ornamental garden area below the tennis courts, it had for years been a popular attraction at weekends, and any visiting band could be sure of an appreciative audience. Now, only the eight sided concrete platform remained. Denuded of its pillars and faux oriental top it became a sorry sight. Here the natural slope had been used to advantage, for at its ‘top’ side the bandstand was only a couple of feet higher than the ground, with a wide curved step; and with an open front a good view of the musicians was available to all. At the back there was a much higher drop and a stout rail prevented any bandsman from taking a backward step while enthused by the excitement of his music making, and subsequently being stretchered away. Following the removal of its decorative ironwork, the unprotected open platform required that an over excited tuber player should take a more careful approach. For a little while after the decimation (in the national interest of course) an occasional visit was made by the Salvation Army, and the local Boys Brigade, but eventually that stone and brick platform became an unused relic, until finally it too was removed. Such was the price of war.

Part Three - A leap of faith

When the ornamental railings were removed from the park to supply the ever growing demand for metals for the war effort, one section however was spared; that section at the very bottom of the park below the football pitch, beyond which the land dropped steeply.
Now the slope of the park was, as has been noted, a simple fact, unremarkable, and taken much for granted. At certain points it had been levelled; the tennis courts and the bowling greens for example, and at a point just above the football pitch a large underground storage facility had been built – almost the full width of the park and something to do with the war it was said. It had a flat, grass topped roof somewhat larger than the adjacent football pitch, with steeply sloping bottom and sides. Otherwise, for the most part the topography of the park remained as nature had intended.

At this time in my story no one had heard of global warming, and winters were what winters used to be. Namely cold and snowy, and the year of which I now speak when I was in my early ‘teens’, had been no exception. Generous snowfalls and icy temperatures had provided the right conditions for our usual, excellent, sledge run. It ran down the far side of the park, (as seen from my street) somewhere between the tennis courts and the band stand where the slope was just beginning to be usable, and took an ever steepening route to the bottom of the park ending behind the goalposts. There were however, for those seeking to increase the thrill factor a little, some variations. For the foolish (or those completely without sense or fear) even more variations were also available, some of which bordered on the insane.

     The younger ones of course, and parents with little small children were perfectly content with the unadulterated run near the edge of the park, missing out the ‘extras’. Those a little older might opt to deviate by going over the flat roof of the buried storehouse, and down its steep sloping side before regaining the standard route.
        If even more adrenaline was flowing, instead of ending on the football pitch it was possible as one approached the goal posts to swerve to the right, leaving the park to go down a little lane until one reached a flight of steps down to the valley road below. At this point the track swung right again, levelling out on a path at the top of a ridge, bringing the run to an end. But the final leap into the unknown, for that is what it seemed to be, was for the brave or those completely devoid of sense, to go down those seventy odd snow filled stone steps at full pelt, hoping that if they remained the right way up when they hit the bottom, there was no traffic on the road.
     Did I say that was the final act of madness? For most, yes. But there was one additional variation that took senselessness to an even greater level, and here I refer, again, to the railings. As already mentioned, the slope below the football pitch on the other side of the railings fell away steeply until it almost assumed the status of a cliff. In any event there was a very steep descent to the road in the valley. Presumably the rail had been left in place as a safety measure, but the wild and rough terrain behind it was too much of an attraction for the local kids to ignore, not to mention some of the older ones, who had developed other interests, but had by now lost the night-time privacy of the park. As a result some of the bars had been bent to allow access, and indeed, some of them had been removed completely. A case in point was near the end of the ‘normal’ sledge run, where most of the riders stopped. This however was the point where others chose to head for the steps, or chance their luck with the ultimate surge by shooting the drop from the football pitch straight at the railings. Here, at one particular point, a number of rails had been removed, leaving just enough space to accommodate a sledge and its rider travelling at high speed. Beyond the rail it was very rough, steep and bumpy, littered with shrubs and small trees before it fell away completely. Many were those who may have wished that they had not tried their luck one time too many, for inevitably there were casualties, and some who made it through the gap came to grief in the rough scrub beyond. But those who made it had to immediately negotiate a sharp right-hander through another hole, this time in a stone wall, in order to regain the path at the top of the steps. This was below the safe option of the ridge, and the only way to go was via a frighteningly sharp left-hander which took them recklessly and bumpily down the steps to the road.

It has to be said that those who made that particular trip, returned with either a distinctly dreamy expression, and were no doubt feted by their friends, or a look of real horror. There were also, and inevitably, unsuccessful attempts, and many a lad woke up in hospital.

Despite my sometimes foolhardy attitude to risk taking I was never certain whether I had too much sense never to try it, or whether I was simply not brave enough. There was of course peer pressure, and words like ‘chicken’ and ‘coward’ to be endured, but I was not alone, and somehow managed to live with the jibes from those who had survived the ultimate challenge.

One day however, I found out what it was like not to survive that particular test. Though normally the run would be done lying face down on the sledge, on this occasion, for reasons which I no longer remember, I was sitting upright, and carrying as a passenger my friend Brian. This run should have ended at the near the goal posts, but somehow I lost control. Perhaps it was the unaccustomed upright position; the extra weight; or maybe a combination of the two. Suffice it to say that instead of stopping in time, we went over the top. Now, had it been my intension to ‘shoot the gap’ I would have picked the correct line, but in fact I was several yards to one side. We hit the railings very hard and came to a sudden stop. I was completely winded, my arms and legs poking through I must have been a comical sight.But if that were not enough my head was painfully wedged between two rails, where the added force of a passenger behind me had tried to drive it through.

I am told that I never made a sound, but of that I cannot vouch. No doubt lack of breath had something to do with it, though perhaps surprisingly my memory of the event is based more on the account of others than of my own. My injuries were not as serious as they might have been, and not long lasting despite the difficulty of extricating my head. I did have to be carried home and was ‘out of action’ for a week or two, by which time the transient snow was gone. In any event it was the end of my sledging for that winter, and, truth to tell, did nothing to revive my enthusiasm in the winters that followed.

Part Four - The Tree in the Park

As a youngster my attitude to danger was ambiguous. I did not for instance like fighting, and would avoid physical conflict wherever possible. It was not a fear of getting hurt, for I was a rough and tumble lad and would often take risks, or engage in activities which resulted in cuts and bruises, though not, I am pleased to say, broken bones.
      I recall one occasion during one of my rare fights that I contrived to put my antagonist’s jaw out of place. ( Even I couldn’t avoid them altogether) It was I guess a lucky blow for I think few would have judged my fighting technique to be not much better than scrappy, if not laughable, depending on their generosity of spirit. But though I remember being somewhat worried that I might have got into trouble over the incident, but I also more concerned and genuinely sorry for the injury I had caused.
      Perhaps my lack of fear in other things was a kind of alternative for my somewhat diminutive fighting spirit. I would jump the stream where my friends would not, and though usually successful would not care too much if occasionally I fell into the water. I could climb a wall that was too much for the others, even though now and again I might suffer the consequences if it turned out to be too much for me as well. As for trees, they were my favourite challenge, and I would tackle them all, and usually reach the highest branches.
      And that leads me nicely into another memory; another episode in the park from those far off days.
        There came, perhaps inevitably, what in retrospect I can call my 'High Noon' moment. That was the time when a new kid came onto the scene and somehow let it be known that he was better climber of trees than me. A contest was arranged; but by who I have no recollection, and with the arrogance of youth neither do I remember being bothered by the challenge.
       Well it happened that at the bottom of the park overlooking the football pitch was a poplar tree. Particularly tall and strait it was, but it's main feature was that about halfway up it split into two branches of equal girth and height, neither outdoing the other in their determination to reach the sky. This was to be our arena, and subsequently we started our climb, he on one trunk and me on the other. The first part of the climb up our respective sides was easy, but eventually we reached the higher levels where our weight was beginning to cause the ever thinning trunk to lean. Neither of us however was willing to give up, and as we inched higher, the amount of bend became greater until we were both hanging clear of the body of the tree which until then had afforded us a degree of protection. But no much longer? A fall now, either from loosing ones grip or the top of the tree breaking, would have been a serious if not fatal matter, but still we would not give in. Shouts from our supporters below encouraged our efforts, but they could not tell if either of us had gained an advantage. Further progress however was becoming very difficult, and very dangerous. Even we two climbers were beginning to appreciate the delicacy of our situation.
      How the contest would have resolved itself I will never know, but fate intervened in the shape of the park keeper, and the local 'bobby', alerted by a concerned resident from one of the nearby houses. The policeman, still holding on to his bicycle, demanded our immediate descent. Reluctantly, though I suspect with some relief, we complied, neither of us having conceded defeat, but neither claiming victory. An honourable draw I suppose, though when the news of my exploit reached my parents, courtesy of the ‘bobby’, I was left in no doubt that whatever I might have thought of my attempt to satisfy my honour, my only acquisition was one of stupidity.
        I did however have cause for some quiet satisfaction, for I cannot recall ever seeing my rival again.
        One further observation is perhaps appropriate. My cavalier attitude did not last beyond my ‘teens’ and common sense did prevail. Now, half a lifetime later, two steps up a ladder is about all the excitement I can take.

Part Five - The Pied Piper

There was a staff of four or five regular workers in the Park Keepers little empire; gardeners mainly, and one who duties brought him in to contact with me. He was Harold. In appearance he was stocky and rather short. I knew nothing of his background, and when I first knew him aged about seven or eight, I would be unaware that there were 'things to know' about people. But with the passage of time it became clear to me, and to then my teenage pals, that this was a man to be reckoned with. Harold, who seemed to us young ones to be very old and wise, looked after the bowls and the tennis. As one with a modest interest in the former, and a developing passion for the latter, I saw much of him.
He liked to talk, and he did so in a story telling manner, a new phenomenon for me and my friends, though I think we were not quite aware of it at the time. He always seemed able to find something new to tell us, never seeming to tell the same story twice. He had (he told us) been away in the war, and (he told us) had seen action. Many were the tales he told of daring do, deeds of adventure and exciting escapades. He had also, (he told us) been in the merchant navy, had sailed around the world, and would describe the places and the people he had seen. But often his tales were about his own young life, and about his adventures when he had been our age. He was a quiet man, and told his tales without obvious embellishment (as far as it was possible for a small band of wide eyed youths to tell), and with an assured way that left us with no reason to doubt him. In retrospect I think it more likely that he was simply entertaining us and that much of what he told us was invention.
In a manner of speaking he was our own version of the Pied Piper but with none of the 'Grim' brothers evil intent. He told his stories as he went about his business, followed usually by a small group of young people bound for the green or the courts, all listening intently to his stories. Sometimes he would sit and chat to the younger ones as they played. Indeed, such was his ease with his young admirers that I can recall times when he was followed by groups of laughing children as he strolled between his points of duty.

It is a sad reflection of the times in which we now live, that a man of his years who had such influence over a youthful flock would be viewed with suspicion and no doubt would be visited by the law. But I say now with as much conviction as I can, that probably the only thing he was guilty of was a degree of artistic licence, a mischievous sense of fun, and and a vivid - if imaginative - memory.

     One other thing. He wore an old flattened trilby hat, perched on the top of his head. In retrospect I suspect it was one or two sizes too small, but come summer or winter I never saw him without it.
      While I am looking back, another thought occurs. I think it is fair to say that he left me with some sound though unspoken advise. Who can foresee what might be, but it was always there in his tales. Only now, in this latter stage of my life when I struggle to be the story teller that he so plainly was, that the significance of that unspoken advice can be understood. Put simply, it is this. “If you are going to tell a story, tell it as well as you can.”
     Unlike his hat, his stories were never a size too small.

Part Six - A Place Of Dreams

The park was looked after with pride and dedication by the Park Keeper who lived 'on site' in the big house by the main gates. His passion was the bowling green which was, to coin a phrase, as smooth as a billiard table. It was his pride and joy and won him many a trophy. It says something of the man however, that he applied the same degree of attention to everything in his care in order that the park a place where people wanted to be. The flower beds were always a pleasure to see; the extensive grass areas were cut regularly and edges trimmed; fences and hedges maintained, and he, along with his staff, always polite and cheerful.
More than that he had a daughter. She was a good few years older than me and very pretty, and by the time I was into my ‘teens’ she was a young but very grown up woman. As a regular park user I had seen her many times, and in my immature way I witnessed and wondered at, her magical transition from the young girl I first knew, into a young woman. The fact that I thought she was particularly beautiful no doubt figured in my attraction, but it was she who awakened in me the first stirrings of sexual attraction. Unaware as I was of what it was all about, I nevertheless used to feel slightly breathless whenever I saw her. Then came one of first blows in my young life. I heard that she was getting married. Married? How could she? Such a thing had never occurred to me. Didn’t she care? Didn’t she know that I was in love?

So ends this brief homily to the park. Not just 'my' park, for I am sure that those of you of a certain age will have similar memories of your park. The Park; a place for all, whether it was for adventure or telling stories; showing off or learning something about life. Where everyone had something to do, even if it was only to sit and dream of the days gone by. Where whatever age or background there was always something to say, and something to be proud of.
Sadly I fear those days will never come again.

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