I have recently been tasked regarding
the vow I made never to return to my home village. With
my present fuzzy brain I’m not sure if it came from a friend
or via an email from a reader of the book.
This far into the future it’s tricky to
explain the emotion of those long ago days, plus it wasn’t
so much a single event that led to the vow, rather it was
a series of them, like some bitter layer cake, one rancid
slice on top of another, on top of another ... Also, I believe
I was almost as much disillusioned with the whole country
as with my little corner of it.
Let’s go back - I was (I think) 18 years
old and had been serving in the Navy for over a year and
as I was between ships, thought I would pay a visit to the
old stamping ground. My parents were dead, the old house
had gone and brothers and sister had scattered; they didn’t
like me very much, so letters, cards and phone calls just
never happened.
Midshipmen aren’t exactly overpaid (2 pound 10 shillings
a week - of which you had to save 10 shilling) so I took
the train down to Oxted (2nd class) where Dickie Warner
would pick me up in his derelict banger of a car.
It was a cold, damp December afternoon when I disembarked
onto the platform, strange, this was the same platform from
which, under the magical sunshine of youth, I had spent
untold hours as a train spotter and by the time I was 11,
was sometimes allowed to drive the old ‘2 - 4 - 2’ steamer
between Oxted and Hurst Green Halt.
Now the engine was a diesel, no hissing steam, no smell
of coal dust and oil, no old man ‘Steptoe’ leaning out of
the cab with a coal dust sprinkled cheese sandwich in his
hand and blackened face split by that huge grin of his.
Now there was just a quiet click of closing doors, a quarter
second toot of the electric horn and the train slid away
... Where was the fanfare, where was the excitement, where
was the panache... ?
Dickie was still the same, a ready humour
hiding behind a quiet disposition. He had joined his father
in their little handyman service company ‘Warner & Warner’
Plumbers, Carpenters, Electricians, Gardeners. The fact
that they had not even one qualification between them didn’t
seem to disturb them, or their many customers, in the slightest
... but they were on borrowed time.
The thing that I really remember about that day was the
silence between us, few words were spoken it was enough
that the old twosome were back together again.
Dickie first drove me to where the old house had stood.
God it was awful. The socialist driven council had grabbed
the land and turned it into one of those drab, grey, soulless
council housing estates - cheap rentals for people that
deserved them (yes I am being a snob). Where the orchard
had stood and where I had found Rodney the Fox, was a sort
of cemented square with blocks of housing units around it,
one and two bedroom boxes that would form the slums of tomorrow.
The residents of these boxes would never know that on the
spot where they now existed (I won’t say lived as that implies
more than they were), once a succession of grand houses
had stood. From these houses, great plans had been hatched,
armies had gathered to journey to far off battles from Darkest
Africa and the Far East to the Americas - and The Families
had presided over the land and brought order to chaos.
There was a glaringly lit cement block of a corner store
occupying one corner of the square and although only a few
years old the windows had already been sufficiently neglected
to become less than clean with grime showing in every corner,
still the grime matched the faces of those people hanging
around, seemingly without purpose, eyes without interest,
hiding personas with no will to learn, no dreams to stir
them on to larger things ... I was pleased to get back into
the car, I didn’t belong here.
We drove back to Oxted; the heavy grey
sky was now sprinkling the land with a few large snowflakes
but as yet, not sufficient to put a covering over the brittle
grass and frozen soil. I was interested to see how the memorial
park was faring now that my family had gone. This small
park was attached to the village green and although not
large, had, a hundred and ninety years earlier, been well
designed to give shade in summer and some rain protection
in winter. A small path wound its way between a combination
of trees and shrubs, interspersed by small areas of flowers,
allowed to grow wild. In the centre were a small pond and
a memorial to all these ‘Of The Village’, that had fallen
in, mostly long forgotten, wars. This land had been a gift,
from my family, to the village and they had paid to have
it developed and for the memorial, it was a ‘grand’ little
place that oozed a sense of peace and tranquility.
When we got there I understood why Dickie had been so quiet,
the park was gone and in its place was a revolting ugly,
new Council Offices block. To make matters worse this disgrace
to the eye even had a sign naming it after the present Mayor,
a seedy, skinny, spivvy type who made his money in selling
kitchen appliances, such as they were back then, this income
he supplemented by being a collector for the Prudential
Insurance Company. He often had a cigarette dangling from
the side of his mouth and the skills required to properly
wear a tie seemed quite beyond him.
A small plaque had shown that the park was named after the
family that had donated and built it, that plaque had gone
but Dickie showed me where it was, sitting on a pile of
rubble ready to be hauled off to the tip.
In the evening (although it’s pitch dark
by 4.00pm) we drove to the ‘Old Bell’ pub for dinner. Even
here the day didn’t see any joy. A local man spotted me
and started making comments (loud enough for me to hear)
about how good it was that the old ‘poncy’ families had
all gone "And good riddance too". Finally I had, had enough
and getting up politely asked him to take back what he said
and apologize. This, he refused to do, having obtained courage
from a few beers and a couple of mates at his back: so,
I just had to break his nose, there was really no alternative.
I think the thing that really irked me was that there were
quite a few of the older villagers about and none could
meet my eye. I think it was in that second of time that
I realised that all that had been ... was now gone.
We left that pub and drove to another ‘The Diamond’ here
the old landlord greeted us with open arms and the more
‘farm type folk’ gave a friendly nod and a wink. At ten
minutes to ten of the clock the call ‘Time Gentle Please’
rang out, announcing that it was time to close up for the
night.
Next morning, after a huge breakfast cooked
by Dickie’s mother, we drove up to our old look-out place
high on the side of the downs. I hate to think how many
hours as kids we had wasted sitting up here looking out
over the countryside. From here you could see a world just
big enough for children, Darkmere Wood, with its haunted
centre. Stafford’s Wood which still hid away our old railway
station and from where, on that special day, I had come
with Carole and the others, before our last night of that
last wonderful summer holiday. The Chalk Quarry itself where
we had tunneled to the centre of the world and fought monsters
that only lived at the world’s core. Oaks Corner where we
had gathered bonfire wood for the 5th of November celebrations.
Gallows Crossroads, so haunted that we never (except once)
went after dark, what a night that was.
Overnight, snow had softened all the ridges and contours,
I wished it could have been a summer’s day for my departure,
but there again, perhaps, the chill was more fitting, for
me sunshine had gone from this place.
In my mind I could hear the words from the previous night
‘Time gentlemen please’. Yes, it was time to shut up shop,
there was nothing left to buy in this place.
Dickie drove me to the station but didn’t
wait to see me off, I think we both knew that this was our
last parting and stretching it out was pointless. However,
there was one last surprise. Sitting on the bench outside
of the waiting room was an old man that I recognised. It
was Mr Cooper the old, now retired, Station Master. Sitting
down I said Hello and turning to me he said. "Well master
Frank, I guess you be a goin’ now and that’s probably a
good thing, nowt left around here for the likes of us".
As the train slithered into the platform and squeaked to
halt I shook his hand and boarded. The ingratitude and sheer
bloody meanness of the place had overwhelmed me and I resolved
never to come back ... and I never did.
Three days later Dickie phoned me to say that Mr. Cooper
had died, it was almost as if he had been waiting to say
goodbye to someone from ... back when.
I learned over the years that there would always be a voice
waiting in the shadows of time to again whisper that same
dreadful announcement ... ‘Time gentlemen please’.
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