Poetry: 51° 30′ N, 0° 25′ E by David Dumouriez

51° 30′ N, 0° 25′ E

Come on, let me take you through my town …

 

where, first, you’ll see the modest sign

(which is, depending on the way you face,

the best or grimmest vision of your life!).

The place I lived - or, rather, pedalled time -

occupies this end of town (but more anon).

To start, you’ll see the polling station.

I voted there three times, picked one of each,

and then retired. What that building is for

99% of every year, I struggle to recall.

That long road opposite is where, aged

eight or nine, I found a quid then ran to ask

a lady if she’d dropped it. Somewhat gruffly,

she replied: “That’s very honest of you. It’s not

mine, though. I think you deserve to keep it.”

So I did!

Keep going on. Spacious road. Used to

walk the dog here. Dear old Buster boy!

Pissed outside each window. Leg went up.

First pool, then trickle, then a drop.

Occasionally a turd, or a long squeeze

of diarrhoea. No pooper scoopers then!

I can still recall that bloke who lived

there on the corner by the postbox.

Looked out his kitchen window just as

Buster signed his name in shite.

We never ran so fast!

Anyway, go on. Several side roads lead

us to my ex-abode. I’ll take the direct one.

Another postbox. Focal point back then.

Not sure now. Some quite large houses

at the top. Mostly never knew the people.

Thought them snobs - they had more ground!

Then a field some called ‘the park’.

It was a field, believe me. Used to have

a goalpost on. No net, mind. Just a leaning

Pisa made of iron, later famous for its rust.

All bordered by some trees that got quite dense,

cut through by railway lines. And opposite

the field, our house, thanks to which I knew what

‘terrace’ meant. One of the first few houses in

a street which started as predominantly

mud, then grew to look not bad till heavy

rains immersed the newer homes.

Well, my father should be in, but I

can take your later if you want -

it’s about our town now, after all -

so we’ll fashion a diagonal across

the field towards the greatest asset

of the place, the station, once of

British Rail (now part of what the

force of greed dictates). From here

you’ll be in London in the hour.

The barriers are automatic now.

Used to be a bloke to pull them up.

Coming home, what larks we had round

there. Slip through or race across the

footbridge. Five hundred times or more.

Just past the station - please look down -

and there’s the creek. A curio, that one.

It’s there but rarely talked of. Just a mini

glut of mud and over it an iron girder

(another rusted brother of the goalposts).

I know a kid who used it as a tightrope.

Then quickly wished he hadn’t.

Let’s wander on. To your right, a path

that’s longer than you think, leading off

to houses thought as fancy; and then,

beyond, an alternative, more leisured

means to where we’ll finally appear.

We’ll take Church Hill instead. You’ll see

why. But you might not be impressed.

I’ll tell you that it seemed much wider,

steeper then! And you can guess it

always twinned with Winnie in our minds.

On the left side, as we rise, you’ll see the

High Street, my greatest memory of which

remains a toyshop of the old and basic kind,

run by a Polish man. And on our right,

just beyond the wall, there’s the graveyard.

Well, it is Church Hill!

As our short climb ends, just stop a sec.

There’s a grave close by. We’d see it on

the way home every night. His name was Alec.

It was a fresh stone then, when we were kids.

We’d give him a casual “Goodnight” and

ruminate sometimes with childish wisdom,

as you do, on all the wheres and whats and mights.

Alec, friend - if I can dare to call you

such - you’ve been there much longer now.

And to the church: that Norman structure,

centrepiece! Nine hundred years and standing.

I recall at nine or ten us schoolkids lining up

outside the door at harvest time. A rumour

travelled down the queue: “If you swear in church,

you die! The old man sends a thunderbolt,

some instant judgement from the sky.”

I look at Al; he looks at me. We’ll have

a taste of that! I never swore so much,

intensively. Half across the threshold

we began to curse, then extra as we

walked towards our pews. And we survived!

But, honestly, you never really knew.

Opposite the church - come on, keep up! -

you’ll see the pub. In any case, the one

I went to most. Looks like they’ve changed

the name, for reasons I don’t know.

It was … alright. We had some entertainment

there for sure. Some lurkers, shirkers.

Assorted boys and girls. I recall a glassing

in the corner. The rest of us just jollied on!

As we do now. There’s the crossing where

my old pal tried to walk straight through

a van. Happily, the van survived.

Keep going down - no, there - and on your

right you’ll see what was the snooker club.

A cinema before my time, then bingo hall,

it changed to coincide with snooker’s

Golden Age. Saw Alex Higgins there.

A short walk up, then on your left what

was (a common theme) the post office,

and opposite (what was) the Tuck Shop.

Overrated that was; never had much stock.

But placed conveniently at least for the

next attraction of our tour - my junior

school of old. Two buildings then,

divided by a narrow road (patrolled

most ably by my classmate’s mother,

Mrs Jones, Our Lady of the Lollipop:

no children maimed or lost). Now half

the school’s not there - sold off, the usual

tale - but in those days one portion was

reserved for younger kids, then in a huge

reverse, devoted to the oldest ones.

I won both times! This was where, first day,

my mother said goodbye, expecting me

to cry, but off I ran without a backward look.

Kids! Kids … the place was full of them!

I started as a mini-man of seven: curious

at this shrieking, darting horde. And soon

I saw I had to dim it down; embrace

the foolishness, adopt some parts of what

I found. Children, they were childish.

I hadn’t thought of that! And what times

we had here, on both sides of the road.

Learning, well, it never was more fun.

New revelations by the day; inside the walls

and out. The staff who gave us hours of their minds;

we kids who grew, unknowingly, each day.

Four years there. When four years seem forever!

Then move on, as we must now. Not so far

down the road. We could turn right and see

the Rec - an area of grass much larger than

you’d guess. There’s rugby there. Football,

where my team conceded twenty-four.

And cricket, where I started off my club

career. But we’ll press on. Though not

before I mention there’s another place

to play, just up and to the right. There’s

tennis, football, bowls and cricket

once again. The home ground of my

second, much more welcome club.

Amazingly, a six-hit from the ground,

exists a house once lived in by another

Pole, an author very far from home.

Our town a minor Heart of Darkness

in itself. He loathed the place and left

inside two years. It intrigued me,

nonetheless, to think that he was there,

and flattered my illusions of a greatness

I felt certain I was born to share.

But if it’s greatness that you seek,

you’ll hope it’s accessed from within,

as where we’re going now by turning left,

my high school, will rip you of ambition

and the force to live. I started in September,

hands raised, exuding hope, but by

November saw it just as five years to survive.

Excepting one or two, the teachers knew

the perfect way to take the wage without

expense of effort, facts, or time.

As excellent as primary had been five

minutes down the road, so this was bad.

We passed our former school a thousand

nights and half of those, I’m sure, we

wished that we were back. Our secondary

teachers, they were rank. The other kids,

chucked in from many other schools, were

here to take their first steps into joblessness

and crime. They were the only ones who

left there qualified. Honestly, the day

that bearded bastard signed my leaving form,

I walked towards the gates and danced.

And, for the record, I don’t dance.

(Of course, I’ll add our parents had

it worse. Their parents worse than that.

That’s progress then! Targets met!)

Departing here, we could go further on.

I had some friends who lived in streets that

led to the adjoining town, but that was

just a distant planet to our little minds!

No, I’d say you’ve viewed it all.

But honestly, you never have. There’s what

you see and what there is: the two don’t

always easily connect! I know it as it was.

I’d struggle in a quiz about it now.

I still go back - once or twice a year.

But soon, soon I know I won’t return.