Thursday, 4 October 2012
Stealing into Winter
In case you have missed this, get over to Amazon and see what a fine book this is and what a wonderful reception it has had.
Friday, 1 June 2012
Stealing into Winter
Tuesday, 3 January 2012
The Woman On The Bridge
I
The silence sang. Vast, absolute, compressed beneath the weight of a hot summer sky, the silence sang. Alone in the wide shallow valley, standing on the narrow, raised strip of pebble rich concrete, she listened.
Every time the express had passed through the halt on the voyage out, she had promised herself that she would, one day, take a local train and alight.
Since the train had vanished in the temporal haze, the only movement was the flow of heated air rising from the platform. The languid currents caressed her face with stale fingers.
Dazed, she turned and sought shade, walking along the platform toward the old, pre-cast concrete footbridge. The steel rails shone, spearing the the world beyond to this point. The shimmering distance was heavy with time and the immediate surroundings were filled with the fading traces of things that were once there.
Beneath the uneven sections of the platform a deep ditch lay in the shade. Beyond it, a road, the surface broken and soft, tufts of parched grass erupted through the glistening macadam.
The fields, too, were going back to the wild. Hedgerows spreading, waist high thistles on the margins, and wild grasses dying in the cracked silt. Toward the river, willows grew. Even they stood still.
Beyond all that, heat haze evanesced the chalk downs where trees now put roots into the poor soil.
There was no relief from the swelter in the shadow of the footbridge. She looked up at the overhead walkway. Perhaps, she thought, there will be a breeze up there.
II
Layers of heat. An archaeology of silence. A wider view of the valley and a sense of the depth of all the time that lay beyond into the ever dark and empty.
A subtle flickering spoke of the swift succession of night and day, hypnotic in its regularity, kaleidoscopic; events and objects shimmered in and out of focus. For brief moments the old buildings of the station, hazy and dreamlike, wavered on the edge of vision, more a vivid memory of something never before seen than a returning reality. They had gone before their presence properly registered, but the revenant form of a woman walking along the platform faded less quickly, disappearing only as she passed into shadow beneath the bridge.
III
Lost there in the suppressing closeness, isolated, displaced, there was a sense of unparalleled loneliness, of absolute belonging, of her heels pressed in the sand. It had been there since she left death’s room, torn away from the dying part of herself.
Love is not a cement that grafts one distinct entity to another; it is a solvent that melds them. The space left when one is gone is no simple hole to be discerned by the absence, no simple wound to be healed. It is a series of complex and organic multi-dimensional fault lines. We look to others to find ourselves. When they have gone...
A tear rolled down Charlie’s cheek, evaporating to leave a salt track on her flesh.
IV
To be aware of it all is a weight. It stifles. Ennervates. Nothing seems to move whilst all life goes on.
And the silence.
Sings.
From the bridge, the whole valley was tangible. Ephemeral the aeons as faint creamy flecks settle in the primordial gloom. Swift the ages as the land rose and fell. Transitory the millennia as people scoured its face. Fleeting the lifetimes as they built their empires. Endless the hours in which they touched one another, dancing past, phantoms with familiar faces.
A woman crossed the tracks, upright, permanently startled, down from walking the high grassland and heading for home across the river. Her thread was bright in the tapestry, a shimmering visionary who had, for a moment, seen the world through which Charlie sailed.
She watched as the woman shifted in and out of the wavering day, lost sight of her as the lacework in the blue above was torn.
V
Childhood memories flashed through from a dark past, like looking from a train at night; glimpses of life in lighted windows. A beam of understanding sweeping across a hidden landscape, picking out places, times, people, incidents. The only way to see them, know them and comprehend the connections between would be to go to the lighthouse and follow the beam from there. It was something she had been trying to do ever since she knew she could move through the dark and into the lighted moments.
VI
She woke her from drowsing over her book - a rare edition of Shelmerdine’s The Oak Tree, open at the final page. Drugged by the heat, she sat cross-legged in the small shadow afforded by the high side of the footbridge, staring blankly at the page.
Crook-kneed, she pulled herself up into the afternoon. The sky was seared to a pale blue, the sun seeking the horizon in a haze. Nearby trees were bowed and weary, limp in the soporific air.
Approaching the bridge across the river, a thin figure followed in the wake of its shadow. Charlie knew the face; long, with eyes that teetered between laughter and tears, light and dark, with all they could not help but see.
VII
A slow, disbelieving inevitability. The vast surge of time flowed in from all directions, sweeping everything up, crushing, mixing, breaking down. Helpless, borne on the waves, carried in four-dimensional vortices, torn, broken, stranded, breathless.
VIII
Charlie closed the book and tucked it away safely in a pocket. The years had passed, the storm had gone, and slowly all the pieces had settled into a pattern. Sometimes the step across was simple and smooth. Sometimes...
She walked to the end of the bridge and looked across to the river. The trees were smaller and the view was clearer.
IX
Here now, between the acts, the simple actions. The putting on of the coat, the picking up of stones along the way.
Who is the woman on the bridge?
Behind the scenes?
Trapped in the interstices?
Lost between events?
Drifting between one action and the next?
Moments of clarity are rare, often shocking. Charlie rushed down the steps, almost falling on that late March afternoon. When she reached the river there was no one to be seen.
And between one action and the next, that clarity again. She could no more have saved the woman on the bridge than she had been able to save the woman in blue shoes or the girl with honey coloured hair.
We each follow our arrow no matter how much we weave about in the wheeler’s dance, no matter which position we take. The patterns cannot be changed, no matter how often you turn the kaleidoscope. The elements are always the same, merely observed from different perspectives, traced from different starting points.
Charlie stood on the bridge looking down into the muddy waters of the river; left when she heard voices. In the distance, a train wrote its passage through the valley with steam that faded in the sky blue.
The silence sang. Vast, absolute, compressed beneath the weight of a hot summer sky, the silence sang. Alone in the wide shallow valley, standing on the narrow, raised strip of pebble rich concrete, she listened.
Every time the express had passed through the halt on the voyage out, she had promised herself that she would, one day, take a local train and alight.
Since the train had vanished in the temporal haze, the only movement was the flow of heated air rising from the platform. The languid currents caressed her face with stale fingers.
Dazed, she turned and sought shade, walking along the platform toward the old, pre-cast concrete footbridge. The steel rails shone, spearing the the world beyond to this point. The shimmering distance was heavy with time and the immediate surroundings were filled with the fading traces of things that were once there.
Beneath the uneven sections of the platform a deep ditch lay in the shade. Beyond it, a road, the surface broken and soft, tufts of parched grass erupted through the glistening macadam.
The fields, too, were going back to the wild. Hedgerows spreading, waist high thistles on the margins, and wild grasses dying in the cracked silt. Toward the river, willows grew. Even they stood still.
Beyond all that, heat haze evanesced the chalk downs where trees now put roots into the poor soil.
There was no relief from the swelter in the shadow of the footbridge. She looked up at the overhead walkway. Perhaps, she thought, there will be a breeze up there.
II
Layers of heat. An archaeology of silence. A wider view of the valley and a sense of the depth of all the time that lay beyond into the ever dark and empty.
A subtle flickering spoke of the swift succession of night and day, hypnotic in its regularity, kaleidoscopic; events and objects shimmered in and out of focus. For brief moments the old buildings of the station, hazy and dreamlike, wavered on the edge of vision, more a vivid memory of something never before seen than a returning reality. They had gone before their presence properly registered, but the revenant form of a woman walking along the platform faded less quickly, disappearing only as she passed into shadow beneath the bridge.
III
Lost there in the suppressing closeness, isolated, displaced, there was a sense of unparalleled loneliness, of absolute belonging, of her heels pressed in the sand. It had been there since she left death’s room, torn away from the dying part of herself.
Love is not a cement that grafts one distinct entity to another; it is a solvent that melds them. The space left when one is gone is no simple hole to be discerned by the absence, no simple wound to be healed. It is a series of complex and organic multi-dimensional fault lines. We look to others to find ourselves. When they have gone...
A tear rolled down Charlie’s cheek, evaporating to leave a salt track on her flesh.
IV
To be aware of it all is a weight. It stifles. Ennervates. Nothing seems to move whilst all life goes on.
And the silence.
Sings.
From the bridge, the whole valley was tangible. Ephemeral the aeons as faint creamy flecks settle in the primordial gloom. Swift the ages as the land rose and fell. Transitory the millennia as people scoured its face. Fleeting the lifetimes as they built their empires. Endless the hours in which they touched one another, dancing past, phantoms with familiar faces.
A woman crossed the tracks, upright, permanently startled, down from walking the high grassland and heading for home across the river. Her thread was bright in the tapestry, a shimmering visionary who had, for a moment, seen the world through which Charlie sailed.
She watched as the woman shifted in and out of the wavering day, lost sight of her as the lacework in the blue above was torn.
V
Childhood memories flashed through from a dark past, like looking from a train at night; glimpses of life in lighted windows. A beam of understanding sweeping across a hidden landscape, picking out places, times, people, incidents. The only way to see them, know them and comprehend the connections between would be to go to the lighthouse and follow the beam from there. It was something she had been trying to do ever since she knew she could move through the dark and into the lighted moments.
VI
She woke her from drowsing over her book - a rare edition of Shelmerdine’s The Oak Tree, open at the final page. Drugged by the heat, she sat cross-legged in the small shadow afforded by the high side of the footbridge, staring blankly at the page.
Crook-kneed, she pulled herself up into the afternoon. The sky was seared to a pale blue, the sun seeking the horizon in a haze. Nearby trees were bowed and weary, limp in the soporific air.
Approaching the bridge across the river, a thin figure followed in the wake of its shadow. Charlie knew the face; long, with eyes that teetered between laughter and tears, light and dark, with all they could not help but see.
VII
A slow, disbelieving inevitability. The vast surge of time flowed in from all directions, sweeping everything up, crushing, mixing, breaking down. Helpless, borne on the waves, carried in four-dimensional vortices, torn, broken, stranded, breathless.
VIII
Charlie closed the book and tucked it away safely in a pocket. The years had passed, the storm had gone, and slowly all the pieces had settled into a pattern. Sometimes the step across was simple and smooth. Sometimes...
She walked to the end of the bridge and looked across to the river. The trees were smaller and the view was clearer.
IX
Here now, between the acts, the simple actions. The putting on of the coat, the picking up of stones along the way.
Who is the woman on the bridge?
Behind the scenes?
Trapped in the interstices?
Lost between events?
Drifting between one action and the next?
Moments of clarity are rare, often shocking. Charlie rushed down the steps, almost falling on that late March afternoon. When she reached the river there was no one to be seen.
And between one action and the next, that clarity again. She could no more have saved the woman on the bridge than she had been able to save the woman in blue shoes or the girl with honey coloured hair.
We each follow our arrow no matter how much we weave about in the wheeler’s dance, no matter which position we take. The patterns cannot be changed, no matter how often you turn the kaleidoscope. The elements are always the same, merely observed from different perspectives, traced from different starting points.
Charlie stood on the bridge looking down into the muddy waters of the river; left when she heard voices. In the distance, a train wrote its passage through the valley with steam that faded in the sky blue.
Thursday, 10 March 2011
Parts of a circle
“Was there an aspen tree? There. A path. Running across at an angle.”
Charlie looked for a moment at where her hand had sketched the space in the chill air. She frowned as she turned, laying an arm along the back of the curved stone bench where she sat. The mullioned windows were dull in the weak winter light.
Whether she found what she sought could not be discerned by looking at her. There was no shrug or other sign of disappointment. Equally, she did not smile or seem satisfied. Simply sat searching as her breath clouded the air.
Having examined the entire four-storey façade of brown stone, she turned back to face the sundial at the centre of the garden. Its thick coating of ice crystals unnerved her and she fussed with the skirts of her long black coat by way of distraction before tucking her hands into the opposite sleeve ends for warmth.
The broom had paused in mid-sweep, thin snow piled against the worn bristles.
“Not in my time,” the old gardener replied. He studied his hands grasped about the time darkened handle, stubby fingers emerging from the frayed wool of his gloves. “It was a plain circle of grass afore this. Holy Acre, they called it. You weren’t supposed to walk on it. But that was a long time since.”
They both looked at the shabby rose garden half-concealed by the snow. There was a small circular bed at the centre surrounding the sundial. Around that a broad path where Charlie’s feet rested in a section cleared by the gardener’s broom. Eight curved benches of stone faced the centre, each standing at the narrow end of a wedge shaped flower bed, each sector separated from the others by the eight paths that radiated out to the paving around the edge of the courtyard.
When she had first seen the garden from one of the small windows at the top of the corner tower, she had been delighted. Today, all the brittle, glassy memories made the garden feel like a place of torture, a spinning wheel with no way off.
The scrape of bristles on frozen paving slabs resumed for a moment, pushing the snow to one side.
“There’s an old photograph,” said the gardener, leaning on the broom again. “In a book. Saw it once. That’s from before my time. Long before. Is that what you mean?”
Charlie huddled into her coat and wove a smile over her misery. “That must be it.”
Charlie looked for a moment at where her hand had sketched the space in the chill air. She frowned as she turned, laying an arm along the back of the curved stone bench where she sat. The mullioned windows were dull in the weak winter light.
Whether she found what she sought could not be discerned by looking at her. There was no shrug or other sign of disappointment. Equally, she did not smile or seem satisfied. Simply sat searching as her breath clouded the air.
Having examined the entire four-storey façade of brown stone, she turned back to face the sundial at the centre of the garden. Its thick coating of ice crystals unnerved her and she fussed with the skirts of her long black coat by way of distraction before tucking her hands into the opposite sleeve ends for warmth.
The broom had paused in mid-sweep, thin snow piled against the worn bristles.
“Not in my time,” the old gardener replied. He studied his hands grasped about the time darkened handle, stubby fingers emerging from the frayed wool of his gloves. “It was a plain circle of grass afore this. Holy Acre, they called it. You weren’t supposed to walk on it. But that was a long time since.”
They both looked at the shabby rose garden half-concealed by the snow. There was a small circular bed at the centre surrounding the sundial. Around that a broad path where Charlie’s feet rested in a section cleared by the gardener’s broom. Eight curved benches of stone faced the centre, each standing at the narrow end of a wedge shaped flower bed, each sector separated from the others by the eight paths that radiated out to the paving around the edge of the courtyard.
When she had first seen the garden from one of the small windows at the top of the corner tower, she had been delighted. Today, all the brittle, glassy memories made the garden feel like a place of torture, a spinning wheel with no way off.
The scrape of bristles on frozen paving slabs resumed for a moment, pushing the snow to one side.
“There’s an old photograph,” said the gardener, leaning on the broom again. “In a book. Saw it once. That’s from before my time. Long before. Is that what you mean?”
Charlie huddled into her coat and wove a smile over her misery. “That must be it.”
Sunday, 10 October 2010
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Saturday, 19 December 2009
Waiting For The Wind
The heavy doors beat out their irregular, echoing tattoo in her memory as the train came to a stop. Confused layers of recollection and reality shimmered in the curved space; the sulphurous stink of steam, the acrid stench of diesel and dust, the clattering flap of pigeons, incomprehensible tannoy announcements and the sound of hundreds of voices, hundreds of feet.
Hanging back from the crowds, she strolled along the wide platform, trailing slow, twisting whorls of misty chaos. The grey and grimy past spread out, dissolving into the hard light of the present. She pushed through the automatic ticket barrier and looked for somewhere to sit. She told herself she needed a moment to let the memories settle and the layers of time to synchronise. She told herself everything would be all right. It was a mistake she always made.
As soon as she sat, she accepted the journey had been a mistake. Ghosts crowded the concourse. She watched them filling the space, surging back and forth, pushing through one another, fraying the edges of reality.
Accretions of time piled up like dust in the station; the detritus of centuries accummulated from all the moments lost, the anxiety, the attempt to hurry, swirled across the concourse and deposited in corners. They were all the same. From the monorail station at Srinagar that she had never since been able to find to the remote halts in the middle of all those nowheres; small, large, decaying, brand new, open air, enclosed, empty, full, they were polyps strung out on a network of steel connectivity, islands of frutration and dreams, places of greeting and parting, steeped in emotion.
Dangerous places where she had no control.
She pushed herself up from the bench and crossed to the departure board, looking up at the old mahogany structure that had once stood there. An old, cold wind tugged at the long skirts of her coat. Long past light filtered through dust. Silence fell. It would be years before there was another train.
Vague echoes drifted beneath the high glass canopy.
With a shiver, she turned from the board and walked out through the abandoned ticket hall. The station forecourt had that ‘70s Sunday morning feel. The whole length of Queen’s Road stretched before her, empty of ghosts, people, movement. In the chill, hazy distance was the sea.
“Bugger.” She pushed a finger under her glasses and wiped away a tear. The ‘70s really was the last place she wanted to be right now.
Hanging back from the crowds, she strolled along the wide platform, trailing slow, twisting whorls of misty chaos. The grey and grimy past spread out, dissolving into the hard light of the present. She pushed through the automatic ticket barrier and looked for somewhere to sit. She told herself she needed a moment to let the memories settle and the layers of time to synchronise. She told herself everything would be all right. It was a mistake she always made.
As soon as she sat, she accepted the journey had been a mistake. Ghosts crowded the concourse. She watched them filling the space, surging back and forth, pushing through one another, fraying the edges of reality.
Accretions of time piled up like dust in the station; the detritus of centuries accummulated from all the moments lost, the anxiety, the attempt to hurry, swirled across the concourse and deposited in corners. They were all the same. From the monorail station at Srinagar that she had never since been able to find to the remote halts in the middle of all those nowheres; small, large, decaying, brand new, open air, enclosed, empty, full, they were polyps strung out on a network of steel connectivity, islands of frutration and dreams, places of greeting and parting, steeped in emotion.
Dangerous places where she had no control.
She pushed herself up from the bench and crossed to the departure board, looking up at the old mahogany structure that had once stood there. An old, cold wind tugged at the long skirts of her coat. Long past light filtered through dust. Silence fell. It would be years before there was another train.
Vague echoes drifted beneath the high glass canopy.
With a shiver, she turned from the board and walked out through the abandoned ticket hall. The station forecourt had that ‘70s Sunday morning feel. The whole length of Queen’s Road stretched before her, empty of ghosts, people, movement. In the chill, hazy distance was the sea.
“Bugger.” She pushed a finger under her glasses and wiped away a tear. The ‘70s really was the last place she wanted to be right now.
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
Stealing into Winter - a fragment
With all the grace of a drunken dancer, the ghost teetered about the empty square. It would lean and move off in one direction, picking up speed until it righted itself. Spinning on the spot for a moment or two, faint in the painfully bright sunshine, it would lean in another direction and be on its way again, sinuous, trailing pale peach wisps of nothingness and a faint hiss.
Jeniche watched the erratic ballet from the deep shadow of a cellar doorway. Dust ghosts were rarely seen in the city. It was rarely this quiet. Most people would be sitting or lying in a shaded room, waiting for the afternoon heat to abate, especially at this time of the year. But there were normally some people about; luckless servants mostly, sent on the errands of the fools for whom they worked.
The square and the roads leading to it, the shops and stalls. All were quiet beneath the weight of the heat, sunlight shimmering from the hard baked mud walls. Quiet except for the ghost that skittered across the open space, spinning toward Jeniche and then changing direction. She pulled her keffiyeh up over the lower half of her face, squinting as dust drifted into the stairwell. Childhood memories drifted in with it, just as unwanted. She blinked the dust from her eyes, wiping away a grimy tear with the back of her hand.
Turning in the dark, she watched the ghost swithering for a moment before gathering new energy. It dashed along the main road out of the square, picking up more dust as it went, twisting, hissing, and taking on a more solid form. Without warning it collapsed. Mute sunlight pressed down into the silence.
Jeniche watched the erratic ballet from the deep shadow of a cellar doorway. Dust ghosts were rarely seen in the city. It was rarely this quiet. Most people would be sitting or lying in a shaded room, waiting for the afternoon heat to abate, especially at this time of the year. But there were normally some people about; luckless servants mostly, sent on the errands of the fools for whom they worked.
The square and the roads leading to it, the shops and stalls. All were quiet beneath the weight of the heat, sunlight shimmering from the hard baked mud walls. Quiet except for the ghost that skittered across the open space, spinning toward Jeniche and then changing direction. She pulled her keffiyeh up over the lower half of her face, squinting as dust drifted into the stairwell. Childhood memories drifted in with it, just as unwanted. She blinked the dust from her eyes, wiping away a grimy tear with the back of her hand.
Turning in the dark, she watched the ghost swithering for a moment before gathering new energy. It dashed along the main road out of the square, picking up more dust as it went, twisting, hissing, and taking on a more solid form. Without warning it collapsed. Mute sunlight pressed down into the silence.
Monday, 24 November 2008
Renaissance
Birth is painful.
Gut wrenching.
Heart aching.
Head fucking.
Painful.
All the more painful
When you thought you were barren
When you thought
That last time
Was the one time
The only time
The true time.
Em.
Just the name.
Conjures all the sweetness.
The bitterness.
The pain.
Of birth.
And loss.
The whole gentle, uncertain dance.
Finished.
Before it really started.
You are still there.
I can close my eyes
And see you as we whirl beneath the tree.
Lifetimes ago.
And gone.
You live within me.
Loved.
And now.
How can I love another?
Birth is painful.
Gut wrenching.
Heart aching.
Head fucking.
Painful.
Gut wrenching.
Heart aching.
Head fucking.
Painful.
All the more painful
When you thought you were barren
When you thought
That last time
Was the one time
The only time
The true time.
Em.
Just the name.
Conjures all the sweetness.
The bitterness.
The pain.
Of birth.
And loss.
The whole gentle, uncertain dance.
Finished.
Before it really started.
You are still there.
I can close my eyes
And see you as we whirl beneath the tree.
Lifetimes ago.
And gone.
You live within me.
Loved.
And now.
How can I love another?
Birth is painful.
Gut wrenching.
Heart aching.
Head fucking.
Painful.
Sunday, 16 November 2008
Thursday, 22 May 2008
Fragment 4
I was only a teenager, but always made to feel welcome. It was a bit of a thrill, really. All sorts of people used to be in and out of the place. Writers. Artists. Poets. Some local. Some, sort of, well, international if you like. Martin Henty, who owned the shop and the press, he seemed to know everyone who was worth knowing.
Everyone used to go on about London and all that, but it wasn’t the only place where things were happening. In fact, Martin used to say it was easier to get things done in Brighton as there weren’t all the wasters and hangers on. People who wanted to be part of the scene but had nothing to contribute. Some he didn’t mind, but there were always those who were on the make, sponging off people. That’s what was good about Octopus, cos Martin always got rid of those types.
One of the real reasons I kept going back was cos I fell in love. [laughs]. It was a real teenage crush. Daft really. She was, well, I don’t know, thinking about it, she must have been close on forty. But she was beautiful. Elegant. Had this amazing hair. A pale, rosy gold colour. Cut really short. And a face that… er… well, it’s like she’d seen so much, good and bad, yet found some sort of peace. Nearly. There was always something. [laughs] Woman of mystery.
I really did just hang around the place in the hope of seeing her, doing odd jobs for her. She ran one of the magazines that Octopus published. I’ve still got all my copies. I’d help with anything really. Learned a lot. Course, it’s all done by computer now. Shame really, cos it might make life easier but the finished product is always a bit too perfect. I like those old magazines and papers cos they had a raw edge to them. Not just the content, but the look of them as well.
Everything she did was done properly. Do you know what I mean? She took great care with it all. I used to watch her work. Sounds a bit creepy now, I suppose, but I really was… I even bunked off school sometimes.
Nobody knew much about her. You’d hear stories. There was one about her being a motorcycle rider of some sort. Never understood that. Some daft pillock said she was a thief. I got into real trouble over that. My one and only fight. Went a bit mad. [laughs] A bit mixed up. It took a few years to sort my head out. Didn’t help when she just vanished.
Sorry? Her name? Oh. Er. Charlie. Charlie Cornelius.
She’d be about seventy now. I often wonder what happened to her. Nobody knew where she’d gone. It’s funny. I was walking through that part of town just a few days ago, looking at the places, all changed now. And you know, I’ll swear I saw her. Couldn’t have been her, of course. Didn’t look any older. [laughs] I actually ran after this woman. Lost her in the crowds along Kensington Gardens. Just as well I suppose. What would I have said? Sorry. Thought you were someone I’m, er, was in love with. Thirty years ago.
Local Oral History Project
John Charles Woodman
Extract from transcript of session 47 (22 May 2000)
Everyone used to go on about London and all that, but it wasn’t the only place where things were happening. In fact, Martin used to say it was easier to get things done in Brighton as there weren’t all the wasters and hangers on. People who wanted to be part of the scene but had nothing to contribute. Some he didn’t mind, but there were always those who were on the make, sponging off people. That’s what was good about Octopus, cos Martin always got rid of those types.
One of the real reasons I kept going back was cos I fell in love. [laughs]. It was a real teenage crush. Daft really. She was, well, I don’t know, thinking about it, she must have been close on forty. But she was beautiful. Elegant. Had this amazing hair. A pale, rosy gold colour. Cut really short. And a face that… er… well, it’s like she’d seen so much, good and bad, yet found some sort of peace. Nearly. There was always something. [laughs] Woman of mystery.
I really did just hang around the place in the hope of seeing her, doing odd jobs for her. She ran one of the magazines that Octopus published. I’ve still got all my copies. I’d help with anything really. Learned a lot. Course, it’s all done by computer now. Shame really, cos it might make life easier but the finished product is always a bit too perfect. I like those old magazines and papers cos they had a raw edge to them. Not just the content, but the look of them as well.
Everything she did was done properly. Do you know what I mean? She took great care with it all. I used to watch her work. Sounds a bit creepy now, I suppose, but I really was… I even bunked off school sometimes.
Nobody knew much about her. You’d hear stories. There was one about her being a motorcycle rider of some sort. Never understood that. Some daft pillock said she was a thief. I got into real trouble over that. My one and only fight. Went a bit mad. [laughs] A bit mixed up. It took a few years to sort my head out. Didn’t help when she just vanished.
Sorry? Her name? Oh. Er. Charlie. Charlie Cornelius.
She’d be about seventy now. I often wonder what happened to her. Nobody knew where she’d gone. It’s funny. I was walking through that part of town just a few days ago, looking at the places, all changed now. And you know, I’ll swear I saw her. Couldn’t have been her, of course. Didn’t look any older. [laughs] I actually ran after this woman. Lost her in the crowds along Kensington Gardens. Just as well I suppose. What would I have said? Sorry. Thought you were someone I’m, er, was in love with. Thirty years ago.
Local Oral History Project
John Charles Woodman
Extract from transcript of session 47 (22 May 2000)
Monday, 14 April 2008
Listen
listen until the machine runs down
you will have to listen long into the night
and where the earth is most blighted
you will have to listen with other ears
only listen
it will take practice
many days or many years
it will take patience and understanding
above all understanding
a supreme effort to come to see the machine
to come to know its ways
to learn to hear its grinding scream
to learn to hear it
one night
as it runs down
and in the special places
where its grip is still loose
in the special places you may have to create
in your head
you will hear
you will hear
a fragment of silence
first it will be a silence
that is an absence of noise
an absence of the grinding
an absence of the scream
it will become a silence
that is a repose
a freedom
and then
if you are not seduced to sleep
you will hear
you will hear
the song of the earth
you will have to listen long into the night
and where the earth is most blighted
you will have to listen with other ears
only listen
it will take practice
many days or many years
it will take patience and understanding
above all understanding
a supreme effort to come to see the machine
to come to know its ways
to learn to hear its grinding scream
to learn to hear it
one night
as it runs down
and in the special places
where its grip is still loose
in the special places you may have to create
in your head
you will hear
you will hear
a fragment of silence
first it will be a silence
that is an absence of noise
an absence of the grinding
an absence of the scream
it will become a silence
that is a repose
a freedom
and then
if you are not seduced to sleep
you will hear
you will hear
the song of the earth
Sunday, 16 March 2008
Funeral prayer
Through fractured wastelands of a future within living memory; through crystalline deserts where the flowers once sang; through all the empty days where echoes spin; I walked alone.
Some wayward path brought me here to where they finally let you rest. There’s a beautiful old tree. An oak. Remember the one we climbed in the back garden? Like that. And rich grass, rabbit cropped. I can smell honeysuckle.
I was not here then to say words; but I wrote them all the same. And there is no one here now to hear them. Just me and, who knows, maybe you.
i
fierce as the evening star
she lit my skies
but evening as ever
becomes the night
and she has set
gone into the west
and is lost to me
but now in the Otherworld
they rejoice
for a new morning star
has risen
a new star awakens
ii (adapted from ‘sian bhuadha’, a gaelic prayer for the release of the soul)
you go home this day
to your home of winter
to your home of autumn
of spring and of summer
you go home this day to your lasting home
to your rest of great deserving
to your sound sleeping
sleep now and so fade sorrow
sleep, my wonder, in the heart of truth
the sleep of seven lights upon you
the sleep of seven joys upon you
the sleep of seven slumbers upon you
my wonder
sleep in the quiet of quietness
sleep in the way of guidance
sleep in the heart of love
sleep, my wonder, everlasting in our hearts
iii
with thanks for her presence and the joy it brought
with love for her friendship and the strength it gave
with tears for the loss of her – a light has gone from my world
Some wayward path brought me here to where they finally let you rest. There’s a beautiful old tree. An oak. Remember the one we climbed in the back garden? Like that. And rich grass, rabbit cropped. I can smell honeysuckle.
I was not here then to say words; but I wrote them all the same. And there is no one here now to hear them. Just me and, who knows, maybe you.
i
fierce as the evening star
she lit my skies
but evening as ever
becomes the night
and she has set
gone into the west
and is lost to me
but now in the Otherworld
they rejoice
for a new morning star
has risen
a new star awakens
ii (adapted from ‘sian bhuadha’, a gaelic prayer for the release of the soul)
you go home this day
to your home of winter
to your home of autumn
of spring and of summer
you go home this day to your lasting home
to your rest of great deserving
to your sound sleeping
sleep now and so fade sorrow
sleep, my wonder, in the heart of truth
the sleep of seven lights upon you
the sleep of seven joys upon you
the sleep of seven slumbers upon you
my wonder
sleep in the quiet of quietness
sleep in the way of guidance
sleep in the heart of love
sleep, my wonder, everlasting in our hearts
iii
with thanks for her presence and the joy it brought
with love for her friendship and the strength it gave
with tears for the loss of her – a light has gone from my world
Saturday, 16 February 2008
Restless
Restless, I went walking again, northward along the beach. The village was soon left behind and I had the path to myself. Which is anthropocentric if ever a statement was. Curlew, oyster catchers, lapwing, redshank, terns, and gulls populated the strand and the low sandy fields on the other side of the path. Signs of excavation in the fields were evidence of rabbits and the mounds of moles were outnumbered only by the barbaric display of their wind dried corpses swinging from the barbed wire. I could not help but catch a glimpse of the battlefields of France of Belgium.
The waves were soothing. A gentle swell pushing a short distance up the shingle, creaming around the rocks. Beneath the cliffs they broke now and then, surging up a long shallow slope just below the water line, curling over and streaming fine spray. And further north, the swell swirled round rocks just off the shore where seals lay hauled up, watching me for a moment with lazy eyes before giving themselves back to enjoyment of the rare winter sun.
There is a sense of the primeval here. The rocks are ancient, some of the oldest on the planet. It is no wonder, then, that I washed up here; no wonder that so many paths pass through. One even begins here (although it is best avoided). They are not easy to see. Travellers know where they are. Cannier locals notice the places that fish, birds, and animals avoid. I see them with clarity, the sapphire lattice that shimmers. I pull my coat tighter. It will be a while before I return.
The waves were soothing. A gentle swell pushing a short distance up the shingle, creaming around the rocks. Beneath the cliffs they broke now and then, surging up a long shallow slope just below the water line, curling over and streaming fine spray. And further north, the swell swirled round rocks just off the shore where seals lay hauled up, watching me for a moment with lazy eyes before giving themselves back to enjoyment of the rare winter sun.
There is a sense of the primeval here. The rocks are ancient, some of the oldest on the planet. It is no wonder, then, that I washed up here; no wonder that so many paths pass through. One even begins here (although it is best avoided). They are not easy to see. Travellers know where they are. Cannier locals notice the places that fish, birds, and animals avoid. I see them with clarity, the sapphire lattice that shimmers. I pull my coat tighter. It will be a while before I return.
Friday, 15 February 2008
Village by the shore
The beach here is beautiful at this time of year. Once the sun has gone down it is usually deserted and one can stand in the growing dark beneath the bleached blue and wait for the pale stars. The chill air is clean and sharp against the face. A reminder of other times and other places with the only pain an ache in the heart. Em would have loved it here, perhaps found peace and the chance to pick up the threads…
She would have loved the hospitality as well. Somewhere quiet and warm in exchange for tales. No noise, no pressure, a bit of gentle laughter, and so many books. Knowing there is a place like this makes everything else possible. I wish I had known it sooner.
Even though I am tired, I cannot stop. I carry the weariness, the constant ache, the knowledge that there is no home to which I can return. It is not a burden, but sometimes it hurts – deep and sharp. My war wound.
Here I can ease the pain a little and tell my story. Perhaps one helps with the other. But the story does not finish with the books. I know that now. So there may be more. For now we must be content.
This evening was particularly cold. A smoky sunset leaked pale amber across the horizon. Frost was forming on the stones and the grass as I walked back up from the sluggish waves. The houses of the village looked… comfortable. It was a scene to savour. It isn’t always like this. Sometimes there are ruins. Sometimes nothing but an empty beach. Today was a good day. Of sorts.
She would have loved the hospitality as well. Somewhere quiet and warm in exchange for tales. No noise, no pressure, a bit of gentle laughter, and so many books. Knowing there is a place like this makes everything else possible. I wish I had known it sooner.
Even though I am tired, I cannot stop. I carry the weariness, the constant ache, the knowledge that there is no home to which I can return. It is not a burden, but sometimes it hurts – deep and sharp. My war wound.
Here I can ease the pain a little and tell my story. Perhaps one helps with the other. But the story does not finish with the books. I know that now. So there may be more. For now we must be content.
This evening was particularly cold. A smoky sunset leaked pale amber across the horizon. Frost was forming on the stones and the grass as I walked back up from the sluggish waves. The houses of the village looked… comfortable. It was a scene to savour. It isn’t always like this. Sometimes there are ruins. Sometimes nothing but an empty beach. Today was a good day. Of sorts.
beautiful enemies/killing machine
monotonous
snow falls
drifts compounded
pervading loneliness
in this tiny room
with summer gone
the invasion blankets memories
there is no time left for dreamers
bleak winterscapes
surrounding
then merely time
till the merging
with frozen wastes
where beautiful enemies
command death
where saviours whose faces are lost
in starglow of centuries
laugh in darkness
the scars of dreams
burn cold
savage in loneliness
ice in the heart
tomorrow
dragging their feet
the grey men
fearing only thunder
burning the stars from yesterday
fields gone
beneath this edifice
of benign suffocation
in the darkness
harsh edges fade
silence of night resting machines
that is not silence
echoes of breath in corridors
soft footfall of a
living being
seeking a way out
in the darkness lights spring up
assert the permanence
of this invasion
cold winds
come bitterly
to the door
outside light enough
to stumble through ruins
inside
shelter from embers
the screams
of a faceless laughing echo
whisper skullward
across that silence
words dust dry on lips
grey dreams
uncommon in the sight of gods
stillborn
in fear
snow falls
drifts compounded
pervading loneliness
in this tiny room
with summer gone
the invasion blankets memories
there is no time left for dreamers
bleak winterscapes
surrounding
then merely time
till the merging
with frozen wastes
where beautiful enemies
command death
where saviours whose faces are lost
in starglow of centuries
laugh in darkness
the scars of dreams
burn cold
savage in loneliness
ice in the heart
tomorrow
dragging their feet
the grey men
fearing only thunder
burning the stars from yesterday
fields gone
beneath this edifice
of benign suffocation
in the darkness
harsh edges fade
silence of night resting machines
that is not silence
echoes of breath in corridors
soft footfall of a
living being
seeking a way out
in the darkness lights spring up
assert the permanence
of this invasion
cold winds
come bitterly
to the door
outside light enough
to stumble through ruins
inside
shelter from embers
the screams
of a faceless laughing echo
whisper skullward
across that silence
words dust dry on lips
grey dreams
uncommon in the sight of gods
stillborn
in fear
Wednesday, 10 October 2007
Caught in the crossfire
I should perhaps
Have left that day
Without another word
But I did not know
I thought the world
Was meant to be
Such a layered place
But I did not know
The fragments would
Like shrapnel rain
Such awful destruction
I should perhaps
Have left that day
Without a backward glance
But I did not know
I thought being friends
Would be like sunlight
At a feast
But I did not know
There was no way
To scatter wholly
The clouds in your sky
I should perhaps
Have left that day
And blanked you from my mind
But I did not know
How could I know
I should perhaps
Have left that day
But could not leave a friend
How could I know
The price I was set
To make you pay
For the things I did
But I did not know
How could I know
Have left that day
Without another word
But I did not know
I thought the world
Was meant to be
Such a layered place
But I did not know
The fragments would
Like shrapnel rain
Such awful destruction
I should perhaps
Have left that day
Without a backward glance
But I did not know
I thought being friends
Would be like sunlight
At a feast
But I did not know
There was no way
To scatter wholly
The clouds in your sky
I should perhaps
Have left that day
And blanked you from my mind
But I did not know
How could I know
I should perhaps
Have left that day
But could not leave a friend
How could I know
The price I was set
To make you pay
For the things I did
But I did not know
How could I know
Monday, 3 September 2007
Fragment 3
Frankfurt, 3rd May 1937
My dearest Charlotte,
You asked me once how it all began for me. I never did tell you. Something happened. Something was always happening.
I don’t know why I should have thought of this now, but as there is a good half hour before we take to the air I thought I would write it down and catch the post.
Much of my time in those days was spent on my bicycle. I was a small, skinny child and not much in favour with my contemporaries. Bicycling was a great escape and a chance to have adventures.
I still have nightmares about it, focussed on that sphere. They always start as that day started, sunny and calm. I had bicycled down to the beach as the tide was out and there would be space to race about.
When I got to the beach, there was something unusual going on. Several men stood looking at a large object on the waterline. I made my way down in time follow them part way up the beach. They were staggering under the weight of something and one, a wild looking chap with untidy hair and a beard was dragging a chain.
Losing interest in them, I turned and went back down to the large object from which they had come. It was a sphere. Rather, it was spherical on the inside, but the outside was a regularly faceted polyhedron. On the top, I could make out what appeared to be a hatch.
Curiosity got the better of me. I propped my bike against the thing and clambered up. The whole thing was like a series of windows, so when I popped my head in the entrance, I could see the interior quite clearly. It was a mess. Tins of food, blankets, clothing, all in a big heap on the bottom.
Set into the inner surface there were panels with switches that looked intriguing, but I don’t expect anything would have happened if I hadn’t lost my balance and slid right in, crashing on to the pile of stuff on the bottom.
I wasn’t worried. The circular entrance was in easy reach. Once in, of course, I began to poke around, absorbed by everyday items in their unusual surrounding. I had no idea what the sphere was at that point, but it didn’t seem to matter.
There was no way of knowing how long I spent in there, rooting around, but it was clearly long enough for the tide to start back in. I had lost myself in a copy of Tit-Bits that was lying in there, much creased. When I finished and stood up, the sphere, now afloat, rolled. The hatch cover, with a horrible inevitability, slid into the entrance and sealed it.
Suddenly worried, I tried to push it open, but succeeded only in making the sphere roll about in the water. I clung to the interior of the hatch and it turned in its thread, tightening all the while in what was probably the only fortuitous episode of the whole sorry affair.
When it stopped turning, sealing me in, I lost my grip and fell. Of all the directions I could have gone, it was perhaps inevitable that I should fall against the panel of switches. For a happy second I thought nothing had happened. Then shutters moved swiftly across each glass panel shutting out the light. The sphere lurched and I fell.
At the time, I thought it had rolled in the water again. I was soon to learn otherwise.
I have travelled to many places, my dear Charlotte, seen many strange things and had some remarkable adventures, but I have encountered nothing that has scared me half as much as that moment when I realized I was weightless and the view through the one open panel was full of stars.
They are beginning to prepare for departure, so I must leave the rest of the tale for another time, or maybe as we travel. I will be in Lakehurst on the 6th and will travel on to New York. Once I am settled I will send a wire.
I am already counting the days before my return. Take care.
With all my love,
Thomas
Private letter from Thomas Simmons to Charlotte Cornelius.
My dearest Charlotte,
You asked me once how it all began for me. I never did tell you. Something happened. Something was always happening.
I don’t know why I should have thought of this now, but as there is a good half hour before we take to the air I thought I would write it down and catch the post.
Much of my time in those days was spent on my bicycle. I was a small, skinny child and not much in favour with my contemporaries. Bicycling was a great escape and a chance to have adventures.
I still have nightmares about it, focussed on that sphere. They always start as that day started, sunny and calm. I had bicycled down to the beach as the tide was out and there would be space to race about.
When I got to the beach, there was something unusual going on. Several men stood looking at a large object on the waterline. I made my way down in time follow them part way up the beach. They were staggering under the weight of something and one, a wild looking chap with untidy hair and a beard was dragging a chain.
Losing interest in them, I turned and went back down to the large object from which they had come. It was a sphere. Rather, it was spherical on the inside, but the outside was a regularly faceted polyhedron. On the top, I could make out what appeared to be a hatch.
Curiosity got the better of me. I propped my bike against the thing and clambered up. The whole thing was like a series of windows, so when I popped my head in the entrance, I could see the interior quite clearly. It was a mess. Tins of food, blankets, clothing, all in a big heap on the bottom.
Set into the inner surface there were panels with switches that looked intriguing, but I don’t expect anything would have happened if I hadn’t lost my balance and slid right in, crashing on to the pile of stuff on the bottom.
I wasn’t worried. The circular entrance was in easy reach. Once in, of course, I began to poke around, absorbed by everyday items in their unusual surrounding. I had no idea what the sphere was at that point, but it didn’t seem to matter.
There was no way of knowing how long I spent in there, rooting around, but it was clearly long enough for the tide to start back in. I had lost myself in a copy of Tit-Bits that was lying in there, much creased. When I finished and stood up, the sphere, now afloat, rolled. The hatch cover, with a horrible inevitability, slid into the entrance and sealed it.
Suddenly worried, I tried to push it open, but succeeded only in making the sphere roll about in the water. I clung to the interior of the hatch and it turned in its thread, tightening all the while in what was probably the only fortuitous episode of the whole sorry affair.
When it stopped turning, sealing me in, I lost my grip and fell. Of all the directions I could have gone, it was perhaps inevitable that I should fall against the panel of switches. For a happy second I thought nothing had happened. Then shutters moved swiftly across each glass panel shutting out the light. The sphere lurched and I fell.
At the time, I thought it had rolled in the water again. I was soon to learn otherwise.
I have travelled to many places, my dear Charlotte, seen many strange things and had some remarkable adventures, but I have encountered nothing that has scared me half as much as that moment when I realized I was weightless and the view through the one open panel was full of stars.
They are beginning to prepare for departure, so I must leave the rest of the tale for another time, or maybe as we travel. I will be in Lakehurst on the 6th and will travel on to New York. Once I am settled I will send a wire.
I am already counting the days before my return. Take care.
With all my love,
Thomas
Private letter from Thomas Simmons to Charlotte Cornelius.
time is a simple thing
time is a simple thing
here
beneath low clouds
rolling in with strong winds
across this desert
where yesterday is buried
and the splintered remains
are wrapped in dreams
yesterday’s picture
replacing the truth
it has been an age
in this dark noon
waiting for rain
time is a simple thing
yes
time
recalled imperfectly
and better for it
songs forgotten
dances seen only in sleep
seeds of wildness scattered
in dust
growing
inward
it has been an age
in this dark noon
waiting for rain
time is a simple thing
here
waiting for the past to flower
cultivated in other gardens
seen from this
the fences are high and the gates are locked
it has been an age
but time
is a simple thing
it is not
here
beneath low clouds
rolling in with strong winds
across this desert
where yesterday is buried
and the splintered remains
are wrapped in dreams
yesterday’s picture
replacing the truth
it has been an age
in this dark noon
waiting for rain
time is a simple thing
yes
time
recalled imperfectly
and better for it
songs forgotten
dances seen only in sleep
seeds of wildness scattered
in dust
growing
inward
it has been an age
in this dark noon
waiting for rain
time is a simple thing
here
waiting for the past to flower
cultivated in other gardens
seen from this
the fences are high and the gates are locked
it has been an age
but time
is a simple thing
it is not
Sunday, 26 August 2007
Fragment 2
A photograph. Monochrome. Five inches by three inches with white border. Two young boys, clearly siblings, stand either side of a pushchair. They wear shabby jerkins and short trousers. One has a grubby handkerchief tied round his left knee. Both have sullen expressions. They stand on a pavement in front of a brick wall. Part of a door can be seen to the left; part of a window to the right. The front end of a Raleigh bicycle that leans against the window sill is also in shot. The tyre is flat. In the pushchair, a young child of indeterminate sex is asleep. Although the subjects are alone, their position and posture suggests an overwhelming presence just out of shot, rather than behind the camera itself.
On the rear of the photograph, written in pencil in a clumsy hand and now faded almost to obscurity is the legend – Frank, Cathy, & Jerry.
From '"...the price is worth it."' by Graeme K Talboys, First Class: Early Works of the Nearly Famous, Monkey Business Books, 2007.
On the rear of the photograph, written in pencil in a clumsy hand and now faded almost to obscurity is the legend – Frank, Cathy, & Jerry.
From '"...the price is worth it."' by Graeme K Talboys, First Class: Early Works of the Nearly Famous, Monkey Business Books, 2007.
Tuesday, 21 August 2007
Fragment 1
Know locally as ‘the College’ there is no record of the building having been used for educational purposes. In fact, there are no records relating directly to the site or the buildings. All the evidence gathered has been taken from references found in records relating to surrounding buildings and businesses.
Until 1946 it had been assumed on no real evidence that the site was privately owned. Locals attest to the fact that the grassed area between the railings and the standing remains was kept neatly mown until the winter of 1939. The ruins themselves also seem to have been kept in decent order. No one, however, seems to be able to recall who did the work and when.
Indeed, the whole site seems to have had a reputation. It would be too strong to suggest it was considered haunted, but it was thought distinctly odd. Children did not climb over or through the railings to play in the ruins as children will, despite their tempting appearance. Indeed, they were rarely to be seen playing on the pavement directly alongside the railings.
And therein lies another mystery. The whole site, even the portions where adjacent buildings came to the very boundary, was surrounded by high, sturdy, cast-iron railings. These remained in place throughout the Second World War and, as the photographs of 1944 show, presented a substantial barrier. What is more, there seems to have been no gate, or break for an entrance. One cannot be seen in any of the extant photographs, although as none of these have the buildings as the main subject, this is not conclusive. No one from the area who has been interviewed can remember a gate.
After the site was cleared in 1945, it stood empty until it was taken into public ownership in 1952. A local firm of carriers often used it for parking their vans and lorries. The flats that were subsequently built there were never popular with tenants. Several people who lived there spoke of them as being gloomy. Their one saving grace, it seems, is that they preserved the archaeology. The flats were erected towards the rear of the site which had mostly been open ground, overlapping onto the site of adjacent buildings that had also been destroyed. The gardens and play area at the front overlay the area where the original ruins had stood.
When the flats were demolished in 1968, the whole area became green space, serving surrounding high-rise housing developments. Popular during the day with locals, it remained free of the troubles that often plague such urban spaces at night. Vandalism, drinking, drugs, and rowdy behaviour did not occur simply because no one went into the area at night.
During the last few years of the decade, there were occasional reports of children playing there in the dark. The police who attended several call-outs never found anyone and there was never a suggestion of trouble making, merely a concern that young children were out in the early hours of the morning. These reports died away and only revived when the archaeological work began.
All those who have worked on the site, especially the night security staff, have expressed feeling uncomfortable at times. No one has felt afraid. Indeed, the most often stated feeling was one of having wandered into a playground and frightened the children away. One archaeologist with many years experience said he felt that a profound silence and sadness would envelop the site for a few moments before the mundane world returned.
Preliminary work on the site has begun to reveal a remarkably uncomplicated outline, as if the building had remained unaltered since it was built. This has led to some speculation that it is not very old, despite references to a building on the site dating back to at least 1342. An entrance to a set of cellars has been found, but there is no evidence of the network of tunnels said to exist beneath the building and surrounding area. This is a fairly common myth where old buildings are concerned and they rarely have a basis in fact.
From Crofton: A Local History by Rev Eric Simmons, Sapphire Press, 1992.
Until 1946 it had been assumed on no real evidence that the site was privately owned. Locals attest to the fact that the grassed area between the railings and the standing remains was kept neatly mown until the winter of 1939. The ruins themselves also seem to have been kept in decent order. No one, however, seems to be able to recall who did the work and when.
Indeed, the whole site seems to have had a reputation. It would be too strong to suggest it was considered haunted, but it was thought distinctly odd. Children did not climb over or through the railings to play in the ruins as children will, despite their tempting appearance. Indeed, they were rarely to be seen playing on the pavement directly alongside the railings.
And therein lies another mystery. The whole site, even the portions where adjacent buildings came to the very boundary, was surrounded by high, sturdy, cast-iron railings. These remained in place throughout the Second World War and, as the photographs of 1944 show, presented a substantial barrier. What is more, there seems to have been no gate, or break for an entrance. One cannot be seen in any of the extant photographs, although as none of these have the buildings as the main subject, this is not conclusive. No one from the area who has been interviewed can remember a gate.
After the site was cleared in 1945, it stood empty until it was taken into public ownership in 1952. A local firm of carriers often used it for parking their vans and lorries. The flats that were subsequently built there were never popular with tenants. Several people who lived there spoke of them as being gloomy. Their one saving grace, it seems, is that they preserved the archaeology. The flats were erected towards the rear of the site which had mostly been open ground, overlapping onto the site of adjacent buildings that had also been destroyed. The gardens and play area at the front overlay the area where the original ruins had stood.
When the flats were demolished in 1968, the whole area became green space, serving surrounding high-rise housing developments. Popular during the day with locals, it remained free of the troubles that often plague such urban spaces at night. Vandalism, drinking, drugs, and rowdy behaviour did not occur simply because no one went into the area at night.
During the last few years of the decade, there were occasional reports of children playing there in the dark. The police who attended several call-outs never found anyone and there was never a suggestion of trouble making, merely a concern that young children were out in the early hours of the morning. These reports died away and only revived when the archaeological work began.
All those who have worked on the site, especially the night security staff, have expressed feeling uncomfortable at times. No one has felt afraid. Indeed, the most often stated feeling was one of having wandered into a playground and frightened the children away. One archaeologist with many years experience said he felt that a profound silence and sadness would envelop the site for a few moments before the mundane world returned.
Preliminary work on the site has begun to reveal a remarkably uncomplicated outline, as if the building had remained unaltered since it was built. This has led to some speculation that it is not very old, despite references to a building on the site dating back to at least 1342. An entrance to a set of cellars has been found, but there is no evidence of the network of tunnels said to exist beneath the building and surrounding area. This is a fairly common myth where old buildings are concerned and they rarely have a basis in fact.
From Crofton: A Local History by Rev Eric Simmons, Sapphire Press, 1992.
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