Childhood Memories
by Susan J King
(Writing exercise for the local writng group)
My first home was in a small street in a small village propped between mining and steel. At that time, there were 14 houses in the street and it lead to a dead end with nothing beyond it but a field that led to the other street. I believe there were only three streets; the private street, the council street and the street that linked the two, passing the paper shop before continuing all the way into the town. We went there for school and occasionally on a Friday night to the café for homemade ice cream; crisps were sixpence and we got an extra threepenny bit for the café. They're all gone now, replaced by a supermarket, offices and decimalisation.
Everyone knew everyone and everyone was an aunt or an uncle, if they lived in the same street. Doors were open, mums at home, dads at work and many a coffee morning shared. Dinner was on the table at 6pm and when parents called, children ran. (Most times.) I don't know if the mums and dads were married nor if the kids really were full brothers and sisters. I don't know if they were Christians or otherwise. There were two schools, some of us went to one, whilst some went to the other, that was all we knew. That stuff is all adult stuff and, as such, totally irrelevant to kids.
Everything else that we needed was in the village - friends, safe places, open spaces and a variety of clubs in the local hall. We made cakes at the Brownies, kites at the Saturday Morning Club, sang all the wrong words in Sunday School and the rest of the time we played and rode ponies, some real, some no more than fabulous make believe steeds, dreamt up by childish imaginations.
There was a swing park with an adjoining football park. We weren't allowed to ride the real ponies in the swing park or on the football field. But we always did! Thundering hooves leaving telltale prints embedded in soft green grass, followed by hot denials, yells and tears when 'the park man' came chasing, waving his gun in the air.
From our street, you could see the pit bings. We were practically surrounded by them and nobody noticed. What dangerous, yet fascinating, places they were. We were never allowed to go near them. But we always did! They're all gone now, replaced by landscaped hills and planning applications for shopping centres.
Best of all, we had the woods and the loch with its beguiling little island. The leafy underworld that hid all sorts of dangers, ghosts and bogeymen, mine shafts and tunnels, ruins and remnants of long forgotten bridges. The 'bottomless' loch that had once been a quarry, now filled with murky water, perch and pike, was the source of many tall tales. We weren't allowed to wander off in that direction. But we always did! It's all gone now, replaced by security fences and someone's dream home.
One day the men came and fenced our field in half. Huge machines arrived and the digging began. Oh! The noise and the commotion of mechanical monsters as a massive gouge appeared across the middle of our field. We sat bareback on quivering ponies, watching in awe. We were warned never to go near there. But we always did! When the men left at night, we went exploring. Frogs, toads and newts were our favourite catches, as they crossed from the loch to the top woods and found a new road in their path. So, too, did some of the ponies go exploring, but by then it was too late. The road had already been completed and was open to all. Their path of progress was a sixty-mile per hour nightmare waiting to happen, and it did!
Trixie didn't live to see the birth of her foal, for both their lives were lost that night.