DARK DAYS IN THE SPECIAL COUNTY PART TWO

DARK DAYS IN THE SPECIAL COUNTY PART TWO
　
　
A prerequisite of long back gardens to the forever pensive if not hallucinogenic mind of a child is that at their far end exists a unique and mysterious place to play. It may that the shoddy and rotting structure to an aged shed affords an exciting enclosure and exudes an awe of escape. Perhaps dense vegetation has thickened to prohibit paths and insist upon others leading to those peculiar tarnished and magical objects which lie point blanc against the finality of the back wall or fence. Sometimes the friends of older brothers contrive dens and covert hideouts of which a portion being blackened by a handful of full terms and summer holidays, mature into alluring relics which appeal to new infant explorers. On other times in other places it is not unheard of big black gardens being blessed with a single, large, shadowy and dignified tree. My own garden was dominated by a beautiful and imposing oak tree. So far as my reckoning was concerned of its kindred semi detached house being a savoury candidate for purchase. I rather regarded it as a secondary exhibit to the tree and not the reverse, which children are inclined to do. I recall its fragrant sap and how its full and wavering branches stole the early morning daylight when with gradual allure it had became my favourite haunt. Armature gymnastic appliances assembled by my well wishing Father hung suspended from its most robust horizontal arm and survived the infantile antics of aspiring and grandiose gymnasts, who were my friends and I.
At Derwentwater school in Acton West London, Mr Shievers, Mr Paice and especially Mr Arnold, upon learning that I was taking up life in Northampton , spoke well of it, made jovial references to its shoe making industry and promised me that the world would spin at a slower, more peaceable pace there. They, being a wholesome generation of astute comprehensive teachers, were all accurate, this was my new world. This small market town is where I would have a new beginning. Here, parents allowed their children unsupervised freedom to develop, their road traffic awareness, their anxieties of being harmed by traffic in the busy capital were perhaps valid and founded. Here we could choose between green and green, Abington park, Eastfield park and the pristine Headlands where dog ends in the gutter were as scarce as the odour of carbon monoxide. Here we arrived to the salvation and sanctuary of Sandiland road and we have four apple trees, that’s two cookers and two eaters. They lift your spirit to the garden’s left whilst the fence opposite is attacked from head to foot by all manner of wondrous botanical inevitability. These things of God in turn peer down upon (apart from a splendid tattoo of psychedelic flora) two successfully transported and replanted conifers, their forma habitat being the Acton town back garden of my nature loving green fingered Daddy.
The oak tree was a loved and cherished feature for us all. It was thought evoking. When introducing new friends to our garden I remember a feeling of vague yet definite pride of its comparatively unusual presence in an otherwise modest setting such as this.. Mrs Perrin during one of those women to women (over the garden wall) chats told my Mother, who had actually planted the tree.
It was the son of the elderly lady that had been the previous owner of our house. My concept of this lady was limited to the contemplations spawned by the bunch of keys belonging to her that we’d found in the dining g room drawer. She died in a local nursing home shortly after our moving in. Some fifty years before when her son was a small boy, he planted the tree from an acorn a small boy innocent as a budding flower and excited by an idea incited by his Father that he deliberate the beginning of something bound for greatness.. When this boy grew into a young man his life was taken from him in a torpedoed submarine during World War Two. He never got to see the majestic and noble oak which had resulted from his careful preparation.and imaginative childhood fun. Excitedly upon learning this, I searched for his name Gordon Metheral in the war memorial in Abington Square……..Sadly, I found it.
　
　
TIM SANSOM MARCH 2ND 2005