TO THE POWER OF TWO
Everyone kept
talking about it, so I had to go and look for myself. It was a long time since I’d been down
Longelm Shute, but as it was a glorious spring day, I decided I’d walk that way
for a change.
The steep hill was
cold, so overgrown with trees that it was completely dark. The road was narrow where the bushes and
brambles had crept onto the carriageway, and in the lee of the cliff there were
still patches of snow and ice. There had
been only a couple of houses down that
road and they had been abandoned to the chill long ago and were in an advanced state of decay. I saw not a single soul, not even boys
larking in the ruins; and when I listened, no birds sang. With my heart beating rather fast, I was glad
to emerge into sunlight at the bottom. I
shivered – the place seemed bewitched.
People I spoke to
told the same story – everyone avoided it, the children were scared to go
there. Because it was only a quiet back
way into the village at the top of the down, even traffic had stopped using it
because it had become so overgrown.
The Council came
and cut down some of the trees and for a short while the place seemed
lighter. But within days the road had
started to fall down the hill – perhaps because the trees had been holding it
up. So they left it. The young saplings thrived, and the tunnel
down the hill was soon as dark and gloomy as ever.
I say ‘down the
hill’ for I never went up it, so fearful had I become of its silent, menacing
atmosphere. But I took to striding down
it regularly – a road that had become no more than 6 feet wide in places –
though there was more determination than pleasure in it, especially as I never
saw another person, adult or child. But
something stubborn in me refused to let the enchantment win. Soon I noticed that where the old trees had
now gone, I could see beyond the end of the tunnel to the river and beyond
that, there was a patch of yellow shining in the sun. I started to look for it every time I plunged
into that pit. The shining drew me onwards
– encouraged me – but when I went across
the marsh, I could find no real explanation – a few straw bales, a patch of yellow irises, nothing more.
One day at the top
of the Shute, as I was wondering what could prevent this unholy area expanding
ever further, and driving away even more of the residents, I looked closely at
the very last house on the road before it dipped into the shadows. This sensible 1950s house sat firmly on its
plot, as stolid and contented as a horse asleep in the sun. The paintwork was spotless, the garden a
bright flood of flowers. I glanced
across every time I passed, it was such a brave sight before I plunged into the
depths. I saw the owner one morning and
she looked up and gave me a reticent smile.
I smiled warmly back, for here was a respectable elderly woman who would
have no truck with any nonsense from the creeping pestilence of the Shute. She might have been a headteacher or a
housekeeper, such was her determination
to keep things as they should be.
The next time I
passed she had bunches of flowers for sale.
I bought some – goodness knows why, I had plenty at home – and as I
ventured down that claustrophobically dim lane, I strewed them haphazardly,
each one a brief spot of colour – yellow, gold, flame and scarlet – in that
silent twilight place. "Fighting
fire with fire”, my trepdidation made a weak joke. Then another flash of red – and I hear a robin
sing!
After that I take
my own flowers to the top of the hill and sell them alongside Mrs Wright’s. As the summer progresses, we sell vegetables
too, and soon the people who drift mindlessly out of the characterless little
church on the hill, wander down as silently as battery hens and buy produce;
before departing cheerfully, talking happily together.
One day, to our
surprise, a woman comes to the stall, emerging from the chilly gloom that is
still Longelm Shute even on this glaringly hot day. She gives us a pumpkin, as though we are a
charity. It still has its supermarket
label on it, showing an American flag.
She is perfectly groomed, with her expensive hair-cut and highlights,
the designer jeans, the immaculate manicure with long red nails that never did
a day’s work. Mrs Wright takes the
pumpkin from her and I compare the hands – Mrs Wright's wrinkled, red and rough
with years of toil, with short, no-nonsense nails. She and I exchange a glance but thank the
woman anyway.
When I go down the
hill later for my daily walk, I take the pumpkin and roll it away down the
slope, whence it came. Under the bushes
where it comes to rest I see that – finally – the very last patch of winter
snow, which has hung on under the lee of the hill all these months, has
gone. A couple of boys flash past me on their bikes. Shrieking to each other as the fierce incline
whizzes them down towards the river, they almost hit the postman as he wheels
his bike up the steep road.
I catch his eye
and smile. “You’re only young once!”.
“Yes, I did that
that when I was a nipper!” He smiles
back. “Some things don’t change”.
--o0o--
