It's A Start

A short story by Phil Gillam

The invasion of our evidently not-so-secret patch of land was heralded by a flash of torchlight slicing through the darkness, and the words: “It’s all right, lads. It’s only us. Come to see how you’re getting on”. I had had encounters with people like this before and I was not exactly thrilled to see them.

It felt like it had already been dark for hours so it must have been about eight o’clock when our peace was shattered. It could only have been a couple of degrees above zero and I had just got myself tucked up and relatively cosy. Luckily, though, none of us had been asleep. We’d been chatting, exchanging disaster stories.

A small car park by day, our home by night, this place, between the higgledy-piggledy backs of buildings, sheltered us from the biting wind and gave us a degree of privacy. Sometimes it smelt like a strange mixture of stale pee and strong cider, but you got used to that.

It was now surprisingly well illuminated, this walled but roofless space, by the four torches and two fairly powerful lanterns carried by our philanthropic gate-crashers.

A woman’s voice, chirpy and bright, directed itself at me. “Hello there. We’ve come to offer you support. Some things to eat. Something to warm you up a bit. And we have useful information. Advice. That sort of thing. If you have any questions at all . . . ” Her sentence trailed off into the chilly November night. I looked up at her from my cardboard-box-bed, dazzled by her torchlight. And I could tell that she was taking it all in: the patch over the place my left eye used to be, the deep scar across my forehead, my matted hair. I knew I was not a pretty sight.

“You’ll be a Christian, no doubt,” I said.

“That’s not important now. We just want to help you if we can.”

They had descended upon us in our little den behind Poundstretcher and it felt to me like they were the ones who were doing the trespassing. Why couldn’t they just leave us alone? We weren’t hurting anyone. Our little band of ne’er-do-wells: James, 64, ex-Royal Navy, divorced three times, abandoned by his kids; Terry, 31, a bit of a druggy but an okay guy actually; and me.

“You’re new to this,” I said.

“How did you know?”

“Oh, you know. That impossibly cheerful disposition. That eagerness to help. That innocence. That patronising patter.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be,” I said, immediately realising I had upset her. “I’m being rude to you and you don’t deserve that. I’m the one who should apologise.”

She had arrived with three men, two of them solid and middle-aged, the third twig-like and spottily young. One of the older blokes had something bulky sticking out of the side-pocket of his jacket. I assumed it was a first aid kit.

I dragged myself up and out of my cardboard cocoon, pulled my coat tight around me, and leant up against the wall to be on some sort of an equal footing with my unsolicited benefactor. I looked at her properly for the first time. She was lovely. Eyes as big as oceans, hair wild as a thunderstorm. Her loveliness made me feel ashamed of my ugliness. We were about the same age, I reckoned. Who knows? – In another time, another place, we might have . . .

“Do you not have family to look after you?”

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“Just give me the edited hightlights,” she said.

She seemed like a genuinely caring person so I decided not to be such a tight-arse and to be pleasant for a change.

“Well, they used to say I was brainy. Intelligent. That I could really go places. And I believed them for a while. I was going to be a scientist, a high-flier.” I could see that she wasn’t quite sure if I was joking or not. “No really,” I said. “But I had a few problems. Dropped out of university. That was a mistake. Got my heart broken. Never really fulfilled my potential. Then a nasty motorcycle accident. Lost my eye. Hence the patch.”

“Very Johnny Depp,” she said. And then I could tell she thought she’d gone too far. She thought she’d offended me.

“That’s all right,” I told her, and I smiled at her. “I get a lot of pirate jokes.”

“You’ve had more than your fair share of bad luck,” she said.

At which point I decided not to tell her about my nervous breakdown and my psychotic episodes. I didn’t want her to think I was beyond all hope.

“Yeah. I suppose I have had a lot of bad luck,” I answered. “And then of course Paul McCartney let me down.”

“How’s that?” she asked. “Did his cheque bounce?”

I laughed and – through my laughter – said: “You’re the first good Samaritan to make me giggle. What have you got there in that bag of yours anyhow?”

She slipped the bag from her shoulder and unzipped it. “Mars bars to give you a sugar boost and Pot Noodles to warm you up. We have flasks of hot water and spoons if you fancy one now. We come around about once a week to keep an eye on you. Guys like you sleeping rough. People living in poverty, having trouble keeping things ticking over. We’ll say a prayer for you if you like.”

In my gentlest, friendliest tone, I said: “No. Don’t bother.”

“Anyway,” she said. “Tell me about you and Paul McCartney.”

“In the song, Winter Rose/Love Awake, he sings: ‘Snow falls in the winter, spring brings the rain.’

Before I could say another word, my goody-two-shoes interrupted by finishing the verse. “But it’s never too long before the summer comes again.”

“My God! How do you know that song?” I asked. “No-one else I know knows that song. We must be about the same age. How else would you know the words to a track from a lesser-known Wings album?”

“Lesser-known?” she said. “Back To The Egg, 1979. One of my all-time favourite albums. Don’t you give me that ‘lesser-known’ crap. It’s a brilliant record.”

I’ll tell you. I was really warming to this woman.

“And so Paul let you down in what way?” she asked.

“Well, I don’t think he is singing just about the changing seasons there. He’s really saying, don’t worry about all the snow and the rain. Eventually, you’re life will take a turn for the better and the summer will come again. Well, I’ll tell you. In my case, it’s been nothing but snow and rain. I haven’t seen the summer in a long, long time. So, as far as I’m concerned, McCartney let me down there – suggesting that things would all come right in the end. That’s not always the case.”

The three other goody-goodies seemed pre-occupied over in the other corner with James and Terry. From what I could gather, poor old James had pissed himself and the holy mob were trying to persuade him to go back to the church hall with them and change into some clean trousers that had been donated to their “good cause”.

I could see now that the bulky thing sticking out of the guy’s jacket pocket was not a first aid kit but a Bible. The old cynicism was rising in me again, but I stopped myself from saying something sarcastic. I stopped myself for her sake.

“By the way, you smell gorgeous,” I told her. “Fancy perfume? A little bit inappropriate given these circumstances, don’t you think?”

“It helps to mask the smell of the urine,” she said.

“Well, you shouldn’t keep pissing yourself,” I said.

She laughed and said: “Well, now we’re even. You’re the first homeless person to have made me laugh.”

Then, quite suddenly, and with all the audacity of a man with nothing left to lose, I asked her point blank: “Do you think you could ever love a man like me?”

She dug deep into her shoulder bag. “Here. Have a Mars bar,” she said.

“It’s a start,” I said.

Our Old Kitchen and The Power Of Place

I took this photograph when I was sixteen. It shows part of our old kitchen at 73 North Street. This was the kitchen from which my brother Tony and I would broadcast our imaginary radio show on a Saturday morning (Saturday Extra on Radio Zero) but that's another story.

The picture was rediscovered this week as the family continues to uncover old treasure during our massive sort-out of the loft (an emormous undertaking, but satisfying).

For me, this photograph speaks of my deep interest in what touchy-feely people nowadays might call “the power of place”.

The image reminds me that even at the tender age of sixteen I was intrigued and fascinated by rooms and their half-forgotten corners, by staircases, cupboards, fireplaces, old brickwork. Even back then as a spotty teenager I was moved by the atmosphere of places, in love with buildings and architecture, history and heritage, old pubs, old houses, old shops, old post offices, the patterns made by streets and cul-de-sacs, the incredible richness of the urban landscape. Even then I was captivated by how villages, towns and cities had developed through the ages and by the shapes and patterns left by past generations.

All this I can see as I view this battered corner of a damp and uncared-for kitchen in a Victorian house, photographed by me in 1974.

Attingham Park In The Snow: Just One Of The Highlights

Away from the treadmill for a few days, Carol and I have this week more or less gone back to being the people we always thought we were. . . . quite nice human beings really.

At the start of the week, she was Up North with her mum, snowed-in at Kingsley Drive, nattering, laughing, crying, drinking lots of tea, watching telly.

Meanwhile, I'd enjoyed a rather special evening out with my old Staffordian chums at the Spittal Brook pub in the county town of Staffordshire. Ah yes. Not an office party where you have to put on a mask, but a gathering of genuine friends, easy in each other's company. As always on these occasions, our dear old friends, Steve and Louise, put me up for the night. The next morning, I pulled back the curtains to see the first of the snow. Just beautiful.

Then it was back home to Shrewsbury for a week with highlights such as:

Alex and I treating ourselves to a Portuguese-style spicy meal at Nandos

Alex and I treating ourselves to a traditional English fry-up

Carol returning to Shrewsbury and cooking us a proper meal

Our impressive collection of Christmas DVDs coming out of hibernation

Christmas shopping up town with Carol (and lunch at Rococo in Butcher Row)

Buying myself a new scarf. Carol says you're allowed to have more than one scarf.

Carol and Karen being pampered at a spa near Oswestry

Getting some writing done

Watching 'Elf' (without doubt a modern Christmas classic, I reckon, and one which always makes me shed a tear . . . but in a good way)

Watching 'The Family Stone' (without doubt another modern Christmas classic, I reckon, and again one which always makes me shed a tear . . . but again in a good way)

Watching 'Love Actually' (without doubt yet another modern Christmas classic, I reckon, and yet again one which always makes me shed a tear . . . but again in a good way. Am I repeating myself at all?)

Carol and I attending Attingham Park's lovely Frost Fair on a beautiful snow-covered day

Going round to see my old mate Steve on Saturday night and watching three episodes of Whatever Happened To The Likely Lads followed by one episode of The West Wing

Yep. A pretty great week, actually.

Ramblings From A Riverside Bench

As I fumble around in my jacket pocket for a mint or perhaps a hard-boiled rhubarb and custard, I notice that swans are gathering on the mirror-like water beneath the Castle Bridge. It is a bridge I have known all my life. This is a river I have known all my life. I am sitting on a bench I have known all my life.

This entire scene before me – the long grass on the opposite bank, the curve of the riverside walk to my left which takes you down to the cascading waters of the weir, and to my right the mighty railway station bridge – is so deep within my psyche that it is sometimes impossible for me to separate memories from dreams. Did my ten-year-old self really sit here on this bench with my best friend in 1967, the two of us planning what we would do with our lives if we were given super-powers? Or did I just dream that? Certainly, on summer afternoons, just before teatime, my little brother and I would often wait here for Dad who would be cycling home from work on his museum-piece of a bike. Now that one is definitely a memory and not a dream.

The sun is low now and partially obscured by cloud. There is a chill in the air. I allow myself to drift into a pleasing fog of abstracted fancy, and for a moment I can almost see our old Dad pedalling his trusty steed towards me.

Just over there is the rather magnificent Severn Bridge Junction signal box, built in 1904 and – I’ll have you know – the largest of its kind in Europe: a cathedral among signal boxes. And just there you can also see the Abbey Church, which is possibly even more magnificent than the signal box, and indisputably somewhat older, clocking in at 1083. That’s what I love about Shrewsbury: layer upon layer upon layer of history.

The streets of my childhood are just a stone’s throw from here: North Street, Queen Street, Burton Street, West Street, Donkey Alley. Our family moved to this oh-so-ordinary and yet oh-so-enchanting Victorian suburb in 1963 and left it in 1979. I was six years of age when we came here, twenty-two when we left. My formative years. From the birth of Beatlemania through the glory days of Slade and T. Rex and Rod Stewart and David Bowie to the death throes of punk.

We lived in a magical beaten-up old house in the shadow of the lovely All Saints Church. All these years later I cycle or walk or drive back down here frequently, seduced by what many these days would refer to as nostalgia, but what I prefer to think of as communing with the past.

A jogger now passes by, his iPod plenty loud enough for me to pick out the monotone of an insistent rebellious rap. I smile to myself, momentarily considering my own kaleidoscopic tastes in pop music. Rap, I’m afraid, I shall never warm to. Nevertheless, I am proud to say I enjoy just about everything else from The Searchers to Coldplay. But wide though my musical interests are, and as vast as my CD collection is, I suppose some might say that the writing was on the wall for me as far back as 1978. Even at that point in my life I was beginning to live in the past. Because although I knew full well back then that in order to be cool I should really have been loving Paul Weller snarling his way through hits like The Modern World, I in truth yearned for the much more melodic tunes of the sixties and early, pre-punk seventies. In my heart of hearts, I suppose I will always prefer The Marmalade to The Jam.

Oh dear. A weak joke. Our dad would have approved . . .

I look downstream now, towards the weir. The jogger and his iPod disappear into the distance.

Ah. Our dear old parents, God bless ’em, would have been totally baffled by the world today. What would they have made of iPods? Come to that, forget your digital downloads and your memory sticks – Mum and Dad would have been confused by shower gel and clip-on sunglasses.

Dad was decidedly working class, dirt forever under his fingernails. Mum: lower middle class, curlers and cardigans. He was fun-loving, gregarious, all beer and dominoes. She was shy, sensitive, easily embarrassed.

Dad had his silly sayings:

“It’s a great life if you don’t weaken.”

and

“I can’t help it if I’m good-looking.”

Mum, sitting by the open fire on a winter’s afternoon, had her simple wisdom:

“If you can’t say something nice about someone, don’t say anything at all.”

We boys played endlessly with our Matchbox cars and plastic soldiers. We were happy to stay indoors for much of the time, which was just as well as trips out were few and far between. Although, for the vast majority of our childhood, our family could not afford a car, we did however have an old banger for a few months. It was so untrustworthy, though, that it wasn’t used a great deal. For the most part, it seemed to me, our pride and joy – an ancient Hillman Minx – stood rusting round the corner in West Street; worthless, built like a tank, looking sad as if it knew it had a date with the scrap merchant.

Meanwhile, we boys played on. With crayons and scissors, staples and Sellotape, we would create our own comics featuring the adventures of our own superheroes and cartoon cats. Our interests in writing, story-telling and publishing – not to mention a strange and enduring fondness for stationery – thus found an early outlet.

Oh dear. The pre-pubescent me: every bit as shy as my mother, uncertain, slow to learn, under-achieving, scared of his own shadow, head in the clouds, almost always preferring the sanctuary of home to the often not-so-great-outdoors. In here: telly, biscuits, Mum. Out there: a host of tiny dangers. Beyond that old dependable front door lay the domain of bullies: big boys with fists and attitude. Adults could be just as bad. It was a world inhabited by sneering teachers, suspicious shop-keepers and unfriendly bus drivers.

Oh watch out. The jogger is back. He must have been as far as the weir and is now on the return journey.

“Hey mate,” I pretend to say. “Got any Marmalade on that iPod?”

The swans have moved on now. It’s getting cold. Time to go home. But I’ll be back again soon.

This is how I nourish my quiet, unobtrusive love for our long-gone Mum and Dad.

St Alkmund's, St Mary's and the Railway Station

A letter to the Shrewsbury Chronicle.

October 2010.

Re: Restoration projects.

The thoughtful and insightful letter from the Rev Richard Hayes of St Alkmund's (Chronicle, September 30), reminds us that there is a difference between good restoration and bad restoration.

An example of good restoration is that which the people of St Alkmund's have achieved over the past nine years. An example of bad restoration was the scheme from 1910 (outlined in the Rev Hayes' letter) to effectively rip out and replace four beautiful windows dating from 1795; a scheme which thankfully never came to fruition.

But this story reminded me of other acts (and proposals) relating to St Alkmund's, to St Mary's, and (more recently) to our splendid railway station.

As is told in St Alkmund's own leaflet ('A Brief History'), the medieval church of St Alkmund's was a fine one but when Old St Chad's Church collapsed in 1788 there was "a general alarm about the safety of both St Mary's and St Alkmund's".

On the strength of questionable advice, the demolition of St Alkmund's was decided upon and an Act of Parliament was passed dated April 17, 1794, to authorise the taking down and rebuilding of all but the tower and spire.

As if to emphasise just how crazy this move was, the strength of the undecayed walls was such that explosives had to used to destroy them. As the leaflet says: “The authorities realised their folly too late”.

As if that were not enough, the next sentence in the leaflet really blew my socks off: “St Mary's was saved from a similar fate by one vote”.

Well, thank goodness for that one vote!

With thinking like this all down through the centuries it is a miracle that so many wonderful historic buildings have survived at all!

Leaping forward in time the best part of a couple of hundred years, our beautiful railway station was under threat, I believe, in the early 1960s. I am sure I remember reading this somewhere (and perhaps fellow Chronicle readers can help me out here). In an era when many lovely Victorian railway stations up and down the country were swept away in favour of the shoebox designs so fashionable at the time, even our gorgeous station was considered (briefly) as ripe for the bulldozers. Just who are these people who can envisage such appalling vandalism?

Phil Gillam,

Shrewsbury.

Cassette Tapes - Why Do I Still Have So Many?

A bit of a rant from earlier this year . . .

Okay. It’s official – I am a hoarder.

I decided this morning to have a bit of a sort out of the tape cassettes that are kept in a sideboard behind the settee. I seemed to recall that I had one or two. I got them all out to have a look at:

I have 182 tape cassettes

(that’s in addition to my 800 CDs and 300 vinyl albums).

And you know what?

I don’t feel I want to let go of any of them.

If we look specifically at the cassettes (which, I know, I never play any more, what with CDs and my iPod being the currency of the day) . . . we find many of these have strong sentimental value (and some are simply priceless, as opposed to valueless).

There is, for example, a whole bunch of compilation cassettes made for me by Tone for various birthdays, with titles like:

None Taken I’m Sure

Tinted Foundation Eye Shadow

Devastating To Colours

I Was Surprised That Phil Hadn’t Rung

and

(most poignant of all)

Time Isn’t On Our Side: I’m Getting Horribly Ancient.

Then there are gems which ought to be in the British Museum, like

Two Evenings by Solid Water

Sgt Kipper’s Loony Parts’ Club Land

Treasure Island

and

Administrative Gardening.

Sorry Tone. I think I borrowed these off you in eighteen-fast-asleep and forgot completely to return them. (Along with your book on the Quakers). And, yes, I know, the two editions of Slightly Foxed.

Anyway, I just hope my brother is taking care of those copies of Target magazine as well as I am taking care of these tapes!

Meanwhile, if any of you out there have any ideas which will help me reduce the size of my cassette collection or (alternatively) suggestions as to how I can store them somewhere else other than behind the settee . . . please get in touch. Or if you have a philosophical outlook or any advice at all, email me back. I would be delighted to hear from you.

The Mystery of the Bowling Green Pub

A letter to the Shrewsbury Chronicle.

August 2010.

Re: The Bowling Green Pub at Meole Village.

People always used to believe that The Wrekin was an extinct volcano. I'm quite sure that for years even geography teachers used to pass on this misinformation to their pupils. Funny how these myths can solidify into 'facts'.

By the same token, an article in your Home and Property supplement about an absolutely gorgeous (wish I could afford it) townhouse on Hereford Road, may have contained a tiny myth.

It suggested Brook House was at one time a public house by the name of The Bowling Green Inn. This sounded a bit unlikely. I looked up The Bowling Green in Derek Row's painstakingly researched book, Shrewsbury: A Heritage of Old Inns and Taverns.

Mr Row gives the address of the pub as Hereford Road, Meole Brace, but other information recorded here suggests that the townhouse currently for sale and the Bowling Green Inn are not one and the same place. Firstly, Mr Row's book has it that the pub was rebuilt about 1850 (much too late to be the elegant Georgian building now on the market). The book also says the pub was between Meole Road and the Rea Brook in Meole Village. Well, Brook House may well be near the Rea Brook but it certainly isn't in Meole Village. Mr Row goes on to say that the inn stood on the site where the Leagrove House is now (which must mean that the building that was the inn no longer exists).

Can anyone out there shed any light on this?