Open Writing

Hands up those who mislaid their spectacles today. Now those who require a carefully written shopping list before setting off to the shops. Good. I see I am among friends.

My own frustration at finding I no longer remember the dentist’s telephone number (selective forgetting?) is amply compensated by the detailed memories of childhood adventures.

I would like to share one that began when my brother and I saw an open door at base of the old tower. Curious as cats we dropped our bicycles and ran up the steps to look inside.

Built of stone blocks and rising 150 feet above neat green lawns, the water tower was a landmark in our town. My father told us people used to pay a penny to climb the spiral staircase and admire the spectacular views from the top. Declared unsafe, the tower had remained locked for many years so it was with some surprise that my brother and I found the heavy door open.

‘Wow.’ Doug’s drawn out sound of wonder echoed back to us as we stood inside the tower. What child can ignore the invitation of steps leading upward?

As we climbed we heard voices and at a turn of the stairs we were forced to flatten ourselves against the wall as a group of unruly boys bounded past us descending the steps two at time. We heard the door slam behind them, the deafening sound reverberating from the stone walls. The eerie stillness that followed overpowered our voices and we spoke in whispers. Standing on tiptoe we looked out from a slit in the wall. It was late on a Sunday afternoon and we could see no people.

Undaunted and clinging to our sense of adventure we continued to climb. Higher we went. Round and around until we reached a dark section without windows. We could hear pigeons cooing. The walls were white with guano and the horrible smell almost turned us back.

Doggedly we climbed on. Up and up. The steps became narrow and our arms brushed the walls. As our heads poked above the next floor level we found daylight. Almost running, we mounted the last few steps to emerge onto the parapet that surrounded the tower.

It was sunset and the entire sky was red. It made our skin glow like fire and changed the colour of our clothes. It was magic. My brother and I forgot time. Forgot where we were and that we had parents who might be looking for us. And worse, we forgot we had to climb down all those stairs.

Instead we gazed at the spectacle of a pink mountain, followed the line of the big river and plotted the tiny townships out along the main road. Closer in we found our school and the church and our home. Only when the sun finally disappeared did we realise our predicament.

Bravely we began the descent. Twenty steps down it became pitch black. The pigeons took flight filling the darkness with terrifying flapping. and I screamed as one caught its talons in my hair. Feeling our way along the guano coated wall in the dark, we return as fast as possible to the top steps

We shouted but no one heard us and worn out, we huddled together and slept.

We woke at daybreak and shivering with cold, walked around the parapet. There were men at the fire station opposite. We yelled and Doug took off his shirt waving it as hard as he could.

Finally one looked up. Two men ran across the road to the door of the tower. We could hear them banging. Then a policeman came and beckoned us to come down.

Down we plodded, step after step, our tired legs aching until we were met by the firemen who carried us out of the tower and home to our parents.

Our little adventure occurred sixty years ago and still I get goosebumps when an innocent flock of park pigeons take to the wing, flying upward in ever widening circles, leaving me standing with my hands clamped tight to my head.

You see, there is nothing wrong with my memory.