Open Writing

The longest garden in the world ended at a rough wire fence which separated it from the woodland. There was an unspoken rule that we never ventured into that dark area beyond. To tell you the truth, it was also a bit scary.

Just inside the fence there was an ancient railway carriage. How it got there was a mystery. Why it was there was also a bit of a puzzle. It was full of straw. No, I tell a lie. It wasn’t quite full but there was plenty of it — enough for a boy and girl to enjoy together.

No, no, no; please don’t get the wrong idea. This was sixty to sixty-five years ago, when small boys and girls had nothing between the navel and the knees. At least, not in our family. The girl was a visitor, like me. We just liked playing in the straw, that’s all.

No doubt Mr Green, whose garden it was, used the straw in the nesting boxes for his hens. Or on his vegetable beds. But, apart from the old carriage — or was it a tram? — there were other things to delight a small person.

Though the name of the girl has long since faded into the mists of time, a vague picture of the sheds remains. Were they really sheds? Some might have been wooden sheds, but others were definitely built of brick.

The mental picture shows half a dozen, but in reality there might have been only about three. Each one contained its own treasures and one or two seemed to be little houses. In a child’s imagination, they appeared to be invitingly habitable, perhaps even inhabited.

The big one, nearest to the house, was a workshop. That was where Mr Green made little wooden sailing boats, each with a mast and a real cotton sail. They weren’t as posh or as realistic as the toy boats you could buy in the shops, if your parents could afford them. But they stayed upright in the water, and sailed in the wind, and that was the important thing.

Mr Green had a daughter, perhaps in her twenties or thirties, whose name was Aunty Ruby. She made pots of tea, homely jam sandwiches, and little cakes. She also gave me an elegant desk set with a pen, propelling pencil, letter-opener and sealing wax signet stamp.

The pencil still contains its lead. The Perry & Co Royal nib in the pen is stained with the Indian ink I used for lettering. The padded gift box is worn and faded and the hinge gave way many years ago. The metal clasp no longer clicks tightly in place.

Aunty Ruby died of TB. I didn’t know about that, at the time. Children were not told everything. That sort of thing comes later.

The long garden, the old railway carriage (or tram), the fascinating sheds and the house were probably demolished long ago to make room for a monotonous housing estate.
What happened to the dark woodland? Well, I reckon we’ve all been there, one way or another. The passing years take us out of the garden and through rough fences into the dark areas beyond childhood.

There are times when it’s good to clutch at straws.

© Copyright 2006 Brian Barratt