This England

igger and better than anyone
else’s. Of course the rest of us
boys and girls were thrilled by
the spectacular show his giant
sky rockets put on, but I think
our enjoyment was tempered
by just a twinge of envy. Not
that we were surprised by the
extravagance of his contributions.
After all, this was the lad who
had told us when he first joined
our gang that he had a playroom
in his house! Yes, a playroom!
A room specially set aside for play! A ballroom, great hall or
gymnasium at number 22 Branch Road would have been less of
a surprise. We were astounded.
The onset of winter didn’t stop us playing out. Those
fields and lanes covered in snow and ice offered different
opportunities: snowball fights, the building of snowmen and, on
one memorable occasion, the construction at the top of a steep
hill of a massive snow boulder. It took several of us a whole
day to make and after a few young shoulders had pushed it on
its way less than a minute for it to thunder down the slope and
smash itself to smithereens on the barbed-wire fence below.
That same hill was the most popular local place for sledging
and making slides. These activities lasted all afternoon, with the
shouts and laughter of warmly wrapped-up children ringing out
across the fields until evening fell and all colour faded from the
landscape save for the black of the trees and the winding road
in the valley below, and the white of the snow. Then, in a world
that seemed unnaturally silent, it was home to tea, a cheerful
fire and curtains drawn to keep out the night.
It was only for the few days before and after Christmas Day
that playing with friends was temporarily suspended. Visits
to and from relatives took priority, and activities that could
be enjoyed indoors: Hide and Seek (if we went to stay at my
grandparents’ large farmhouse in the Lake District), Blind
Man’s Buff and favourite card and board games.
There were also Christmas presents to play with! My sister
and I received some wonderful gifts and one year I was thrilled
to unwrap a magnificent castle. Constructed of solid wood
and complete with a drawbridge and portcullis that could be
wound up and down, a dungeon beneath the courtyard and
turreted towers at each corner, this knocked into a cocked hat
anything that David Fleming ever received. Although for a
number of years Father Christmas took undeserved credit for
its appearance and quality, I now know that thanks are due to
one of my uncles. He could have been a carpenter, plumber,
electrician or builder, and his skills surpassed any that the man
in the red outfit on the sleigh could ever hope to muster.
When I revisited the area a few years ago, I found my
childhood home almost unrecognisable. Thankfully, though, the
fields and woods behind the house remained just as they were
and untouched by the developments that have scarred so much
of England during the last 50 years. But where were the children?
Where were the boys swinging on a rope above the stream?
Where were the girls with their skipping rope stretched across the
road or playing hopscotch on a chalked grid on the pavement?
Where was the huddle of boys and girls with arms outstretched
in the age-old practice of deciding who was
going to be “It” in a game of Tag? We used various rhymes to
determine this. One of them went something like…
Ip dip
My blue ship,
Sailing on the water
Like a cup and saucer —
O-U-T spells out!
There was also “One potato, two potato, three potato,
four…” but to the youngsters of today these chants and the
customs associated with them must seem as mysterious and
irrelevant as the forgotten language and rituals of an ancient
tribe. They have their own language, the language of the
internet and social media, where games are played in silence
on a screen, communication takes place through a computer
keyboard, and, like the big bad wolf in one of the stories
recounted in my world, those who would do them harm are
always on the lookout for ways to break in.
One of the greatest barriers to children playing out has been
the increase in traffic during the past decades: it is no longer
safe. I was heartened, therefore, to hear about a group, Playing
Out Bristol (playingout.net), which is enjoying tremendous
success — both locally and nationwide — not only in creating
the conditions (arranging for streets to be closed to traffic etc.)
where children can enjoy themselves, but also reviving the
whole culture of healthy street activities and games.
Whenever I think of those carefree boys and girls and their
adventures among the Lancashire hills all those years ago I am
always reminded of that lovely film from 1961, Whistle Down
the Wind, with Hayley Mills and Alan Bates. We didn’t find an
escaped criminal in our barn who we mistook for “gentle Jesus”,
but we weren’t so very different. I also recall Blue Remembered
Hills, Dennis Potter’s ingenious 1979 television play in which the
roles of the children, playing in the Forest of Dean during the
Second World War, were taken by adult actors (Helen Mirren,
Michael Elphick, Robin Ellis, Collin Welland etc.).
Try as I might, thoughts of A. E. Housman’s achingly
poignant poem then become impossible to shut out.
Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.
TRINITY MIRROR/MIRRORPIX/ALAMY STOCK PHOTO
THIS ENGLAND, Winter, 2017 11