Pergola Reflections and Other Dark Places

By Anthony J. Beck

Jim, a retired man of sixty whose wife has left him for another woman. He spends his time sitting outside in his pergola, listening to the radio and recalling memories from his past. A young woman with two children moves into the house next door, and a friendship begins between them. The story starts innocuously but soon darkens into something more sinister.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504995474

Anthony J. Beck

I have always been interested in people; why they do the things they do, what motivates them and so on. I look at the way they behave and listen to their words to see if they match their actions. I simply observe. It's all there, one simply writes it down. I have lived quite few years now, and I've probably made every mistake an average man can make. Because I've made mistakes I can see others making the same or similar errors. I don't interfere, it's not my place to, but I do try, sometimes, to hint at a better way. You never know. I say this. It is ok to make mistakes when you're 20. Just don't be making them when you're 50. I am happily married to Diana. I live a a quiet village in Warwickshire. I am retired from the Civil Service. I play the Blues guitar (Electric) and I still enjoy singing. I own 5 really nice guitars. My favourite guitarists are Eric Clapton. Gary Moore and early Peter Green. I enjoy reading and listening to Radio 4. Anything else about me I'd rather keep to myself in case anybody is looking.

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© 2015 John Thurlbeck. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse 11/30/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-9548-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-9547-4 (e)

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This book is dedicated to my brother

Mick who I mention in the story.

He died recently and didn’t get the chance

to see his name in print. He was a great

chap and I miss him being around. It’s

difficult to say anymore, so I won’t.

AJB.

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July 2004.

It had taken us a few years but we finally had the garden how we wanted it; virtually maintenance free. It was out the patio doors and straight onto wooden decking. There was hardly a blade of grass to be seen; only the few square metres near the bottom of the garden to add a bit of conformity.

The decking reached out three metres and stretched across the rear of the house almost edge to edge. It was all treated timber with a stout wooden handrail that starts from the short left-hand garden wall, across the front and the down right hand side to give a sense of enclosure; a gate at front centre of the rail allowed access to the garden proper when the need arose.

Standing over the decking is a Pergola that has a mixture of Clematis and Honeysuckle growing over it and is as wide as the back of the house. It reaches out to within a metre of the front handrail and provides a sense of comforting seclusion; it’s also a place of protection when the sun is out. It’s my favourite place to sit. The pergola and garden is a place of good memories for me. Me and Jenny had spent years getting it all ‘just so.’

The decking has lots of big pots for flowers and small shrubs that need nothing more than a little watering and the occasional bit of pruning to keep them healthy and neat.

The garden is mostly lots of billowing shrubs all under spread with pebbles for ground cover, and lots of nothing else planted directly into the ground; it was all designed for low upkeep and easy maintenance.

The Clematis and Honeysuckle over the pergola are of the evergreen varieties and this tends to keep it looking good, even in the winter; it looks better in spring and summer of course, when they’re in flower.

So here I sit - unless the weather is real shitty – alone and contemplative; it is what I do…it’s easy, it takes no effort and I like that. I listen to the wireless, read books, drink wine and sulk. I don’t sulk too much; just enough to satisfy my sombre moods when I have them.

The other thing about sitting out here is…I don’t mess the house up much. I hate all that dusting, washing, hoovering, changing bed linen and so on; it’s not men’s work…well not this man’s anyway.

And why do I be moody? Well, it’s because she’s fucked off hasn’t she? The missus, she’s fucked off and left me for another woman of all things. And let me tell you, if she’d been harbouring secret lesbian tendencies during our marriage, then she never told me about them. She did tell me she was in love for the first time though. She also told me she didn’t love me any less than she always had, but she simply had stronger feelings for her new lover. I think she said this to make me feel better about her going. It didn’t, and it was a difficult revelation to come to terms with. She’s fifty years old, for fuck sake; she ought to be out there, working in the garden she was supposed to love, not messing around inside another woman’s knickers. Hey, who knows what goes on inside people’s heads? I suppose it was better than her running off with the milkman or some toy boy; another man would have been harder for me to take. I mean, I’m as good as anybody…for my age? And what man would be able to satisfy her sexual needs better than me? I’m not boasting, but let me tell you, I used to have her bouncing about all over the shop when she fancied a bit; my years of experience I suppose.

She hasn’t asked me for a divorce yet. She hasn’t asked for anything in fact, seeing as we haven’t talked at all since she went, but I think she will contact me eventually; nobody’s going to walk away from half of two hundred grand or so, not if they’re in their right mind.

I do miss her though. She looked after the house well and was pretty good in bed, and she was always up for a good chat too; she had the philosophical thing off pat, could discuss hypotheticals till the cows came home. The other thing I miss is…she used to cut my hair for me; now, I have to go to the fucking barbers again. It’s just a fucking nuisance, that’s all; something I can do without. I suppose, all in all, I loved her; still do I suppose. That realisation came as a shock to me as well; made it all a bit harder to take.

So what was I left with here? Just my memories, that’s what. I’m not old, not like previous generations would have been at my age, but I’m not so young either. I’m certainly too old to go chasing after a new woman, a new young woman anyway; and who wanted to go chasing after an old one? Not me. But if I did go for another one, I’ve decided, I might as well try for a young’un…she could take care of me when I become decrepit…that’s what the Victorians’ used to do; men were always older than their wives in those days, it made sense…still does.

*  *  *

Today looked like it was going to be lovely so I was outside early. If it goes a bit chilly I’ll simply wrap up a bit; I just like being out here. I might have to mow the grass later; it needs it, but for now…

Today I tuned my wireless to BBC7 and caught the beginning of a rerun of a Dickens classic. I always enjoy listening to plays on the wireless, sound only drama makes you use your imagination more, and it’s never boring…not to me, anyhow.

So for now, Reader, I’m going to close my eyes, relax back into my comfortable canvas chair and enjoy the ambience. Fuck women, that’s what I say…who needs them?

I half dozed for a while and woke a while later to the sound of some couple singing an old country song; the man’s faltering voice sounding good alongside the woman’s nice country drawl. I missed the names when they were introduced, but the woman is good, whoever she is. The song was about the old times, a time when things were different…less frenetic. It makes me think about when I was a boy; when I was at school. I’ve got to tell you, it has been a long time since I’ve thought about my childhood…too many bad memories and not enough good ones, perhaps. But it was all a long time ago now, another country, as they say, so what harm can it do? Maybe I ought to let my mind have its own way…go where it wants.

Here’s what I’m going to do Reader. I’m going to tell you of some of my memories and recollections. It’ll help me pass the time, and perhaps it’ll help me put some things in perspective, so here goes nothing; and anyway, maybe you’ll find it entertaining, who knows?

We’ll start with my schooling, which was crap; both primary and secondary. Not that we used those words back then; they were just first and second school.

My infancy in primary school – what we simply called the infants - was blighted by miserable and hard hearted Nuns who, unfortunately, were our teachers. These women – all wimpled up – may have been married to Christ, but I can only surmise that their barren, lonely beds, made them frustrated and hard hearted, because a lot of them were quite nasty; and I know my memory serves me well on that one.

My mother took me to school on my first day; I was a reluctant attendee…I didn’t want to go, so I cried all the way there.

We were met and led into a large playroom by a senior Nun…a mother superior, I suppose; she was probably the equivalent of a head mistress. Anyway, because I was crying I was placed upon a large rocking horse to assuage my tears. Eventually, this Nun – I can’t remember her name - told my mother to leave me with her, ‘she would look after me,’ she said. ‘I would be alright,’ she reassured my mother. As soon as my equally distressed mother departed, closing the door behind her, the Nun slapped me hard across the face and told me to stop snivelling because snivelling would do me no good; not now my mother was gone.

I’ve never forgotten her or the lesson I learned that day; don’t believe everything people say, no matter who they are or what position they hold. From that day to this, that maxim has held true and stood me in good stead on many occasions.

Over the next five years, or there abouts, I had a few good times there, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t, but mostly it’s just a blur to me; an unpalatable bowl of grey porridge that’s hard to get into, and even now, when I think about it after all these years, it is difficult to digest, and certainly tough going when trying to pass it out the other end to disappear down the sewers of obscurity where it belongs. Maybe its best that way…leave it alone like a war wound that’s healed over; the shrapnel may still inside, but it’s dormant and doesn’t hurt much.

When we were ten years old, me and the other lads had to move to the ‘boys only’ school for the final five years. There was little difference between the two institutions as far as I can tell. We might have escaped from the clutches of the inconsiderate Nuns, but soon enough, we all discovered, it was a frying pan and fire situation; our new male teachers were insensitive, cruel and inept, and seemed totally disinterested in giving us the real education we deserved.

The one thing we all learned early on though, was that we had to go to church on Sunday or we were in for it on Monday; it was Catholic education at its finest…

On Monday mornings a priest would go from classroom to classroom to interrogate us as to which mass we’d attended. We would go to hell, we were told, if we didn’t attend mass on Sundays. Love of God was never mentioned, only the certainty of eternal pain and punishment in hell if we failed in our duty. Ah, I remember it well, as Hermione Gingold and Maurice Chevalier would say.

However, I did make some good friends there, and those lads made the years tolerable at least.

I can recall a time one summer - I couldn’t remember exactly what age we would have been, definitely past ten and not yet fifteen – when we began going to the nearby park during the mid-day break to play football or cricket, or simply to hang around. I think it must have been a good summer, so it was better than staying in the confining school yard and it was only a short walk away…..five minutes is all.

The park had a central grassy playing area which was hemmed in on all sides. If you stood in the middle facing east you had the town’s river running the whole length to the left. To the right was a long wrought iron railing with a gate at each end that led out onto a busy road. Behind you and opposite the river was a continuous brick wall that must have been hundreds of yards long; trees, shrubs and a variety of bushes grew along the whole length of the wall and were about four or five feet deep…a great place for hiding. To the left was the park’s boating lake where punts and dinghies could be hired. The lake exited into the river under a small wooden bridge that allowed the more adventurous weekend paddlers to test their oarsmanship. A footpath circled all sides of the park; along by the river, around the top and back again along by the wall shrubbery. An entry gate at the narrow end of the park which was on the other side of the boating lake closed the circle. A person, if they wanted, could enter one end and exit the other, or walk all the way around and return to where they started. Local Anglers used to fish in the river…I think they still do. All in all, it was a nice place to visit.

One time during this summer period we noticed that a man – a cyclist who regularly rode the footpath that ran alongside the shrubbery – began stopping and disappearing into the bushes, taking his bike with him. He would remain hidden for some time before emerging to continue his journey.

He was a full grown adult as far as we were concerned, but on reflection he was probably only in his early twenty’s…no older. So, after a day or so we began to speculate on this man’s odd behaviour.

Now Reader, you will have to take into consideration that kids…children…in those days had a different relationship with adults compared with today. Now, children of all ages seem to treat all adults with derision and distain; then though, we would always give them a wide and respectful berth. Peeved adults, giving a cheeky kid a clip around the ear was quite acceptable, back then.

To continue; we became even more interested in the strangers antics when we spotted a female entering the shrubbery at the same time but some distance further up the path; this became a daily occurence. We concluded that they must be connected, so we watched more avidly. The two of them, we observed, remained in the shrubbery for about twenty minutes before reappearing and going their own separate ways; we knew they must have been up to something…but what? It took us a few of days of lurid speculation to decide what to do; we resolved to spy on them.

For all of us at that time, you’ll understand, our sexual knowledge was scant to say the least. Woman’s underwear and what it covered was, in the main, only to be guessed at, and our understanding of the sexual act, with all its intricacies, was even vaguer. None of us, for instance, clearly understood where babies came from, or at least how they got inside a woman’s belly.

Our plan, such as it was, was to split into two groups, and then, a few minutes after the couple had arrived, we would sneak into the bushes from both ends, like a pincer movement, and get as close as we could to see what they were about.

We had played at Cowboys and Indians many times…seen the Western films too…so we believed that, like Apache scouts, we could creep through the undergrowth without being seen or heard.

Our D-Day plan being made we waited in our two small groups; about five of us at the cyclist’s end, and the others at the woman’s end.

On cue, the couple arrived and duly disappeared from view. We gave them time to get started and then, with a co-ordinating wave, we went on in.

As I recall, we did get close enough to see that the man had the woman pinned against a tree and was kissing her, but that was about it. We must have sounded like a herd of big footed elephants because the chap soon spotted us. He shouted and gave chase; it was my pack he picked on and he headed our way. We all ran every which way, helter-skelter, and that was it; we were away and gone.

Later, back at school, we went over what we had seen. Some said they’d seen the man’s todger, and some said they’d seen the woman’s below hairs because she had her knickers down, but I don’t suppose we saw anything really; as far as skirmishes went, it was our imaginations that won the day.

On ensuing days we looked and waited, but we never saw the couple again. I suppose, on reflection, that they may have been groping each other, but I doubt they would have actually been doing it; they would have been very brave indeed to be having alfresco daytime sex in those days. It’s a good memory though; still brings a smile to my face.

That was fun wasn’t it? I bet you’ve all got similar stories you could tell. I’ve got loads more I can recount…if you want to hear them, that is? I’ll see what I can come up with.

*  *  *

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The music has finished now, so I’m half listening to old re-runs of ‘Just a minute.’ I sort of like the program, but I always sense an underlying tension between some of the guest panellists. Some of them – I believe – take it more seriously than the others, and I think this rivalry spoils the fun. That’s just me…I could be wrong.

Out here, under the pergola, I’ve got everything I want and need. A while ago I had an external power point fitted, so, along with my radio, I’ve got a kettle, a small mini fridge, a filter coffee machine and all the makings, and I’ve got a small telly as well; so I’m sort of self-sufficient, I could weather any storm, so to speak. It just saves me going into the house all the time, is all. Maybe I’m a bit odd…what do you think? Maybe I’ve got a phobia or something…

Here’s another reflection.

My family, my mom, dad and brother at that time, lived on a housing estate; it was all prefabs - they were erected as emergency housing after the second world war - and were considered quite modern for the time. The estate was on the edge of town and used to be surrounded by country side. The prefabs have gone now, been replaced by more conventional housing, and it’s not on the edge of town either; the place has been subsumed and is merely a part of an ever growing urban sprawl. Still though, I can still remember it how it was.

The lads I played with at home weren’t the same ones I saw at school. I’ve never thought about it before, but it must have been because we were the only Catholic family around. I can clearly recall a conversation us boys had – we didn’t associate with girls yet - where the gist of it was, that they, being C of E, were better off than me and our Mick because they didn’t have to go to church on Sundays. I believed, at the time, that this was a very important point, and me and our Mick were missing out somehow. It’s funny how kids perceive things, isn’t it?

My mother was the Catholic, my father wasn’t, but I know that before they married my father had to promise the local priest that any children they had would be sent to the Catholic school. That was if they wanted to be married in the Catholic Church.

I don’t believe my father would have cared one way or the other, but my mother would have; her own mother – my Nan - would have insisted, so there you are.

I’ll tell you about my Nan at another time. I really loved her, and if I were to be totally truthful, I loved her more than my parents. Later…later.

All the families around us on our estate were much the same; working class and not a lot of money. Women didn’t work, and men were always in the Pub; well that’s how it seemed.

I can’t remember all their names now, but I’ll give you a few; I might recall some more later.

There was Terry, Ken and Den. There was David and Nigel; another Tony and another Dave. This second Dave was a bit older than the rest of us and we never really trusted him; he always seemed to know more things than the rest of us…adult things, and it sort of put him in no-man’s land; not one of us and not an adult. Thinking of it now, it must have been quite isolating for him.

Like I’ve said, there were lots more, like the identical twins that lived up the road; their names have gone from me. They had an older brother as well. I can see his face now…as clear as day I can…but I can’t get his name to come either. The one thing about him that remains strong for me though, was that he collected comics…he had hundreds of them…and he would swap with me sometimes, when I had one he hadn’t read.

But enough, it doesn’t matter. The names will come or they won’t; who cares. And there you are, one has just popped into my head…Cliff; see I told you.

Nearby where we lived there was a place we called the ‘Cliffs.’ The Cliffs were the remaining excavations of a local brick making company; I think they had closed down even then. They Cliffs - quite a few acres of open abandoned land hemmed in by established terraced houses to the left and far end, allotments to the right, and the excavated ‘Cliff face’ to the fore - were made up of red clay and the stuff got everywhere: hands and knees, shoes and clothing, if you ventured to play there. My mother would always complain when we went home after. ‘You’ve been over those bloody Cliffs again, you little sods,’ she used to say. I can still hear her voice now.

Sometimes, us kids used to run down the steeply inclined cliff face shouting ‘Geronimo’ as we did so. The sloping angle must have been enough to allow us to do this – although our legs used to be pumping like crazy at the bottom, with red dust and clay flying everywhere – but it was probably a risky thing to do. No one ever got hurt though, not to my knowledge. Even so, it was a stupid activity, I know that now, but when you’re young you can’t see it, can you? But anyway, back then, we used to believe that shouting the word ‘Geronimo’ acted as some sort of magic vocal talisman that protected us against harm. Maybe it did because I’m still here…and I still say ‘Geronimo’ occasionally. Thus it is proven.

Funny thing, now that I’m doing the recollection thing, I can only remember one person I knew ever dying at all. He was a boy who was in the same class as me at school. The head teacher just came into our classroom one Monday morning and said that – I’ll call him Dennis – that Dennis was dead…he’d been run over by a motor car. It was quite a shock. A person you know is there one minute, the next he’s gone. We didn’t get any counselling either, nothing like that; it was just the fact and wham bam thank you mam. Nowadays they’d have carers and counsellors coming out the woodwork; it makes you wonder about that, because I don’t remember any of my mates struggling to come to terms with Dennis’s death. Maybe we just didn’t care that much.

Let’s get back to those dusty Cliffs. Me and one of my mates, probably Terry, we found this bramble bush that grew right at the precipitous hedge of the Cliff where it intersected with the huge Allotment that stretched back toward our estate. After some investigation we realised that we could get into the hollow centre of the bush and be unseen by anyone nearby; it was our secret place. On one occasion we watched a courting couple canoodling in the long grass on the plateaued cliff top. We had to stay where we were for quite a long time – longer than we had planned - for fear of out secret place being discovered. We did get to see the young girl’s tits though. So that was a bonus. The one thing about this incident that sticks out in my mind was how the big lad – he was about eighteen I suppose – kept pulling at the girls nipples; I was amazed at how far they would stretch. Sad to say he wasn’t able to give her one. He did try, but she wouldn’t let him.

Me and Terry subsequently revisited our secret place on many occasions but we never saw anything else worth mentioning.

*  *  *

The primary road that sort of split our estate into two sections was a dead end; it just stopped where the last prefabs stood; beyond that were fields. There as another road that ran at a right angle to ours, and went down the hill to an un-needed roundabout. At that point the road turned right and right again to meet up with another side road called ‘The Green’ before joining up with the dead end road to complete a square. It was a loop that could be driven around if someone was inclined to. However, I don’t think anyone had a car. I can’t be sure, but I think there must have been about a hundred homes; a hundred prefabs, and to my unsure knowledge no one there owned a car. I never saw one anyhow.

I tell you this because we used to play football and cricket in the middle of our road and very rarely had to move out the way for traffic. The pigswill man had an old van, and of course, the Dustbin Lorries and the Coal delivery man and the like would disturb us the odd time or two, but that was about it.

I’m not going to describe the whole area in detail, it’s not worth the effort, but suffice to say we were situated at the top of a steep approach hill; so steep in fact that the ‘Midland Red’ buses that ran the route had quite a job getting up the hill when they carried a full complement of passengers. I remember, sometimes we all had to get off and walk up because the bus couldn’t manage it. Remember, this was not long after the war and all the buses were probably pre-war built, so they would probably have been knackered.

But that wasn’t what I was going to tell you. What I’m not going to do is describe the topography in detail. I’m not too good with descriptions so I’m going to let you create your own images about the area. Still though, if you were to stand at the top of the hill looking towards the town, then the Cliffs and the huge Allotments would be on your right down a laneway. On your left would be another lane that led to a second large Allotment area. This lane carried on past the Allotments and out into the country, finally ending up in a farmyard about a mile away. Directly in front of you, slightly to the left of the hill road, would be a big stretch of open common land where visiting Circuses and travelling Fairs would set themselves up occasionally. I lived about fifty yards from the top of the hill, so it was handy when these periodic events took place. Not that I ever had much money to spend at them.

*  *  *

All of us kids used to love exploring. We had an innocent belief that there were secret places yet to be discovered; all we had to do was locate them. During the summer months we would go off all day searching for these hidden places. We never found them of course; they always proved to be elusive. It’s never stopped me searching though…not once. I still live in hope of finding that secret place; a place that will satisfy my ceaseless yearning.

Because I loved this idea of discovery I often wandered off on my own. One day, I was about eleven years old I should think, I set out down black lane – this was the lane that ran left, like I told you – and headed toward the allotments where the Pigswill man kept his pigs. My mother was friendly with his wife, Marge - I think her name was – and their prefab was the last one on the left as you headed up the track. As I walked past their place where I was mostly hidden by the hawthorn hedge that ran the whole length of the lane, I could see movement in the kitchen through the large side window; it was Marge and she was having a stripped out wash at the kitchen sink. My view was enhanced because the laneway was about a metre above the prefab ground level.

I stopped to spy on her. I want you to picture it Reader, her back was to me and she was stripped to the waist with her skirt pushed down to hang from her ample hips, the cleft of her arse clearly showing; she was using a flannel to wash her armpits. I was mesmerised; nudity, especially female nudity, was a taboo subject, so seeing this partially dressed woman caught my full attention. It got better too. This Marge turned around as she started to dry herself and presented me with an unimpeded view of her huge breasts. I tell you, they were enormous; the things seemed to cover every inch of her upper body like a pair of sagging barrage balloons. I was deeply shocked at the sight of them; they seemed to have a dark unknown power. Even then, I understood that women’s bodies had a special purpose. I didn’t know what it was yet, but knew it was significant.

I didn’t continue my journey, I was too overcome, so I went back the way I came and climbed a big tree instead.

Climbing big fully grown trees is quite difficult when you’re a small child, because normally, there are no low branches to get a grip on, so scaling the lower part of most large tree trunks is almost impossible. There was one particular tree along the laneway though – it could have been an Oak, or an English Elm or a Sweet Chestnut, something big anyhow – that had some damaged bark near the bottom; this old scarred bark allowed me to get a foothold and a way up to the first branch, after that it was easier to scale.

So up I went…right to the top. I must have managed to get up to thirty feet or more before lying across one of the upper boughs to spy on the estate as it unfolded below me.

I imagined myself to be Tarzan or Jungle Jim searching out the enemy; hidden from view and powerful in the knowledge that nobody could see me. Imagination is a wonderful thing…and it’s free too. Of course, I didn’t see anything noteworthy, but I did enjoy the solitude and the memory of Marge’s huge titties…and that was enough to keep any young lad happy…good eh?

*  *  *

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I can’t remember the time lines anymore…like how old I was when a particular event happened, or in what order they all occurred; it’s just too long ago. I’m telling you this so as you don’t get hung up on the age thing. If I can’t remember then you’ve got no chance. I’m only saying this to explain that these little memories I’m telling you about are not necessarily in chronological order, that’s all.

Trollies, bows and arrows, catapults, ballgames and making dens; these were the things we seemed to busy ourselves with for most of the time. The den making thing – I believe – was somehow mixed up with our secret place thing; a place to hide…a place to spy. Perhaps it was our childish search for security; a fantasy world away from the austere reality we actually existed in. I’m only guessing here…I could be wrong.

Trollies.

Silver cross Perambulators, or similar, were the best prams to procure bits from. Two detachable wrought iron axles with four good sized spoked wheels, and they all ran on bearings too; not like the small farty things they push kids around in these days. You wouldn’t be able to make a good Trolley from the stuff you might scavenge today. But back then, there seemed to be an endless supply of unwanted prams too, all hidden out of sight in garden sheds or rotting away behind the coal bunker; wherever, they were there to be found. The other thing was, it seemed we could invariably find the other stuff we required to assemble our creations: wooden planks, screws, nails and so on. This availability is a mystery to me. All I can recall is, we always seemed to have it at hand.

One trolley I made with my mate – Terry again, I think – was the fastest we ever had. It comprised of a central length of wood – a piece of scaffold plank I think - and two pieces of two by one battens to fix the axles to. Both metal axles were screwed to the battens before being screwed or nailed to the central plank. The rear axle was fixed in position so that it didn’t move, and the front axle was designed to pivot in the middle. We didn’t have drills to make our front pivot hole, so we used to heat up a poker until it was red hot, then burn a hole through; ah the smell of smouldering wood.

Sometimes we made our trollies for sitting on. The only problem with this design was the extra work. It entailed a seat with backrest, footrests to keep your feet off the ground, and string to tie each end of the front axle to steer by. The problem with this design – what I thought anyway – was that you never seemed to have full control of the contraption at high speed. So for me, it was best to lay belly down on the plank and control the steering with your hands directly on the pivoted front axle.

Like I explained already, we lived on a hill. One side of the hill led into town and the other side ran down to the bottom of the estate to the little used traffic roundabout; this was the side we used. We had almost exclusive usage