THE HILL

The hill lay just beyond the cemetery, a narrow river flowed between them. When we were kids we really looked forward to playing on the hill, with its tall chestnuts and pine trees. Most Sunday afternoons we would wait at the Church Inn for the number two bus which was always on time, The bus, a single decker with green and cream livery had the transport manager’s name, Harold Barnes displayed in neat black letters on the side. He was a cousin of mothers; she was so proud she called our Harold after him. The destination on the front simply stated “CEMETRY”; my stepfather would book to the terminus, the Weavers Arms, better known as the Widows Rest. Even the conductor called out: “Widders Rest”. Across the road, the ornate iron railings of the cemetery were lined with half a dozen flower stalls. Going to the cemetery was a Sunday routine back in those days; Mam would buy a bunch of flowers from the stallholders. The stallholders knew most of the customer’s names, seeing them every Sunday afternoon. Some people stood around in small groups discussing if the war was coming, uncertain and anxious, trying to seek reassurance; but the war would start in less than a week. Going through the main gates past the ivy clad chapel, the trim lawns and the large brilliant flower beds to a multitude of gravestones. Mam would divide the flowers in two lots, one for each grave. We would go to the water pump and fill an enamel container. We liked going to the pump and bringing the water. Mam would fill the flower pots and push the blooms in, then wipe the grey marble headstone with the wet paper from the flowers. Duty done, we would then walk the half mile to cross the wooden bridge over the narrow river to the hill. At the end of the bridge stood the ice cream cart of Mr. Lucketti and his black pony Bella. This was our treat, ice cream cornets laced with blood red raspberry vinegar and stroking Bella. Unfortunately Mr. Lucketti suffered badly from hay fever in the spring. He had a permanently running large nose. He would constantly wipe his nose with paper from a toilet roll by the side of the ice cream tub. This put some folk off Mr. Lucketti’s ice cream, as they said that they had noticed on some occasions a few drops unavoidably dropping into the ice cream, probably so, but we devoured plenty of Mr. Lucketti’s ire cream with no ill effects. That week, war was declared and suddenly things were not the same. Evacuation of the kids threatened in the near future. Now word was going around they were going to chop down the trees on the hill for the war effort. We visited the cemetery and the hill one last time before we were evacuated to Blackpool. We could not believe our eyes; “Bloody Hell look at this lot” said dad. around a dozen of the tallest mature trees had been cut down. All that remained were small stumps like broken off teeth; sawdust covered the damp grass as weak blue smoke drifted on the air from smouldering twigs. Partly burnt branches lay in the shallow river, colouring the surface black, before dispersing in the fast flowing water. A group of workmen came from a lorry, one carrying two axes under his arm, the sun glinting on the shiny steel heads. Another workman had a long cross-cut saw. It flopped as he carried it over his shoulder and made a musical sound as he walked. “I don’t like it here now,” said our Harold. No, it won’t be the same again for a long time,” said Dad, “come on, let’s all walk back.” Mr. Lucketti had gone, Italian ice cream men were not popular anymore. We shouldered our gas masks and caught the number two bus home.

                                                                                            Don Wright