The summer had been long and yet only a week of the holidays had gone by. There were five weeks left to go. Five weeks of tennis and running around, and finding quite time with a book before having a water fight with all the other kids. Knowing at 11 years old that there was no way I was ever going to be as fast or as good at sports as everyone else, I became fearless. I was the one to hop the wall into ‘moody man’s’ garden to retrieve any lost balls, or knock on the door of crazy cat lady to ask her if she wouldn’t mind us getting our ball back. (Yes, there was tennis played. I didn’t say we were any good at it.) But like every person trying to mask their fear there was a place that it all broke down.
At the bottom of the road a brook ran.
Never rising to more than a couple of inches deep in the summer; and moving just quick enough to make the silt stir and mix; it became a source of constant fascination. The banks were hidden behind a stone wall so it could be a secret place to conduct the equally serious business of childhood.
There was just one problem. Getting to the bank.
This of course meant crossing the brook as it was just too far to climb down the wall. So the only way to do it was to cross the pipe.
Best friend went over easily, like a professional tightwalker, and the other kids followed. I hung back looking at the rusty pipe with moss growing on the side of it and decided not to attempt to cross. Knowing at 11, that my weight was vastly and significantly higher than anyone else’s… and knowing that my balance sucked so hard I couldn’t ride a bike I decided not to. Making some excuse about dinner I ran.
A couple of days later someone suggested the Brook again. I went down with them and got as far as one foot on the pipe before I fell backwards (luckilly) and fell on my arse with a suprising thud.
The other bank looked wild and filled with magical secrets.
I was advised to sit on the pipe and shuffle across. The moss stuck to my leg and I was always leaning to the left. The cries of encouragement I got from my friends was helpful but in the end I never felt right. I set them off to travel down the bank and told them I would follow them.
I could still touch the bank I had just come from - therefore I was at safe! I shuffled a little further forward out of reach and stopped for a moment. Looking down the brook at my friends I let go and waved, wobbled, but held on. shuffling forwards a little more, I became aware of a coldness on my left side.
There was darkness there. The bridge and the tunnel made the most frightening thing I had seen in my young life. And the light was shifting about causing faces and shadows to appear in the gloom. My imagination ran wild and I began to see the Roman soldiers that had used our town as a campsite in the dark. Would they be friendly to me or murder me without another thought. I decided not to anger the spirits and shuffled backwards. I kept going until my bum hit the stone holding the pipe in place. I left that bank never to return; my friends accepting my cowardice.
I have no idea why I still think of it.
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