Return to Southend
By
Janet Baldey
It
was after I got back from the hospital that I decided the time was right. Strange
that when the grim reaper is breathing down your neck, your thoughts return to
the place you were born. Maybe in some, it’s just an urge to reminisce but I
have another reason and if I don’t go now, I never will and that would be like
denying the past, akin to spitting on my parents’ graves. From deep inside the dark recesses of my mind a
thought occurs, a tired old cliché now but still powerful - a murderer always
returns to the scene of his crime.
So next day, I bought a return ticket and walking
back home, I thought about my parents. They weren’t bad people, they did their
best, they were just the product of their age. Hardworking, repressed and
terrified of what the neighbours would say. It must have been hard on them having a son
like me.
Sandridge was a tiny village, not more than a smudge
on the map and I never really understood its purpose. It had a village shop, a
post office and a slaughterhouse all lining a narrow road that ran from St Albans to Harpenden.
After that nothing much, the houses were mostly council, apart from a
few small cottages, there was a tiny village school and an overgrown
recreation park, known as ‘The Rec” and that was about all really. Strange, that whenever I think about Sandridge
it seems to be raining, but then it was in the dim and dreary fifties.
I know I
never thought much of the village when I was young but I only really remember
my teenage years and teenagers are well known for being anti. I expect the place has been gentrified now. Ex-council houses are worth a gold mine and I
do remember ours had plenty of space, not like the boxes they call ‘new-builds’
these days. Now, I’ve got the bit
between my teeth now and my mind is ranging further, memories are crawling out
of the shadows and pictures are forming. Suddenly, it’s there! So real, I feel
I can touch it. The church - St
Leonards. I’d honestly forgotten it, almost as if I’d blocked it from my mind.
The place where my childhood ended and trust trampled into the dust. I flick a switch and think of happier things,
my cat and bread pudding. I’ll have some
of that tonight, I feel the need for comfort food.
A few days later, as I sit in the train slicing its
way towards London, the underground and all points beyond, I’m nervous and the
old saying ‘never go back’ is tolling deep inside me. But I know I have to. Having opened the box, I
have to expiate my sin, although it wasn’t really my fault. Even as I think
these words, I know I’m deluding myself. I could have done more.
Trains go so fast these days; outside its windows
the flat Essex countryside is a blur and in no
time, we are pulling into Fenchurch
Street.
Even so, we’re edging towards Christmas and it’ll be dark before I reach
St Albans. I’ll spend the night there and
catch the bus to Sandridge the next morning. The green, round-shouldered 321 it used to be and
I wonder if it still runs. If not, I’ll
get a taxi. I’ve got plenty of money now and little time to spend it.
I was right about the gentrification, St Albans is posh now although it never used to be. But I don’t care. I’m tired and can think only
of food and a comfortable bed. Not
wanting to walk anymore I plump for a hotel slap bang in the middle of the
city, within sight of the Cathedral. The White Hart, an old coaching inn, is full
of ghosts and even as I’m led up a creaking and narrow staircase, I pass
through a room with a minstrel’s gallery peopled by skeletons.
Ghosts or not, I sleep well and breakfast even
better and in no time at all I’m at the ‘bus stop. I remember it well and apart from the bus no
longer being green and round-shouldered, but angular and flashy with chrome,
nothing else seems to have changed. It’s when I get off the bus and start to
walk through the village that I feel my spirits drop and I’m a scared kid again
who can’t stop washing his hands. Even
though, there’s no-one around, I feel the need to look over my shoulder and
almost scurry down the road to the lane where I used to live. Except that it
isn’t a lane any more, but a four-lane highway with a roundabout where the
village shop used to be.
As I
thought, the council houses are now privately owned with an abundance of
acne-like extensions. Their front
gardens have been expensively paved over and are littered with cars. Freshly waxed and polished the sun bounces off
them until I fear a migraine.
When I reach
my old house it’s almost unrecognisable. I locate the room that used to be mine and
stand staring. Beyond those blank
windows, a frightened boy once thought of suicide. I still have the scars to
remind me but only a few have seen them, underneath my trousers, high up on my
thighs raised tissue writhes like bleached tree roots.
I tried to tell my parents but they didn’t listen. “What nonsense, of course you must go. It’s very kind of the Reverend to spare you
the time, and what he says is right. If you have talent, it shouldn’t be wasted.”
I’d stood and stared at my mother. How could I tell her that it was nothing to do
with talent and that I hated the way the he sat too close, the way his breath
smelled of onions and most of all, the touch of his hands as he guided my fingers. My mouth opened but it was impossible. I just
couldn’t find the words.
So, on that fateful evening I’d dragged my feet
along the lane to where two huge oaks guarded the entrance to the gloomy tunnel
leading to the rectory. Now, how I wish I’d had the guts to say “No, I won’t go
to that place. Something isn’t right but I don’t know what.” But I was twelve
years old and, in those days, children did as they were told.
In the end I did find some courage but too
late. “Shove up boy,” he’d cried, his
face merry, as my fingers faltered over the keys. “Let me show you how it’s
done.” Pulling up an extra stool he sat down beside me and soon his thigh was
pressing against mine. I tried my best to ignore it but at last something
snapped. “No” I yelled and pulling away, I jumped up and rushed towards the
door. He cried out something but blood was clogging my ears as I fled into the
night where more treachery was waiting. My
feet skidded on a patch of ice and caught off balance, I fell flat on my back. He
caught up with me but I pushed him away. I shall always remember the sickening sound as
his head struck the concrete step. I stared at his crumpled shape and saw his
face, lit by moonlight and so pale, apart from the black trickle of blood curling
over his forehead. I thought my heart
would burst out of my chest. I’d killed Reverend Apthorpe. I was a murderer.
I don’t remember much after that, I remember the
nightmares, they have stayed with me to this very day, and I remember the
cutting. I know, at some point, I was
admitted to the local looney bin, as we used to call Hill End Hospital but details of that I can’t
recall. By the time I was discharged, my
parents had moved to St Albans. “To be nearer
to Gran” my mother said but I suspect she was escaping the stigma of a son with
mental problems. I never went back to
Sandridge and none of us ever mentioned Reverend Apthorpe again. Long afterwards, I wondered how much my
parents had learned as I lay raving but at the time, I said nothing. I didn’t
want to go to prison.
But go to prison I did ‘cos I couldn’t escape my
guilt. It weighed me down at every step,
draining my confidence so that I never achieved my potential. I also never
managed to find a partner, because It’s true what they say, if you can’t love
yourself how can you expect anyone else to?
Without realising it, I have found my way to the
church and am standing in its porch. In
for a penny, in for a pound I think to myself as I push open the door. The air is thick with memories as I enter and
I hesitate, knowing I have no business here. With a stealthy movement of my
head, I glance around and that’s when I see it.
An illustrated list of incumbents, dating back centuries. Out of habit, because I can remember doing the
same when I was young, my eyes follow the names starting at the top from when
records first began. I realise that
unconsciously, I’m seeking out his name and sure enough, there it is The
Reverend Theodore Apthorpe 1945 to… I stop, blink, rub my eyes and start again.
I’m tired, I must have skipped a line. Three times I read it and three times I
see the same dates 1945 – 1975. That
can’t be right, I was twelve when the unthinkable happened and that would be in
1952. My legs begin to shake so hard; I
almost fall to the ground as I process this information. Slowly, I realise how guilty consciences can corkscrew
facts when one is young. I’d been so
certain but I’d been wrong.
On my return to Southend, I can’t work out whether
I’m relieved that I’m not a murderer or whether I’m sorry he dodged the bullet. Our species are so complicated that I guess,
I’m not yet old enough to work that out.
All I know is that that a boulder has been lifted from my shoulders and
the feral stink of the grim reaper has become a mere whiff.
Copyright Janet Baldey
