I used to live round here. The memories resonate with each step, with every corner I round.
The bin sheds. They make me smile; I have to admit, with fondness. No doorstep collections round here. Residents of these palatial council plots have to cart their rubbish to the end of the block to deposit their waste. The ‘Mother’s Pride’ bread wrappers, the empty fag packets, the uneaten crusts that leave countless children with straight hair; it all lands up here.
You were laughing if you lived at the right end; you barely had to walk twelve steps in your slippers and you were there. You could toss your bin liner, or several carrier bags if money was tight that week, into the huge bin and you were done. No long traipse along five front doors if you lived at the right end. It wasn't a task for the faint of limb though. Those bins were sturdy, iron creations. A whisker over five foot, maybe, or more even. Handles on each side with crude rivets, big handles so the bin men could spin them out easily to the waiting dustcart. At least they came. But to the doorstep; no way.
It bothers me now. I can see now what it means. The poor people, the poorest of the poor, the losers and failures in their council houses and flats. They don't deserve the luxury of having rubbish collected from their front doors. Make them walk, the swine's! Make them earn their rubbish collections. Laughable now, when the uppity middle classes are having trouble with the lairy bin-men. They even write about it in the Daily Mail. Some poor cow in her five bed-roomed detached was left wondering what to do with some grass cuttings the other day. Stranded in suburbia with bags of grass. Imagine.
Oh yes, New Labour are certainly breaking down the class divides.
But I'm digressing far too much. That really isn't why I'm here. Always been a fault of mine, or so my mum said. Missing the point. Getting onto my high horse.
They've tarted it up a bit, round here. Painted some double yellow lines on the roads, though no-one would ever come here unless they had to. Still, makes it part of the real world I suppose. I don't like it. I don't like the fences they've put in around the park, the signs erected saying ‘No Dogs,’ the way they've put up posh new street signs, slung up some plastic cladding on the properties they still own, that weren't sold off by Thatcher in the glory years.
It was a shit-hole then, and it’s a shit-hole now. But it was a shit-hole with soul before. Now it pretends to be proper, to be politically correct. The health and safety lot had their way a long time ago. The dangerous playground structures where we earnt our wings have been sanitised. It’s all too safe. There won't be any more broken limbs sustained in the adventure playground that did what it said on the tin.
But at least, the bin sheds are still there. And with them, a happy myriad of memories from my childhood.
They smell, of course. But not like you'd imagine they smell. It’s vaguely off-putting at first, not something you'd find on the perfume pages of the ‘Avon’ book. But not wholly unpleasant, not stomach churning.
I'm a suit-wearer now. I'm a success, a big-shot. I only came back to remind myself of my roots, to give myself a big pat on the back now I've got away from it all. I just had a couple of hours to spare.
But though I try to resist, it doesn't work that way. I'm nothing if not honest. It’s my saving grace.
I'd like to say I stood in those bin sheds, with the worn, heavy graffittied doors, stood in the puddle of brown oily water that settled in the uneven concrete, and heard the voices of my past resounding around me. But I didn't. All the voices were in my head, conjured up by me. Who was I trying to kid? This was where I belonged. You can take the kid…well, you know the rest.
So conjure I did. I couldn't help it.
It seemed like fun at the time, a right laugh. A match or two and half a can of lighter fluid and the bins went up like nobody’s business. All that plastic and polythene. The smell was incredible, and the achievement quite rewarding. Dark to light. Cold to hot. Flicking flames licking at concrete.
Followed by the nonchalant stroll to the swings. Waiting until the lucky inhabitant at the end of the block felt the heat seeping through the wall opposite the metered gas fire. Kicking our legs on tarmac when the fire brigade arrived, shooting white flumes of power that put our flames. They could look at us like that all they wanted. They'd only been sat on their arses playing cards anyway.
I'm old now, thirty five and respectable. I tut-tut along with the rest of them. The readers of the Daily Mail. It’s only coming back here that makes me remember I was one of the tutted against. But my sins were harmless. The youth of today are much, much worse.
I was never like my son. I wasn't. With his cheek, his nonchalance, his glib chat-backs. He doesn't respect his elders. Doesn't even bother to pretend any different. At least I did that, when a hand was around my collar. A clip round the ear, a whack on the buttocks. I hid my chagrin with a middle finger and silent ‘fuck you’ to a retreating back.
But not him. It’s in your face. Pushing and testing me every day. I can't be bothered to react half the time. Life’s hard enough as it is.
So here I am, after a tough nine to five, slumped in my best suit on the floor of the bin sheds. And I was right; the smell is kinda sweet, really.
This is where the action was, oh yes. I pause to wipe away the chin dribble from the bottle of cheap cider in my hand. Well, it wouldn't have been the same without it. Obviously. If you're going back, do it in style, eh? There’s nothing like recreating the past, is there? And how many times do we try, and fail? And it leaves the original less than it was somehow? It never comes off, so I'm giving it my best shot. You know I'm right, don't pretend otherwise. You'd be wasting your time.
I might be sitting in an expensive suit on the floor of the bin-sheds with a bottle of white cider in my hand; but tell me – how would you do it? If you were me?
There’s not much left now anyway, so I'll be going soon. I know when to call it a day. There’s more to remember, in this bin shed but now I'm not so certain I want to.
I pull the loose folds of my shiny single breasted jacket against my chest. But it’s not my choice anymore. That’s it. Story of my life. It was never up to me. I'm powerless to stop the other memory crowding in, jostling for space with the innocent ones.
Survival of the fittest, right? I've watched all those programmes, your Richard Attenborough; dog eat dog and all that. They think they can make the rules. Tell us what’s right and what isn't.
It was no different, that day, what we did. No bleedin’ different than your antelope and your tiger in the jungle, or wherever it was. We needed it. We had to keep face, stay on top. Law of the jungle, right? Law of the bin-sheds, yeah? No bloody difference.
The strong prey on the weak, don't they? To keep on top. Keep their position in the hierarchy. That’s the way the world works. My Dad told me all about the food chain once, so I don't feel bad about it. Why should I?
He was weak. And we had something to prove. It was a simple equation really.
Unfortunately the images are a bit too real to begin with. We enticed him into the bin sheds with promises of friendship, football stickers; come and be part of our in-crowd, we said.
Its coming back now, the look on his face, glee and indecision, perfectly matched. Imperfectly matched. Hardly daring to believe but not able to take the chance. Couldn't throw it back in our faces, not now.
Come into our den, we said, and join in our gang.
I wish I'd brought another bottle now. Another bottle of strong white cider. It was as bad as I thought it would be. Worse, even. But the edges were starting to fade. I could go on.
He stood there in front of us, waiting for his football stickers. The ginger geek. The misfit. Was he having a laugh? Thinking we really wanted him in our gang? Did he think we were that desperate? That stupid?
I don't know who it was. It could have been me, probably was. But not just me. We all joined in. We flicked our football stickers at him. With contempt. The doubles. The Gary Linekers which turned up in every other packet, the ones we had had enough of.
We built a pyre around his feet.
It wasn't me who held the lighter fluid. It wasn't me who poured a trail reverently around his feet. I can't be sure, but I don't think it was me who lit the match.
Someone else lit it. I don't remember who, and I prefer not to. He stood still and silent; we wanted him too, although we all willed him to crack, to scream, to plead.
But it wasn't my fault. Don't blame me. It was just the way it was round here. Nothing to write home about. I'm exonerated. Free to go, your honour.
We all watched, sitting on the swings, kicking our feet along the ground when the fire brigade arrived again. Half-heartedly; they knew what they'd find.
Maybe not this time. They got more than they'd bargained for, though it didn't excite me as it should have.
The ambulance arrived soon after.
I learnt my lesson then. I didn't go in the bin sheds again.
I wish I hadn't come back today.
Can you believe they won't collect the poor peoples rubbish from their door?
Shocking, that’s what it is. Shocking.
(c) Kate Winser 2008