It was late when I got in. Mum was waiting. “Where’ve you been?” “Over at the park” “Until this hour? What were you thinking?” “Lost track of time. Sorry. Where’s Dad?” “He’s taking Pop home. You missed him. Pop said goodbye and left you this”. It was 50p. “He’s moving in with Uncle Roger. He’s not really well enough to be on his own all the time”. “Right”. I went up to the Living Room. “I’m going to listen to some music before I go to bed”. “Put the headphones on then. Not everyone wants to hear it”. I thought about the girl.
I didn’t see Pop or speak to him again. He moved in with my Uncle but died a few weeks later, silicosis and lung disease slowly crushing him. The cigarettes probably didn’t help much, but even then we all knew that. My Dad seemed OK about the death of his remaining parent, at least I don’t remember how he was. I’d ask him, but he’s not here either, his chest also pressed into submission by the asbestos he inhaled as an apprentice. New bodies, new parts of bodies.
I’ve been there this year. The estate is still there, some sold to tenants by Thatcher in the 1980s and the rest sold to Housing Associations in 1995. It’s not a place I’d live in, but then I don’t have to. I guess you could still leave an offering for Hecate at the Fiveways crossroad, but I’m pretty sure someone would steal it. That would be on them, of course, not you.
The field is now an industrial estate. The highest ground is a car park, and you wouldn’t stop there without someone looking over you and disturbing your peace. Otherwise, it’s just you and the sun and maybe the occasional lorry or fork lift truck.
I didn’t stop at the park. I’m pretty sure the doors between here and there are closed, if they were ever open. The passing of time will be different in the different worlds, and the idea that I could be so old and she still young upsets me. But I miss her perfume.