Rebuilding Coventry Read Free Page B

ran
across the recreation ground where, years ago, I’d played on the swings while
my own mother was enjoying herself in one of the many outpatients’ clinics she
frequented. ‘It gets me out of the house,’ she’d say, as she replaced her best
underwear in the drawer until the next visit.
    The
smooth, wooden swing seats had been replaced by pastel plastic replicas. I sat
down on a swing and tried to control my ragged breathing. Automatically I
pushed my feet off the ground and began to work myself higher and higher. The
night air streamed through my hair. I stood up on the seat and from my new
vantage point I saw the railway station clock. I decided to catch a train, any
train. The first that came in. I would go anywhere so long as it was away. Far
away from the policemen investigating Gerald Fox’s violent death.
    I
jumped off the swing and ran up the hill towards the station. On my way I
passed buildings that were no longer there. An opera house where I’d seen
Cinderella arrive at the ball in a twinkling coach, drawn by four Shetland
ponies wearing plumed head-dresses. A hotel which had a basement bar with pink
lights and was frequented by young men who powdered their noses and were served
drinks by a barman who wore high heels. A tea-shop where old women sat and
caught their breath and sorted their shopping bags before making for the bus. A
pub called the White Swan where, as a child, I had felt drunk just sniffing the
beery smell which escaped whenever the door opened. A baker’s shop where the
proprietor stood in the window icing tiered wedding cakes, proud of her skill
and modestly accepting the compliments of the small crowd that always gathered
outside on the pavement to watch. A pet shop where puppies frisked in too-small
cages. A garage with two petrol pumps on the oil-stained pavements where, after
rain, mad colours appeared for which no adult could ever give a logical
explanation. The hardware shop where kettles and enamel mugs and calendars and
a thousand more things were hung outside to chink and rattle in the slightest
breeze. The drinking club where big men in loud suits used to emerge at four o’clock
in the afternoon, wincing at the daylight.
    All
gone. Everything gone. Bulldozed. Flattened and taken away in lorries to a tip.
And nobody tried to stop it because nobody knew the words or the procedure and
anyway they were mesmerized by the word ‘progress’, which was given in
explanation. A road was built in the place of the buildings. The same road
raced around the city, slicing off the river and the parks, forcing the
pedestrians underground into stinking subways where security cameras monitored
their nervous progress.
    I
arrived at the top of the hill and stood opposite the station. I looked down on
the little city. The spires of abandoned churches pricked the sky. To my left
was a ‘Sandwich Centre’, to my right a ‘Money Centre’, behind me a ‘Transport
Centre’. All three signs were made of daglo orange plastic and had tipsy black
letters. I turned and looked into the window of the ‘Transport Centre’. A
tired-looking man was sitting behind a counter, speaking into a radio
microphone. A sign above him said in multi-coloured felt-tip:
     
    Notice to Passengers
    1.   No
fish and chips in taxis (Also no hot food)
    2.   No
spitting in taxis
    3.   No
fighting in taxis
    4.   No
vomiting in taxis (Else pay £5 and clean up mess, £10 at weekends)
    5.   After
midnight £2 deposit to be paid to driver before commencing journey
    6.   You
travel at your own risk!
    7.   Anyone
leaving taxi without paying full fare will be found and dealt with
     
    Rule number seven
frightened me quite a lot because I was planning to evade my train fare by
forcing myself through the ticket barrier if necessary. But when I arrived at
the station I saw that the interior had been modernized. The ticket barrier had
gone. British Rail had kindly removed this obstacle to my escape and the
station now