BELMONT ON BOXING DAY...

My old primary school in 1984/'85

Christmas tends to make me sentimental - usually for the Christmases of my past, but also for the past in general.  Above is a photo taken back in the mid-'80s (on a 110mm camera, hence the less-than-sharp image) of the view across the road and down the hill from the house in which I lived from 1965 until '72.

Thirteen years later, things were pretty much the same as they had always been, apart from the absence of the annexed huts in the grounds of my old primary school.  Around four years later (1989), amenity housing for the elderly was built on the field in the foreground, and - currently - a new school is being built on the football pitches in the background.  When it's completed, at some as yet undetermined time, the old school - my old school - will be demolished and houses and/or flats will be built in its place.

I attended this school for nearly five years (between 1965 and '70) and, due to its close proximity to my house, I also played in its grounds after hours and at weekends.  Even after moving from the neighbourhood, I found myself back in its hallowed halls on many occasions over the years; at coffee mornings, jumble sales, and Christmas fayres and the like.  It's strange to think that one day, in the not too distant future, this small but reassuring pleasure of reconnecting with this particular aspect of my childhood will be denied me when the school is no longer there.

The view from the upstairs hallway

I often take a walk along to my old school of an evening (weather permitting, and sometimes even when it isn't) and, if no one else is around, sit on a bench in what's left of the playground for a while and lose myself in memories of yesteryear, recalling what it was like to be a boy with eternity in his grasp.  (Or so it seemed at the time.)  Strange as it may sound, I just want to spend some time in its company while I still can, before it's taken from me forever.

It's a bittersweet experience, not unlike sitting at the bedside of a terminally-ill friend or relative who hasn't even been told he's dying, never mind that it will be soon.  (Happened to a friend of mine, believe it or not.)  I sit and look at my old school and just remember - and when I take my unwilling leave, I feel like a cad for pretending that everything is as it was and always will be.

The school doesn't know its fate, you see.  It welcomes me in the same simple, honest, 'glad-to-see-me' way each time, unaware of the secret I'm keeping.  It probably regards the new building under construction as a companion, not a replacement.  (I wonder if old dogs think the same when a new puppy is brought into the house, or do they somehow know that this presages their inevitable end - and resent it?)  Each time I leave, I hope I have enough time to come back again before... well, you know - 'before'...

Photo taken by departing teacher Mrs. Tighe in 1967.  The annexed
huts sat at the edge of the playground directly in front of the school

But hark at me, imbuing inanimate objects with sentience and feelings.  Just can't help it though.  Each time I learn that a landmark from my childhood has (or is about to) become a victim of 'progress' (and there've been quite a few casualties over the years), I feel diminished in some way; almost as though my very essence is being eroded along with those monuments to my youth, as - one by one, year by year - yet another of my life's 'signposts' falls by the wayside, never to be seen again.  (Except in faded photographs and dim and distant memories of younger and happier times.)

Perhaps that accounts for the compulsion of collectors like myself to seek out and surround ourselves with tangible reminders of the past.  Each treasure from childhood that we succeed in reacquiring is an attempt to compensate in some way for everything else that is lost to us over the years, and somehow helps to close the gap between then and now.  

Soon, the New Year will be upon us, and we'll toast it as the harbinger of new hope and new beginnings, conveniently forgetting that it's a false friend who promises much, but delivers little - with each and every visit leaving us only less time to look forward to than we had before.

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