The Grumpy Park Keeper

Newington Green Gardens used to have, in them there 1950s, a path round the outside with seats, that is park benches, spaced frequently. Not quite round the outside, for between the path and the fence were plane trees. Were they all plane trees? How could I remember, at that age? Some of them were.

There was also a path through the centre of the Gardens from east to west, and when we, that is those who lived to the west side of the Green – ere, hold on a minute, who called it ‘Gardens’? That’s a recent, middle-class, posy affectation, start again:

There was a path through the Green west-east, and those of us who lived on the west side of the Green and went to primary school at Newington Green School would walk it four times a day, morning on the way to school, back again and back again at lunchtime, for at that time few children stayed for school lunches, even if any did; were there school lunches at primary school? I suppose there must have been, though I have no memory of it, most children went home for lunch, in their younger years their mothers were there to collect them at lunchtime and again to take them back home in the afternoon.

That was for the younger children. At some point in my primary school years I was trusted to make the journey to and from school myself. I cannot remember at what age.

At first, to cross the roads to and from the Green, your mother or you as a big boy or girl waited for a lull in the traffic. I think I was about eight or nine when the lollipop ladies appeared. This was a bit of a learning experience, because mothers as well as free-standing children were required to wait until the lollipop lady said go. Took a bit of practice.

Sometimes, instead of a lollipop lady to see the children across the road, there was a policeman in a peaked cap. Never a helmet, a cap, and to us at those times this looked especially senior and when he strode into the road an held out his arms we ran across in great awe and deference.

In the centre of the Green, on each side of the central path, was a sunken oval flower garden, you got to it down some steps. And at the south perimeter of the Green was a hut, where the park keeper sat. The Green was seldom if ever without its park keeper.

I was about five-years-old, it was a hot day, and my mother took my brother and me – he was a baby in a pram at the time – to the Green, and she found a space on a park bench, where she sat in her stockings and periodically ooved and phewed with those around her about how hot it was, while she rocked the pram.

I tottered down the steps into the oval garden, and a voice bellowed, ‘Hoi’. It was the park keeper. I ran back to my mother in tears. I guess the park keeper must have shouted more than Hoi, or maybe it was just the menace in his voice, but whatever it was I bawled for ages, attempts by the park keeper to tousle my hair did no good at all, and my mum was indignant that he had behaved so excessively, to an innocent five-year-old who had no intention of demolishing the flowers – actually I cannot remember what it was I thought I might do with the flowers.

I can still remember how upset I was in the Green. I’m fairly sure we never went and sat in the Green as a family, on a bench in the sunshine for the afternoon, ever again.
At length the Council could no longer afford a park keeper and the hut was left empty. People sucked between their teeth: the kids will wreck the place, they tutted. They were probably right.
Dave