Jill DesForges
We enter through the wrought iron gate, always open to the outside. I let Maisie off her lead and she pads off into the leaves, as I stride beneath the magnificent canopy, offering dappled protection, bowing to greet us.
I walk straight on today, down the avenue dividing this retreat, towards the spire and arch. The golden hands of the clock caught between 8 and 9 minutes past 2. I am drawn to the glistening view of the city centre. The sun highlights the hills of the South on the distant horizon. The presence of the silent, observing dead offers comfort to the passing of time and gives perspective to the struggles of the day.
I hear Maisie barking at trees, failing to catch her bushy tailed prey. Every day we pass amongst this haven of souls and we find companionship with them and others walking their dogs. It is beautiful, ever changing in light, through the seasons and the mood of moment. This heart in our midst.
We spot Alice, who is known by all, playing with another dog. One of her eyes is blue. The children used to walk her here, when she was very young, but the family moved to the other side of the world and now they stay in touch with her via Skype.
Often, I bring my very young grandson in his pushchair. He insists on holding Maisie’s lead too, on the way. They are great friends. We often sing as we walk, or make meaningless noise. He has just started talking and he responds with “Yeah”, every time I say something. This is a novel experience for me. “Yeah, yeah, yeah” we both call up through the trees, into the sky.
For a long time I took the same route on automatic pilot. Starting with the higher path which looks over the valley of leisure, once a valley of industry and beyond to the hills of the East. Reverberating wind brings sounds from below. The hammer and clang of the remaining works compete with jubilant birdsong. From two miles away, you can sometimes even hear the platform announcements from the train station, more clearly than when you are there.
I often come across people lost in the search for particular resting places. I am sorry I cannot help, but happy to chat. Once I met a couple from New Zealand, one of whom was tracing his ancestry.
Today, I keep time and return towards the gate. I call for Maisie to attach her lead. A taxi driver was murdered on this spot. The next day we carried on as usual, as we have to. By doing this we respect our community and refuse to be further victims.
A bus stops and drops off friendly neighbours, some with rustling Primark bags, another balancing a Marks & Spencer re-usable. The traffic backs up, but this regular occurrence creates only a casual frustration. I take advantage and cross the road with a smile on my face at the vivid pale green of the corner shop, which cheers me with its vibrancy and contrast to the environment. I pop in to buy chocolate. The older Mr Khan is waiting outside. I leave the shop and greet various other neighbours. Then as I reach our street, I remember I have left Maisie tied up around the corner. Once I left her there for an hour and a half. She was just sat there quiet and bemused, soaked to the skin.
Maisie pulls me towards someone else’s cat and I persuade her home. It is a generally quiet street. My children could play on it when they were younger. This diverse community can offer its own kind of freedom.
It starts to get dark, so I hurry to ready Maisie for her late walk. I hesitate at the cemetery gates, but relax as I walk towards those city lights. It is strange how safe I can feel here in the dark. Many people use it as a short cut at all times. This must be a measure of something. Bad things have happened here, but they can happen everywhere. At certain points you can see around for miles.