One day, two young friends and I, looking for something to do, decided to go across the railway line and take the path that ran along the sides of the fields, to one of the gravel pits that we knew and often visited.
We all lived in “Southcote Avenue”, so, met outside my back garden gate, in the lane that ran around the allotments and which provided access to the back of all the houses.
We walked around to the far end, passing down the alleyway between the houses in Rochester Avenue and Guildford Avenue, then, turned right to get to “Hanover Avenue”.
Passing down “Hanover”, we reached the path by the side of the tracks (separated from it by a chain link fence), turned left and walked along to the crossing. The crossing was used by local people, fairly often, and, while there is always danger near railway lines, we all knew how to take care of ourselves – our parents had shown us enough times and I never heard of anyone being killed.
I was the oldest, though I could only have been about seven, perhaps, eight, and, I think, the youngest was about five, maybe, four – I can no longer, however, remember their names. We reached the gravel pit, climbed to the top of the ridge that ran all around the outside, and slide down the other side, to the bottom.
These pits, from memory, were rather like huge bomb or meteor craters; very wide, with a high ridge all around the perimeter, as though thrown up by the impact, but not terribly deep and they were what was left after the excavating of the gravel had ceased. What interested us was at the bottom of the pit; a large pool of water. I never knew whether there were fish in the pool or not; people said there was and I think my father may have gone fishing there though, with the war on, there weren’t the opportunities. I, however, was much too young to be bothered about fishing and, from memory, I don’t think I ever saw any life in them, unlike in the ditches that ran around the fileds. I don’t remember ever being told how deep the pool was, either but, as we had no intention of going into the water, this didn’t matter to us!
Anyway, there we were, at the edge of the pool, throwing stones, from the millions that lay at our feet, to try to get them to skim, and bounce off, the surface. The more bounces the better – we must have all played that at some time of our life.
I was, just, about to throw a stone, for the umpteenth time, when I noticed a man on the top of the ridge, some distance to our left, but close enough to make me feel uncomfortable. He was looking down at us and holding a bicycle by his side; he didn’t move but just stood there, both hands on the handlebars, staring at, and, obviously, watching, us.
This looked very strange to me, so I continued to throw and said nothing to the others, while, keeping and eye on him, without letting him know.
After a short while, he put his bike on the ground, walked down the bank to the waters edge, maintaining the same distance from us, and began to pick up stones, which he, then, threw into the water – and all the time he kept watching us.p>
This I, definitely, didn’t like and it, now, disturbed me, greatly, so I left the others, still skimming stones, while I climbed to the top of the ridge, apparently for his benefit, so I hoped, playing. Having reached the top, I started waving frantically and shouting, “Mum!”, “Dad!”. I turned to the others and said, “Hey there’s my mum and dad! Come on let’s go and see them!”. When the others had almost reached me at the top, I began to run down the other side toward the cornfields, the railway crossing, and the safety of home, checking that the others were not that far behind.
From the top of the ridge, they could now see that there was no one in sight, so they kept shouting at me, “Where are they? I can’t see them!” and I kept shouting back, “They’re over there, keep running!”
I remember feeling sorry for the youngest, who having trouble keeping up with us, was, now, lagging some distance behind but I felt that if only one of us could reach the railway crossing before the man got on his bike and caught us up, we would be safe, he wouldn’t dare do anything that he might have doene (whatever that was!) and I was the fastest.
The distance, from the pit to the crossing, is vague in my mind, now, but, I would guess, it was about three to four hundred yards – not far if you’re out for a walk but, very far if you’re only seven and running from a fate you can’t begin to imagine. Funnily, enough I don’t remember being scared.
Finally, I reached the top of the bank and now only had to cross the line to be among the houses, and safe. I stopped and looked back; the man was on the top of the ridge and staring after us. I didn’t know anything about “v-signs” and such; we didn’t in those days but I felt a sense of victory. I waited for the other two to catch up, and, all the while, the man stood watching.
“Where’s your mum and dad?”, the first of my, breathless, friends to arrive, asked. I told him quickly what had happened and he turned to look back. By the time the youngest arrived the man was on his bicycle and travelling away from us.
When I got home, my mother, seeing me all red in the face from running and sucking in large amounts of air like a demented vacuum cleaner, said, “You want to stop running, like that; you’ll do yourself an injury”.
I tried to explain, how, that day. I had been a hero and saved the lives of three children, me being one of them, but, typical of my mother, she had other more important things to do – probably needed to polish the floor somewhere, so, I was told, again, to stop being so silly and to “stop running like that”. I gave up – it was the easiest thing to do with my mother.
I don’t know what, if anything, the others told their parents, but nothing was ever said about the event. I never got a medal, a cuddle, a thank-you and no one ever raised the alarm about a possible sex-maniac or serial killer (mind you we didn’t know about such things, then – only about being aware of strangers).
I wonder if either of the other two ever remembers that day. This didn’t stop me going over the gravel pits; in fact, I never thought of it again, which, I suppose goes for my friends.
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