Beyond the Ruins (I)

Didsbury Station in 1981. Photo by Keith Hayward - www.disused-stations.org.uk

*

I'm not sure, objectively speaking, how true this account is. I admit that I would like it to be true. But there is good reason, I think, to trust these words, now more than ever in this time of fear and dislocation. The story rings true today in a way that wasn't always possible under the former dispensation. It often seemed like wishful thinking then - the product of an overheated childhood imagination - too much Narnia, Weirdstone of Brisingamen, etc. But when, as now, reality bites and strips us of our worldly securities, it makes a mockery of modernity and rationalistic creeds and brings a mythic understanding of the cosmos and our place in it to the fore.

The same goes for Didsbury, the South Manchester suburb where these events unfolded in March 1981. It has become highly gentrified in recent times, with old-school locals like myself increasingly priced out. I live just south of Llandudno now and work in Bangor. There's more space here and less pretentiousness and hype. I've sensed a certain flimsiness in the air on my last few trips back home, a subservience to the ephemeral and a complete immersion in the passing moment. It's different in North Wales. Life feels more grounded here, rooted in a deep and ancient, if largely latent, tradition, with time and space to dream, imagine, and tune in to what is real and true.

Didsbury felt like this too when I was a boy. In those days, every patch of available land had not yet been built on. There were quiet places, zones of peace and freedom, such as the two sets of ruins we had at that time. The first, where this story begins, was the old railway station, just behind the clock tower. You'd never know it had been there now. The debris was cleared away decades ago and the area covered over with cafés and bars - all closed at the time of writing. The tram line to town, completed in 2013, runs behind these premises now. Before my time it had been a prominent train route to Manchester Central Station (now Manchester Convention Centre), which closed to passengers in 1967 and to freight in 1970, sacrificed, as were many lines at that time, to the tin gods of rationalisation and restructuring. When we started playing there, about seven years later, most of the station was still intact, though bricks lay pell-mell on the floor, weeds ran rampant between the flags, and ivy had colonised more than half the walls. The platform was dilapidated but still walkable. The track itself, however, was wild and overgrown, almost completely unrecognisable as a train line.

It seems incredible now, looking back, that there was no security around the site. Anyone could go in and out at any time. There was a bit of graffiti on the walls - football related stuff mainly - and the odd empty beer can and cigarette dimp, but whenever we were there, after school or during the holidays, there was never anyone else about. Sometimes I'd go on my own and walk around or just sit on the ground and think or read or write. At other times, along with my friends, we'd explore the brick-strewn interior, trying to work out which had been the waiting room, which the ticket office, and so forth. Often we'd play hide and seek, and it was during the course of this game, mid-way between my tenth and eleventh birthdays, that the coin came.

I was the seeker, I recall, facing the wall and counting to twenty. But when I turned around I didn't shout, 'coming ready or not', but remained silent, spellbound by the afternoon sunlight slanting through the gaps that had once been windows. I thought at first that the coin on the ground belonged to a sunbeam, like the bright tail at the end of a comet. It was only when the light outside dimmed for a moment, as a stray cloud hid the sun, that I saw it as a real, distinctive object. There was something insistent about it, as if it was calling me - demanding my attention - so I crouched down cautiously and picked it up. It was about the size of a £2 coin and had the same golden sheen. But this brightness wasn't uniform. Parts of the coin were dull and worn. 'Mottled' would be the best description. But I could see the images on both sides clearly enough. The one I was looking at was a man on a throne, with a book in his left hand, a crown on his head, and his right hand raised in blessing. His face was young - beardless anyway - and there were lines etched into the metal around him, arrowing out in a circle.

On the other side, set in profile, was a woman's head, gazing out from right to left. She had an ageless look, neither young nor old, but somehow both. There were many nuns in Didsbury when I was young, and I recognised her by her veil. But it was her face that commanded my attention. I sensed a certain sovereignty in her expression - something in the set of the jaw - stately, high and regal. Faith too, of course, not just in the headdress but also in the lips, slightly parted and poised to preach the Gospel. But what compelled me most was the warmth and tenderness I perceived in the one eye I could see - moist with tears and shining with a depth of feeling which the engraver had done extraordinarily well to capture. I had no idea if this charged and soulful love was intended for the world at large, a particular group of people, or just one person. That was irrelevant. The woman I was looking at was a representative of truth - an incarnation of truth - a presence and a witness. That was what mattered. I was being asked to follow her in some way. She was someone, in one sense or another, who I needed to be with.

A rustling from behind a mildewed wall disturbed my meditation. My friends were growing restless. The cloud dispersed and the light shone down again, warming my hands and face and changing the glint of the coin from gold to gleaming white. And I was happy in that moment - relieved, even as a ten year old boy, of burdens I never knew I had.

I slipped the coin into my pocket.

'Coming,' I shouted. 'Ready or not.'

And the game resumed.