Suburban harp - SE27 somewhere

An irregular rectangle, harp shaped zone on the map; a residential area packed tight with homes, some owned, some rented. Commuter country, an in-between area, bordered on two sides by major routes (locals call them Murder Mile and Drug Lane) into central London; the third, a high cemetery wall protecting death from the living, each end of which is served by a public house; and the last, a wide busy connecting road, its large imposing buildings served by circular drives once frequented by horse-drawn carriages.

Early morning sees the City workers running through the dark to catch their trains to London Bridge, first one by one, then gathering in groups as they squeeze into the silent, damp smelling tunnel leading to the station; it that stands high on the bank, exposed to the weather. No one speaks. Daylight arrives, the light flashing off the glass dividers, blinding. The roads already busy, heralding hectic rush hour. The hum of the circular route moves up a tone, interrupted by emergency service sirens. Dogs walked before the real business of the day begins, owners frequently stopping to look behind them – the sound of someone running. Four-wheel drives are backed from integral garages to transport the youngest to school, a hundred yards. The milkman’s float, one of the last, rattles and whirrs its way down the street; with notice stating ‘No cash carried’. The paperboy hurries home pulling empty shopping trolley, frightened of losing his street cred.

Half-uniformed teenagers fall from the bus onto the pavement, in the shadow of the dividing wall, a thin plume of white smoke passes over them as they make their noisy way towards the local comprehensive. They pass one pub, then the second, cross the second major road as a group, causing traffic to slow. Shop owners push shut their doors - check the ‘Only Two Schoolchildren’ notice posted in the window. Fortunate teenagers with new licence; almost adults, pile into first cars and head for one of the fee-paying schools.

A large lorry delivering meat, blocks the narrow road; impatient drivers curse. A stale antiseptic smell fills the immediate air. A daily fracas, a daily mugging becomes the norm. A transaction across the road, the traffickers no longer worried about being seen.

Daylight hours seem calmer but the distant drone of traffic, car doors slamming, sirens, and low-flying aircraft lumbering across the sky, continue unremitting, without pause, obliterating natural sounds ... wind in the trees, birds calling, all lost to frenzied modern lifestyle.

And as darkness closes in, doors are double locked, curtains pulled, there are few people out and about. Only the local youths meet to sit and lol against the surgery railings, intimidating; conveniently next door to the fish and chip shop, and more importantly, the off licence (last night there was an armed hold up). Larger dogs get a walk it’s not safe for others. Loud music signals a party and a sweet aroma pervades the night air. Police cars move swiftly in and out of the area; sometimes they stop, sometimes they bring dogs. Howling foxes roam the streets, tipping bins, tearing sacks. Hedgehogs screech and fight. In the distance, probably at the party, explosions, too large to be called fireworks, disturb the peace, sleepers wake up.

And shrewd dogs bark.

© Su Laws Baccino

The End

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