Greenys House and Pond

Greenys House and Pond
For most of my generation Greenys pond is as much a state of mind as a physical place. It rests at the furthest point of our memory where faith in our faculties runs thin. To offer facts on the estate of dereliction pushes it yet further away as the finger tips of our recollection can not cover and slide back to base, only touch and further the dark pole of North Leeds suburbia in to dream. Was it real? Did we set foot there? Of course, prof remains in the fallen stone gate post whose pyramid cap stone lies entangled in undergrowth. The pond flashes but only in some four or five images. It's muddy banks rose up. Thin tree cover hid dark acts from those outside, though this birch thicket covered only a third from view and can have numbered no more than six or so birch trees. Some offered the enactment of the public safety film its memory so closely reflects. "I am the spirit of dark and murky waters, the boys a fool, he's showing off," yet no edgeland courtyard led to it nor the rusted prams and trolleys that grasped at boys ankles. "Quick! There's someone in the water! Let's get him out!" It's time was of the window of glory Leeds enjoyed before Sunderlands cup win warned us all change was on the way. Our last two years saw Slade leave on a failed mission to conquer America. Once gone no glam band played with the same confidence. Slades absence saw self reflection stifle moves, restraint saw a shame enter an art only viable free of self consciousness. Bolan bowed his cork screw hair, Elton looked beyond his crowd across the Atlantic. Only Sweet, now stepping away from Chinn and Chapman could summon the old swagger. Every wanted a piece but the Action had become rare. Don Revie left Leeds to a clown for a month and a half till Jimmy Armecliffe lifted the greatest team of their day for a final stab at the prize that had aluded Don. No more the dirty leeds mocked by arm chair experts. Now super Leeds and a class above. Paris 75. Leeds could not beat a referee who confessed years later to taking a bribe. The psychological damage this game Leeds won fair and square yet had stolen away lingers still. Ten years work found they weren't allowed to win, whatever occurred. The fans once joyous and comedic became cynical, cheated. They tore the seats out in rightful anger. That began the Leeds hooligan era. To this day the travelling army equals those in the top flight. "Champions of Europe," they still sing loud. But the belief was over. Such exclusion hurt beyond fair play. The service crew reacted to their stolen dream with the disdain it deserved. Punk was a year away. Slade in Flame offered not the good time yob rock but a Brit art flick, a Ken Loach, a Saturday Night, Sunday Morning, that blew away the rock pop mythology with an eloquence of which maclarens swindle was a carry on mimic. Then the murders began. Leeds RL always there to offer the north city counter story of cup glory in 76 and 77. Yet the killings continued. Leeds grew dark by 78 as Quarry Hill Flats demolition began.
An out building, the last building to remain standing hid just within birch cover, close to the rhododendron jungle. Stood in here the safety of the line of pear trees could be seen. Walking deeper under tree cover bearings shifted. The house was my first vision of dereliction. How a house, how the veneer of civilisation, how a person could fall in to dereliction. I recall pulling the door free and running up the stairs. Wallpaper strips flapped, sky above as no roof remained. Other utility structures let to fall.
What once was garden led to the black centre of the darkness. Greenys pond. If the house opened my world to the dereliction of humanity, the pond showed me stagnation. It's scent spun the outer circle warning children we were leaving fragrance and life, moving towards death, each step smelled stronger till its in penetrable horror confirmed that life required motion. To stop was to die. Here I discovered dark truths. Stagnation could befall man also. Poking sticks drew out green slime. Pond weeds of fetid vegetable putrefaction. The flat surface was to look through a glass darkly. Closer inspection revealed frogs and spawn. Further this stagnant pond was full of life forms no one named nor talked of in school. Flick fracking hairs moved about. White ghost grubs that had long tails. Water skaters. Dragon fly lava. Tadpoles collected in jars could grow in number. One dragon fly lava showed natures truth. One could destroy so many the frogs were wise to deliver volumes of these clear spheres, pure with a jet black pupil. Five times or more her size the female created such was the life chance of each.
The horror concluded in an act that shocked me most. Older boys had air rifles. The abundance of frogs saw a cruelty spread I still don't get. By inserting a straw in to the frogs anus, the boys inflated the creatures and returned them to the pond. Futile attempts at hiding subsurface failed each time, the frog losing strength with each attempt . Finally there choice gone they waited. The boys aimed and green opened to red. Few died easily. I watched the boys shooting the frogs for sport. Not even laughing. Just doing it. I learned a lot that day.
I blocked it off for years. Nothing brought it to resurface till that footage of the boys walking young Jamie Bulger away. Soon they would take the fruits of their shop lifting. Insert the batteries up the toddlers arsehole. Throw paint across him before stoning the child till it was done. Death. I remembered the frogs, the straws, the air guns. The rare chuckle. Boredom. I saw confounded parents on the news. Why? They asked. Boys have a cruel curiosity.
The day changed me. I avoided the pond. At times I'd pass it but it had shown me what people do. What they can become. In sites of dereliction their habits conform. Teenage boys buy petrol. Tour run down districts far from their homes. Find a sleeping tramp. A derelict man. Fallen beyond their empathic reach. Together they enjoy dowsing the homeless man and setting him alight. The laugh as he burns to death.


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