| Bloy Street, Easton, Bristol 5 contact: John Davis webmaster@ivu.org |
|
Built in the 1870s. Bristol's longest straightest street. Ex-Cherry Orchard when our area was Market Gardens Don't miss the new sculpture in the street's central square
Right: Plaque at the corner of Bloy Street and Chelsea Road |
 Living Easton Time Signs Trail |
|
The demolition of Bloy Street, from http://www.candice.morgan.btinternet.co.uk/prose.html Shrine There were only six or seven houses left in Bloy Street. They overlooked the old playground where children no longer played. For years the council fought with aging residents to sell up, wanting them to make way for progress. The plan was to erect a new block of flats to replace the rotting leftovers from Victoria's reign. Bloy Street was one of the most derelict streets in the area. The houses were an eyesore and the council suddenly decided that it was going to do something to solve this problem. A few residents accepted the money and went quietly. Others were determined to hold on to their homes, which had been handed down from generation to generation. It was going to be a long, drawn out struggle, a waiting game for those left to hurry up and pass over in order that the bulldozers could move in. Richard worked as a reporter for the local paper. He had, in the past, written a couple of articles on the council versus Bloy residents war, but silently, found himself siding with the council. After all, Bloy street was shit and it needed more than just a face-lift, it was calling out for major surgery. He received the phone call not long after he entered the office. It was Wednesday, the day after the deadline. He strolled into the office at 10 a.m. as usual, expecting a quiet day. Wednesdays were always quiet. Time to take stock and sit back, stare blankly at the computer screen and wonder where the next story was coming from. "Bloy Street? Yeah - what about it? What? -No, listen, what number is it? Do you know the number?" Richard scribbled 3 on his pad which had doodles of geometric patterns on it. "You're sure about this, only I don't want you wasting my time..." But the voice at the other end was adamant. Accompanied by the photographer, Richard managed to get there before the police. There was a bulldozer. Yellow tape cordoned off two boarded up houses. He hadn't seen Bloy Street for a long time and couldn't believe how much it had deteriorated. The place looked like a graveyard. His tip-off was waiting for him on the doorstep of one. He was smoking a cigarette, wearing a hard hat and stone-dusted boots. Richard introduced himself and the photographer, Steve. "We only came to bulldoze the place now that all the houses are empty. I've never seen anything like it. It's so fuckin' weird," said the man as he flicked his cigarette on to the path and killed the smoke under his giant boot. Steve looked at Richard, giving one of his never mind about the talking, how about letting us in, looks. "Here, you'd better wear this for safety," said the man as he picked up a hard hat and handed it to Richard. Then, he took off his own and gave it to Steve. He signalled for them to go in and pulled a torch out of his overalls' pocket. "Fuck me!" Richard stood behind the man in the hall and gaped at the walls and ceiling. Staring at the papered newsprint in torchlight was just like the man had said. Weird . "The best's to come yet," said the man as he pointed towards the stairs. Even the wooden stairs were completely covered. And the rail. Every nook and cranny: the floor, skirting board, doors, door handles, windows.... "Think of how many newspapers were used to do this," Steve chaffed. "I told you it was weird. Homage to Fleet Street, heh? The person who done this shit was definitely not playing with the full deck. That's why I phoned you first. People got to know there's some sad bastard running loose, haven't they?" Richard had never seen anything like it. Death knocks were nothing compared to this. It was like something out of Hollywood. "You should see the bathroom. I'll show you." "I'm going to need more light to take photographs," Steve told Richard as they followed the man's shadow into the bathroom. The newspaperer hadn't missed a single detail. The torchlight flashed from newspapered toilet seat, to newspapered bath, wash stand, light fitting and electric bulb. Richard turned to Steve, "I want a picture of this and the landing before the police get here." "I'll have to go back to the car." "Make it quick. This is going to be our front page." Steve left. Richard asked for the torch to take a closer look. There were pages from every kind of paper. Most of them were from the tabloids. One caption read: "BAD BOYOS!" and another, "SCANDAL OF CASH DEAL TO SAVE GUPPY THE..." Richard paused, something else had caught his eye just below the wash stand. He shone the light directly on to the half-page picture. It was Bloy Street. "What's the matter?" The man towering over Richard asked. "It's my article," Richard replied. The story was a few years old and showed some of the elderly residents standing together, defiant outside their homes. Then, as he looked closer, Richard could see himself standing amongst them. He had not long been working with the paper then and the Bloy Street problem was his first big feature. He read the names of protesting residents that were in small print: Elsie Davies, Mary Croft, Vera Mason, John Mason- Richard looked at the picture again. John Mason was the only man living in the street. Vera was his mother. Richard remembered her as he scrutinised the small woman's shrivelled face. She was a strange woman. Quaint. John was her eldest son. The daughter died, along with Vera's husband in a car accident years before. Richard was given all this information without asking for it from one of the neighbours. "She's clung on to him ever since, see. Bosses him around as if he's a small boy. She even makes him walk on newspaper not to bring dirt into the house. A grown man, I tell you. You'd think he'd been playing in muck instead of coming back from town. And the thing is, he lets her boss him. He'll do anything for her. I tell you, I wish my children were like that, but they're gone. Don't want to know this street. I suppose the council'll have this place after I've passed over." Newspaper. Richard looked up at the man with the giant boots and addressed him, "You wouldn't know who lived here would you?" It was a stupid question. "No mate, I just came to bulldoze the place. I know nothing." Steve rushed into the bathroom looking as if his arse was on fire and caught Richard unawares. "We've got to move quick, they're here." "Shit! I don't want another run-in with the police," said Richard as he rose to his feet. * The photographs were scattered on Richard's desk, along with extracts of some articles relating to Bloy Street which Richard retrieved from the computerised newspaper library. Vera Mason died over a year ago. She was 76. Her 52 year-old son, John lived on at number three Bloy Street for nine months after her death and then sold the house to the council. Probably for a good price. Richard looked at the pictures of the newspapered bathroom and landing. He had phoned the police, the council, social services, hospitals and found nothing. John Mason it seemed, had disappeared off the face of the earth, leaving nothing but the newspapered house in Bloy Street where his mother was born and died. ('Shrine' was published in Mexico's Tierra Adentro Culture Magazine in May 2002. Translated into Spanish by Agustin Cadena) arial view of the old Bloy Street
|
