A Patch Of Green

At the side of our block of 1960s terraced flats lies a small patch of green. To be honest, it`s not very impressive - just a raised grassy area, curving around like a leaning number nine towards a small adjoining car park. Lying near its centre is a rectangular section of paving stones - the last remains of a former greenhouse. Even now a mantle of grass is slowly advancing over them, attempting to hide their very existence. The whole area is bounded on one side by a low crumbling wall, valiantly trying to separate the green from the cracked and gritty surface of the car park. The grass gradually peters out in favour of a small densely wooded area, sited on the top of a steep rail embankment. Lying at its base are the gleaming rail tracks, leading directly to the smoke-caked mouth of a beautifully sculptured Victorian tunnel. On weekdays commuter trains regularly clatter by, full of city workers, university students and others shopping for bargains in the City Centre. Lively birdsong fills the gaps between these precisely timed and noisy interludes.

A rickety fence lines the far side of the green, its wooden stakes pointing defiantly to the sky. Blackberry bushes and bindweed constantly threaten to cover the fence in a jungle of twisting branches and leaves. Sited behind it are neatly kept allotments, stretching away as far as the eye can see. The fence carries on toward a concrete staircase leading to the flats above; and it`s at this point where the tangle of branches drops away, revealing a perfect climbing frame for the local cat life. The fence turns once more, butting against the overgrown back garden of a semi-detached council house. This is where the drunken Irishman `Paddy` McFuddle lives. You can often hear him singing and swearing at the top of his voice. It then narrows again into another rectangular patch, passing a couple of trees and a wooden garden shed until it reaches the tree-lined road of Kingsway Drive.

Nothing much ever happens on `the green.` The local cats use it as a toilet-cum-play area, whilst any birds daring to land upon it quickly fly off again, after spotting a sleek furry body in the undergrowth. Summer sees the occasional visit of an obsessive black-berry picker, but for the main part our green escapes human visitation. That is, until last winter when there was a spot of bother with some delivery men. On what had been a damp and misty morning, they`d been carrying a neighbour`s new plasma television. Somehow they`d managed to slip on some slushy snow and had dropped their precious cargo, apparently cracking the whole screen. Word got round that the owner had sought legal redress against the Delivery Company. Well, we could tell at a glance that he looked far from pleased with the compensation he`d received.

One sultry mid-summer`s evening another minor drama took place. I was leaning against the railings bordering our first floor walkway and was gently calling out, `Smitten! Smitten! In case you don`t know, Smitten is our plump grey tabby and white cat who appears to suffer from a `Woody Allan` type of neurosis. This would express itself in a piteous (or demanding) `meow,` a reproachful look or a frantic scratching on our most expensive items of furniture. Once or twice a day it was necessary to quieten his meowing `pity-parties` by playing what we called the string game.` This exasperating rigmarole involved dangling an old shoe lace or piece of string beneath his nose and then running away, making silly imitation bird noise in order for him to give chase, which he did for ten to fifteen minutes before getting bored. To further boost his non-existent confidence my wife would firmly plonk him in the middle of the green and watch him meander his fearful way back home, up the concrete steps. Sometimes he would (with an anxious shaking of his tiger-ringed tail) clamber over the fence and vanish into Paddy`s overgrown garden. When that happened it would be my turn to call him back.

Well, here I was, urgently beckoning him, hoping he would soon appear. It was one of those evenings when day blends silently into night, forming a confused twilight. As darkness fell it enveloped our patch of green which then took on something of a spectral quality. The sky resembled a coat of blue-black velvet, punctuated by patches of hazy starlight. Only some dim garage lights alleviated the sombre blackness of the car park. Smitten! Smitten!` I called, in a weary and increasingly impatient tone. Suddenly, a bewildered feline face peered out from amongst the taller grass - bobbing up and down like a buoy on a choppy sea. "Ah, there you are my silly animal! Now come back home - it`s late!" In nervous response Smitten scrambled over the fence. He gingerly approached the concrete steps like a naked climber facing an overhanging slope on Everest. All of a sudden he stopped dead in his tracks, his ears tense, upright and twitching slightly. He`d definitely heard something and he began to hesitantly move toward the dense woodland. "No Smitten - no! Over here you daft moggy, otherwise you`ll get lost like you did last time!" Inattentive to my plea he stood poised, one paw raised slightly above the ground, ears twitching in a rather unconvincing, defensive hunter pose. He then sniffed the ground, trying to gain the scent of any potential menace. Inwardly, I debated whether to go down and rescue my wondering pet.

However, my hopes of a rescue quickly vanished when, from the direction of the woodland came an ominous scuffling sound and the noise of breaking twigs. Then suddenly, out darted a trio of foxes, each wearing an evil leer. (I knew they`d a den hidden away somewhere in the dense undergrowth of the embankment.) Hungrily, they dashed in Smitten`s direction - whose rapid response was to dive headlong into one of the blackberry bushes by the fence. Thankfully, he`d not been their real target; what they were more interested in was the dustbin area. For a few seconds they broke off their chase in order to dance and caper, circling and making loud screeching noises as if performing some form of forbidden ritual. Finally, they made a dash for the rear dustbins, followed by a cacophony of scratching, screeching and scuffling in what appeared to be a wild Darwinian struggle for survival. A final triumphant bevy of screeches and the posse of foxes emerged with a booty of food in their mouths. One held a large chicken leg, the other a chunk of bread whilst the third could be seen savouring the delights of cold pizza. These night-time scavengers had found their prey and were gleefully prancing homeward toward their hidden den in a nocturnal victory parade. However, their triumphant procession came to an abrupt halt when, with a noisy crunching of tarmac, a `metal predator` swerved into the car park; its headlights glaring. They fixed on the fox with the chicken leg, pinning him down in an arc of piercing light as if he were a prisoner attempting a failed breakout. The hunters now felt as if they were the hunted and unleashed yet another chorus of unearthly screeching before quickly darting into the undergrowth. `Bloomin` `eck, what an infernal racket!` protested a broad Yorkshire voice from an open bedroom window. Paddy had also been disturbed and could be heard discharging a barrage of incoherent profanities. Whether he was responding to the noise of the foxes on the green or to the imaginary foxes chewing his alcohol-pickled brain seemed of little consequence. A final salvo of cursing and the slamming of a door marked his shambling exit from the scene.

Smitten! Smitten!` The only response was silence. `I`m going in you daft moggy and you`ll have to stay out all night and there`ll be no `string game` tomorrow!` I turned to enter my flat and behold, crouched in the dimly lit porch-way sat Smitten, covered in flecks of grass and other debris. He seemed sorrier for himself than ever. From the reproachful look in his eyes I could see that a fear of foxes could now be added to his already bulging file of neuroses. "Ah, there you are my naughty boy. You must have crept up the other stairs." We looked at one another in anxious appreciation. "Well - you`ve certainly used up one of your nine lives this time around!" I said as I patted him reassuringly on the head. He responded with a hurt, `It`s all your fault` look and a very self-pitying `meow!` It was as if he was saying, `You really don`t know what I`ve been through.` I tried to tickle him on the tummy whilst making a silly high-pitched `eeee!` noise but he was having none of it. In yet another of his aggrieved sulks and with a very sullen swish of his tail he padded into the kitchen to scoff his food. Next morning the weather was damp and muggy. On the green the only trace of the previous night`s caper was a chicken leg, (picked completely clean) lying beside the crumbling wall. The foxes had gone but their need to survive would ensure their return. Like Smitten, but in a rather different way, they`d they`d learnt to survive by adapting to a concrete jungle created by Man.