After Dad died I got the urge to travel back to Chessington, in the suburbs of southwest London, where I grew up.  I planned to spend a day visiting my childhood haunts.  The word ‘haunts’ hints at the possibility that I am not the only person who has felt the need to make such a journey.    Was I haunting these places by returning or are they haunting me?  I recall Tim having a similar urge to visit Woking after his parents died.  He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, or where the urge to return came from.  Were we searching for our old selves, or for something we had missed when we were growing up that we would recognise now?  Or were we testing the veracity of our childhood memories?  Perhaps we were searching for something entirely other, outside our consciousness.

Anyway,  I got on the train to London, alighting at Clapham Junction rather than Victoria like I normally do on trips to London.  The trip from Clapham Junction to Chessington North was in itself nostalgic, recalling many identical journeys back home as a teenager and young person.  I sat and watched the 1930s, 40s and 50s suburban outer London housing estates slip past – Raynes Park, Motspur Park, Malden Manor, Tolworth…and here we were, Chessington North.  I have returned here in the more recent past, as my parents only moved down to the Bexhill area when my daughter was seven and my son was four (fifteen years ago).  But I haven’t been back for a while and not on this sort of reflective ‘pilgrimage’ to my past.

Chessington North station was as I remembered it – a 1940s or 1950s building that  seemed uninspired when I was growing up, but is now somehow more solid and attractive than I remember it.   I walked on through the 1940s/50s council estate.  Now most of the houses are owner occupied.  The front gardens look neater and tidier and the quality of the cars indicates that the demographic of the residents has changed in recent years. 

I headed towards the close where I grew up.  I passed the spot where my sister had leapfrogged over my head and landed on her chin on the pavement while I was giving her a ‘backy’ on my bike on the way home from school.  She still has the scar on her chin.  It was a peaceful suburban scene, made more attractive due to the spring blossom on the trees. 

My parents lived in two different 1930s semi detached houses in the same close.  They moved to the second house after I left for university as they needed more space for my grandparents to move in with them, so I think of the first house as my Chessington home.  Memories came crowding back of hours spent playing out in the road with the other children who lived locally.  I noticed that most of the front gardens have now been tarmacked over, incuding those of my parents’ old houses. More room for cars, low maintenance but much less attractive.

My parents were friendly with Mr and Mrs Lee our next door neighbours.  They were originally from east London.  Mr Lee and my Dad were both keen gardeners (flowers in the front, veg out back).  Mr Lee had a garage stuffed with all sorts of interesting tools and other bits and pieces, which we could only explore under supervision.  Mrs Lee was very house proud.  We were only allowed in the back door and her front room was kept sacred.  She polished her front doorstep to a bright red sheen and I was pleased to see that it remained in all its glory. Mr Lee’s garage had been pulled down.  I felt strangely unemotional on the site of my old childhood home.  I had wondered whether I would want to knock on the door and ask the current owners if I could look around when I arrived, but I felt no urge to do so. 

My childhood home (on the left) with bricked over front garden and new extension in the roof. Mr and Mrs Lee lived in the house on the right

I walked back towards the shopping area.  I passed the road where a friend of my Mum’s used to live.  Her husband was (mentioned in hushed tones) a member of the Communist Party of Great Britain.  Although he looked quite ordinary I thought of him as somehow exotic.  The telephone box on the corner had been removed.  The Mother of a child I used to play with had died tragically in there, choking on her own vomit while her little dog barked to try and attract the attention of passers by.   She was an alcoholic, which I didn’t realise as a child.   I remember her calling her girls in much earlier than the other kids on the close when we were playing out in the evening.  She must have wanted them safely tucked up so she could start on the serious drinking,  I wondered what other stories went on behind closed doors that I was completely unaware of as a child.

The library where I spent many hours is now a community centre and library.  I did vaguely recognise it, but it was under renovation so that made it harder to recall how much it had changed.  There was a café in the foyer of the new part of the building where I ate lunch. 

Unusually, most of  the pubs I remember seem to have survived – the Lucky Rover, The North Star and the Cricketers.  The one I remember sneaking off to with my brother and cousin after the funeral of one of my grandparents is the only one that has closed.  It seems to have been demolished and a care home has been built in its place.

The shopping area appears more attractive than it used to – a typical 1930s 40s or 50s (I am a bit vague on architectural provenance) red brick parade with a post office and flats above the shops.  The supermarket where I used to work remains – Sainsburys local now rather than Safeway.  The café where I had my first job ( a fish and chip shop run by Greek Cypriots which I was sacked from as I ‘didn’t smile at the customers enough’) and the Woolworths where I was a Saturday girl are gone.

I headed up the road to St Pauls church.  This C of E church was the one I attended as a young child (although I was baptised at the local catholic church – a long story I won’t go into here).  I spent a bit of time wandering around the graveyard, which remains well tended, spotting the graves of a few people I remember.  Luckily, I was able to have a look in the church as a couple of people were setting up for an evening performance of some sort.  The font and the window with the story of St Paul are just as remarkable as I remember them.   My old primary school was just across the road.  I peeked through the fence – it didn’t seem to have changed much.

The interior of St Paul’s church

I passed the parish hall where my Dad was in pantomimes and where various events like jumble sales and Christmas fairs used to be held. It is an unusual old building.

I used to hang  about in a small enclosed park on the edge of a large recreation ground on the walk or cycle back from secondary school.  At this stage in my life I was quite miserable and sitting in the garden gave me comfort and privacy.  I was sad to see that it had all been cut down – council cuts I suppose, which meant that it was not viable to maintain it. 

I’m not sure why I felt that I needed to follow the path next to the A3 that led to the underpass through to my old secondary school, as this area does not have good memories for me.  I recognised a particular smell in this area which both then and now I cannot put my finger on.  It is neither pleasant nor unpleasant and I haven’t smelt it anywhere else since.  I passed the tobacconist where the naughty girls hung out (I wasn’t one of them).  Some pupils were walking out of my old school.  Although there were multi-cultural elements to it when I used to attend it (I had friends with Chinese, Indian and Turkish heritage) it now seemed to be a lot more diverse.  I walked back along the other side of the noisy A3 and saw that The ‘Ace of Spades’ pub, which was a place where a lot of functions used to happen back in the day remained boarded up.

Then I hopped on a 71 bus and headed into Kingston. I wanted to visit Kingston Library, where I spent many hours as a teenager.  The reading room with its wooden desks and free to read newspapers and magazines still existed but was more open plan and all the wooden desks had disappeared.  In my day it was usually frequented by at least one old tramp, snoring on a desk or reading the papers.  The site is now shared by a museum about the local area.  I didn’t realise how magnificent the building was when I was a teenager.  I think it must be Victorian or Edwardian.  Modern libraries are definitely not as attractive.  The ‘Spud U Like’ where I would buy my lunchtime baked potatoes was still there and still selling potatoes (athough it is now called ‘Spuds takeaway’).  ‘Cinderalla’s’ nightclub remains but is now called ‘Pryzm’.  It’s probably still as rubbish as it always was.  I can’t remember ever visiting, but it was the main night life venue for Chessington girls in my day. As I headed towards Tooting I reflected that I felt more affectionate and distanced from my past life than I have on previous return visits. 

Growing up in the London suburbs I didn’t ever feel particularly rooted to a place and I still feel like that.  (Although does my need to return and write this contradict that assertion?).  I know a few people who have grown up and never left where they were born and where their families still remain.  For I while I wanted that and certainly my kids are much more rooted in an area than I ever was.  But now I can see the advantages as well as the disadvantages of transience, which the London suburbs in particular seem to foster.  I’ve got Chessington out of my system now and I think that this will be the last time I will return to my childhood home.