SPORTSMEN OF THE RUBBISH-HEAPS
AN old, faded notice board, bearing the legend that trespassers will be prosecuted, leans at a low angle in the hedge; newer and larger boards announce that the land is “admirable for building purposes” and for sale. A gate guards a gap in the hedge, over which bold boys swarm on Saturdays and Sundays when no policeman is in sight.
This preserve, as the crow flies, is about eight miles from London Bridge in a south-easterly direction. It is known to dustmen, who dump their loads upon its once-green fields, and it is also known to certain cockney sportsmen.
Trams and omnibuses pass near its violated woodlands (soon to fall), and yet its possibilities are immense. One Sunday after the war I walked there. Four shooting parties, complete with dogs, were out after its game. Now, it is not lawful to pursue game on Sundays; nor is it lawful to carry a gun without a licence. But the sportsmen do not mind that. Their guns have sawn-off barrels, and take apart in less than ten seconds. An inside pocket conceals both. As for their dogs—well, although I am a dog-lover and like rough shooting, I would not care to be seen in my own village with such dogs. Every man I met would grin and wink—long, swift dogs they are, a mixture of greyhound and bulldog, chiefly, with various other strains, in order to make them that rare breed—the true lurcher. They never bark. They look slyly at you. Often they grin in dog-fashion, suspiciously, almost a leer.
The sportsmen shoot anything. The last hare has been gone for years, even a rabbit is an unusual sight, almost as rare as a partridge. Generations ago gravel was taken from this estate, leaving shallow pits that in winter are filled with water. Snipe haunt the pools even now, but they fly up so quickly and then zigzag that it is impossible to hit them.
When a shot is fired guns are hidden, and heads look round for policemen. Sparrows are common game, thrushes and blackbirds are considered the equivalent of pheasants, and the large missel-thrush causes as much excitement and admiration as a first woodcock. A pigeon is as rare as a golden plover, and talked of for weeks.
Sport is not confined to turning-up birds and snap-shooting. The superior ones carry guns; the lowlier fraternity hunt the humble rat, who loves the rubbish-heaps. Their holes are everywhere, by broken umbrellas, decrepit straw hats, burst boots, papers, straw, tins, novels, bottles, and old torn shirts. Little terriers quiver with excitement as their masters from Deptford and Shoreditch dig with the crowbars—great excitement this.
Of course the boys must have their shooting parties. Some of them are very skilful with the catapult, and when bored with life they are quite equal to shooting at their elders. Others frequent the pools, wading after efts and sticklebacks. Once I saw a systematic dragging of the ponds with the aid of an old army blanket.
At another end of the preserve bird-catchers are busy with clap-nets and call-birds. Perhaps, if you go near, surly looks will greet you, and you may hear the sound of frail wings ceaselessly fluttering against the bars of tragically overcrowded and small cages. Sometimes goldfinches flit over, their sweet sipping notes rising and falling as they pass to the thistle-heads of last autumn; and wistfully comes the answer from the cages as beaks covered with blood are thrust again and again through the bars.
I knew this place years ago, when it was the country. The land is for sale; they are going to build; and the house-squares of civilisation will be better than the green fields so foully ravaged. But it is nothing to do with me. The happy, happy days of boyhood are gone for ever, with their hopes and their friendships: I shall never go there again, nor shall I hear the wood-larks singing there on a morning of May, nor watch the kingfisher as he draws a sapphire line to the pit where every spring we found his nest. All these are dead: let the houses and the streets obliterate the place for ever.