And then we left, repairing to the Hare and Hounds. Kitty took my arm, folding a gloved hand round it. This used to be fields too, I said, pointing to the buildings on the westerly edge. These were Lammas Lands too. But they were dislammased and sold off, before Ambrose and I were born.

‌Samhain

There is smoke in the air. It comes from the gardens that back on to the park, hovering in blue wisps over the wooden fences. If they go closer they will hear the crackling, see the sparks: the collapsing, glowing matter.

It’s starting to be sunset as they leave the toddler area and turn into the avenue banked on either side by playing fields. The park-keeper, wearing his woollen hat and donkey jacket, opens the casement noticeboard and turns the hands of the cardboard clock that says THIS PARK CLOSES AT. He turns them to five.

They have not brought the scooter today, so they walk, very slowly, holding hands. At the fields Danny, a younger park-keeper, stops his John Deere tractor (which they always admire), dried leaves piled in the back. He’s made a jack o’ lantern at the community centre. He’s proud of it; he shows it them – bright orange to match his hi-vis uniform. They show him theirs. Wow, that’s really something, I like the eyes. Yes, he’s got a baby now – his wife had the baby last month, it’s six weeks old: Devonie. Pretty name. And so lucky to be September-born, for school, you know. Lovely time of year. Welcome to the club. He waves, drives off.

Under the trees. Most of the leaves on the grass now, playing fields golden in the low sun, shiny red jewels catching the light. A late conker found today, maybe the last of the year, but fresh, gleaming – the white top vernixy, dissolving when she rubbed it with her thumb, the burnish almost damp. She feels it, round in her pocket. Waits while her child inspects a tree trunk, mossy on the north side.

The lost mitten balanced on the sapling, where it’s been for a week, getting rained on, frosted, thawing out – she unhooks it, slips it in the plastic bag with the lantern and the other things. No one will miss it now.

Past the logs – wooden structures, stumps and trunks for children to play on, sunk here at great expense by the council a year or so ago, shortly after they moved in. Getting nicely weathered, in that silvery-grey way wood does. Part of the landscape.

A horse chestnut leaf on the path, huge and dried and umbrella-like. Blight-patterned. And the leaflets curl inwards like elves’ slippers. She shakes it as they walk, rattling them home.