I went down to Haverhill for a haircut. Haverhill is a run-down town with many closed shops that the local council has camouflaged by putting pictures in the windows. I do like a barber’s off a side street, though. It’s just one woman in a small room with three chairs for waiting. You can have a chat with her, and this is something the Turkish barbers that have spread across this country don’t understand. You don’t go to barbers to get pampered, you go to pick up gossip. I don’t want coffee or a nose pluck or some funny smelling pomade, I want to hear local rumour and scandal.
There wasn’t much scandal today. We just chatted about supermarkets and vitamin supplements. She has chia seeds in her porridge for breakfast, like me. You would never guess to look at her – a middle-aged peroxide blonde in a side street in Haverhill. But then what would she have for breakfast? It’s humbling: I can’t even guess what people have for breakfast, let alone their moral and political opinions.
After the haircut, I thought I’d wander round the town and take some photos, or do some sketches. I settled down on a bench on the high street, and watched people. I’ve never known a place where people look so down-trodden. I’ve noticed it before when I’ve been there, but it’s only when I sat on a bench and looked at people that I realised how bad it was. One in ten people seemed to be on a mobility scooter, including many young people who were too obese to walk. Then I’d say another four in ten either had a walking stick or a problem walking, and again that wasn’t restricted to old people.
I’d seen a young couple earlier on, and I’d thought “Well, I guess he can’t walk very well, but at least they’re happy there, holding hands.” The young man lumbered left and right when he walked, and one foot was permanently tipped to the outside. I followed them in a shop and the assistant said, “What is it today, then?”
The young man said what sounded like, “Whop!”.
“Oh, books is it?” said the assistant.
When the couple moved down to the back of the shop I heard the man crying, “Whop! Whop!” and realised that was all he could say, and that the woman with him was his carer. She glanced at me self-consciously, as if she was afraid I’d disapprove him.
I asked myself whilst sitting on the bench, “What do I mean by ‘down-trodden’? If the people here are ‘down-trodden’, what does that mean exactly?” That’s one for my thought book, but here are some quick notes:
- Visibly poor health: difficulty moving (needing a mobility scooter or a walking stick, having a limp or shuffle); overweight or painfully skinny; pasty skin and bad complexion (not rosy, healthy cheeks due to fresh air and exercise).
- Dressed badly: cheap clothes made of synthetic material, like jogging trousers and plastic trainers; jumpers without shirts underneath; stains and worn patches on the clothes; clothes that aren’t attractive or don’t suit the person’s figure.
- Messy hair: badly-cut hair dried and frazzled, or lank with grease.
- Vaping: many people were doing this, including shop assistants popping outside for a quick drag.
Those are some ideas. I could have added “Wearing a medical monitor”, since I saw a young man covered in tattoos sitting with his girlfriend outside Costa Coffee. The man had a blood pressure cuff around his arm and he was watching the monitor on the table. The whole centre of town is like an outpatients unit.
For all the observations I made above, and me calling them “down-trodden”, the people didn’t look any less happy than people anywhere else. Still, I couldn’t get my camera or sketchbook out. I just couldn’t because I found it all too sad.
I drove up to Kedington, and took some pictures of the church. There are some fantastic sixteenth and seventeenth century sculptures there, so I thought I’d try using a remote flash and tripod in gloomy conditions. Unfortunately, a couple of men were wandering about trying to fix the organ. I asked if I could take photos and one of them (I guess the local) said, “Yes, that’s fine. Go ahead.” But I couldn’t bring myself to set up a tripod and flash, Instead I tested how much I could do in available light.
Then, as light relief from tombs, I took a stroll around the village and found a couple of eccentric houses. First this:
And then just a few doors down was a yellow house that had a replica Mediterranean terrace down the side, complete with balustrades and pots of geraniums. Above the terrace, high on the wall, was an enamel picture of a silhouetted rabbit with the words “Death comes to us all, and it has sharp scary teeth.”
