The Whole Story Poem by Geoffrey Winch

Of course the politicians argued long and hard about keeping parking for cars in the Market Square once the paving enhancement works were done. The pro-parkers won of course so fresh plans were drawn and the contract let although the deadline for the annual Mop Fair was rapidly counting down - tradition was everything. But contractor Paul was reassuring - he had just the right man for the job -

wheeler/dealer, foreman/ganger,
problem solver on the hoof -
Al,
owner of
a big Black Country heart.

So the cracked and worn tarmac was torn up for days by the gang’s jackhammers’ tough steel tips until Fridays at noon when market traders asserted their Charter rights and occupied the square to erect their stalls. And one week Al would leave them in a pit with safe ramps up and down, another week he'd maroon them with board walks over trenches, and fences to prevent Joe Public falling in, while he went off for his weekend ’vanning - ’vanning being his thing. Ask him on the Monday how the ’vanning went -

‘Fabulous, ’ he’d say
bending his vowels with a grin,
‘problems all the way -
the unimaginable -
but I fixed everything! ’

No political hiatus though about backfilling the underground Victorian caverns as new conveniences had been built at ground level between Woollies and the Rose and Crown at the top of the Holloway steps. Here fresh breezes carried odours away to the relief all concerned, so -
shame about the stink
shame about
once-gleaming copper,
ceramic tiles green and white
all concreted-in.

When pipes being laid couldn’t meet the right gradient a residual ponding potential remained, and the rain-gods could only pray that some wizard would materialize and produce an outfall to the underworld. Al it was who poked and prodded the ground with a steel spike - a makeshift wand or rare kind of divining rod? - who knows? - but magical powers it had for lo and behold! an ancient lamp-hole it revealed. No sewer running below had ever been recorded but running water was heard at a depth that couldn’t be discerned, so Al fixed a gully over it. Now

when it rains
down the drain it pours
into Stygian depths
to the sound of Al’s laughter -
deep rushing water

When neatly trimming formations to ensure spanking new paving fell to its proper falls, a forgotten cellar without warning opened-up - a black-hole suddenly blinking into the sky. Foul air arose around Guiseppe waiting upon his restaurant’s threshold to welcome diners - but the aromas of his appetising fare were in a moment destroyed. In a flash Al’s men sealed the hole, reinforced and concreted it over - no more than an hour did Guiseppe’s customers have to wait for their food - and, as he was the type of gent who insisted on fair play, -

every Friday thereafter
seated at table just past noon,
Al’s hungry gang
selected from the à la carte
the free lunches they’d earned.

It was the water company’s own engineer who certified that the water main was dead, but one of Al’s men who discovered life was still inside it when he struck it with the business end of his pick. A fountain two storeys high then played to a gathering crowd, and after an hour when no waterman had arrived, Al himself managed to bandage the wound. When he arrived

the waterman was jeered
as he closed the valve
while Al took a bow
and was cheered -
then the crowd dissolved.

Close to the corner of the County Museum, the old-time Corn Exchange, a deep excavation revealed it to be a building with no foundations. All that history would have crashed into the crater had Al not been quick off the mark. But don’t ask him about the tons of concrete that stabilized the walls, don’t ask about the high costs he buried. Just ask him about the finely-paved Square - the stones and slabs and blocks superbly cut and all neatly knitted together. Ask him how he managed to finish on time. Ask him how he brought the whole job in on budget, and he will tell you as he rounds his vowels around his grin - ‘though we had problems all the way - everything unimaginable - it was no problem at all - in fact it all went fab! ’

The Mop Fair came and went,
same rides, same show, same loud crowds -
same old thing.
Al missed it all -
’vanning.

A week on and the cars returned - tyre tracks, oil spills, parking all over the pristine paving. Dirt, noise, pollution - tradition was everything.