Burngreave: In sickness and in health in the Rainbow Vale
by Alan Robinson

(A performance poem : the characters behind the voices are mostly Sheffield women, including Pakistani, East African and Afro - Caribbean.)

You keep a knockin’ but you can’t come in
You keep a knockin’ but you can’t come in
You keep a knockin’ but you can’t come in
Come back tomorrow and you can try again.

You want some money but you can’t come in
You want some money but you can’t come in
You want some money but you can’t come in
Come back tomorrow and you can try again.

"Hello. New Deal?"

This is an answerphone message.
We’re on an awayday.
Come back tomorrow and you can try again.

Okay. We’re back now. What do you want then?

To go to the corner to buy fruit and veg.
To eat in a restaurant in Nether Edge.
To break my neighbour’s window, he’s a right prat.
To get my husband back.
To stop wheezing.
To have a holiday.
To see some roses in Abbeyfield Park.

But if you tell that to them in New Deal…

"What ?"

They ask you to fill in a form or five.

You have to give them time.

"How long?"

Ten years.

"And then?"

The money stops.

"Oh."

I’ll be a pensioner then.
I’ll be married then.
I won’t be coming back.
I’ll be in gaol.
I’ll be in university.
I’ll be a consultant in local communities.
I’ll be a ghost in Burngreave Cemetery.

But now you’re here.

"So what do I have to do?"

You have to perform. Fill in a form.
Be a project.

"I am a project. I’m a mum."

But are you an SRB2 or a RIF or an SRB5?

"No, I’m not a battery. I’m a mum."

But are you charged up? Are you in charge?

“I’m in charge of four children. Or vice - versa. “

Well, set up a bank account, elect a Secretary and Treasurer and Bingo!
We’ll give you a grant.
But you must draw up a ten year plan.

"In ten years I’m leaving my husband."

Good. You’re getting the hang of it.

You see, New Deal helps those that help themselves.

"So it’s some kind of religion?"

It’s an infrastructure, a blueprint. A hegemony.

"Right, I wondered when you’d get round to money. Now you’re talking."

Don’t forget, the best things in life are free.

"Tell that to Pitsmoor Surgery.
Pardon me for my naievety,
but didn’t you just give them twenty thousand quid?"

That’s for additionality.

"There’s no need to swear. Riddle me this then Batman.
Why didn’t the NHS pay for the renovation?"

Er, they will. This is just money up front.

"That’s just what I need. I’m not workshy. I had a job with Green City."

Are they a Premier League club?

"They aim to keep Burngreave green and pleasant.

I worked there for nearly a year. But then they took my job away.
Said it were a case of mistaken identity."

And you don’t work now?

"I’m too busy with my nervous breakdown."

Counselling’s part of the Surgery renovation. You could be a patient.

"I will be."

Why?

"They want to knock my house down to put up their new building.
I’m going to need counselling."

"Are they asking you to knock yours down? Mine too. I’ve given up voting. It makes no difference.
Labour make me see red, Liberals are yellow. I might try Green I suppose.
You’re quiet, sat there in a dream. How would you vote?"

"I was minding my own business.
After all, this is a doctor’s surgery, not Big Brother, but since you ask,
I would like to vote for the moon’s big calico penny
which makes the cemetery
a midnight meadow of silver and blue
to broadcast its peace - glow instead of the BBC news."

" I would like one of my children to leave and another one to come back."

" I would like someone to cook tea and cuddle me
- but I‘d settle for the tea."

You should see Sure Start: they’re just down the road in the park.

"What can they do to heal my broken heart?"

They can have the kids
while you see if you and your husband can live apart.

"There’s not much doubt about that.
He’s made a sure start with a young tart.
And I won’t have strangers in this place.
Just me and my memories, my mum and a cup of tea.
I don’t believe in charity,
and maybe one day he’ll remarry me."

Counselling does work you know - listen:

"They sent me to see the physio and I feel a lot better."

"I went to see a solicitor and she wrote me a letter."

"I realised my son isn’t ill:
It’s me and his dad that ‘ve made him a bedwetter."

Oh, by the way - if you go near Parkwood today, be careful you don’t inhale.
If you go near Parkwood today, you won’t see a slug or snail.
And every bird that ever there was
Has gone abroad to get rid of a cough.
And woods nearby are not a good place to picnic.

"I had a questionnaire from PCT the other day about Parkwood.
Or is it kestionnaire? That’s what posh bloke on phone called it.

"They pronounce it that way so “u“ are‘nt heard.
But what’s PCT? It sounds like fly - killer."

"It’s new name for Health Service. They changed it so government can say it’s receiving less complaints about the NHS. Anyway this kestionaire asked a rait load of questions, or is it kestions?
Namely: were I that close to death from a variety of illnesses that I would regard being choked to death by Parkwood Tip as the icing on the cake of a career in being terminally unwell that I’d worked for all me life?
But they didn’t want to know much about me kid or me wife,
though it’s them that’s been retching their guts,
but to them as knows best,
who carry out tests,
maybe two out of three ain’t bad."

"Still, things are looking up. New Deal put lovely hanging baskets on main road
in case Queen drops by.
Well, you never know, she might,
nice red blue and white."

"It’s like Monopoly : they painted our house in front,
but the back’s been overlooked."

"In case the Queen drops by?"

"Which she never will.
And still the Council won’t give the park fresh roses.
though I read in a Theme Group grid
that they would mainstream a vista of red and white,
provided there’s time
before 31 December 2010 or hell freezes over."

"Red and white won’t get folks excited.
Not many round here support Sheffield United.
You’ve gone quiet again. Cat got your tongue?"

"Before I was a widow my husband and I would walk each day into town.
When he was gone the main show for me which was all year round
were the roses spread like cake - trays in the park.
Now they’re gone, and I sometimes see children play,
but as much it’s guard dogs on parade
and the park keeper, who’s now unpaid,
drinks cider at nine a.m.
and doesn’t realise the world doesn’t hate him
because he’s he,
It’s just that cider before a cup of tea and him don’t agree.
But even he would, I’m sure, stop shouting at us dawn to dusk
if the roses would bring back their sweet musk.
The Council says they can’t afford to pay
so they privatised the roses ‘till they went away.
But for the price of an electric fence, come on New Deal,
Bring back the roses if you do nowt else."

You have to go to meetings if you want things to get better.

"I went to one, and I asked about roses : blue, mauve - my favourite colour ; yellow, not just red. A New Deal Manager said
somebody green looked after flowers, and would I settle for some white lighting, which they must’ve got off the back of a lorry,
they’re gonna put it everywhere.
I said I’m not sure I want to see things it scares me to hear.
And it won’t change park patrol from White Lightning to low calorie beer.
She said, the trouble is if we plant flowers they need to be frequently watered - which I’m sure boozers would, every hour and a quarter."

"So you let her off the hook?"

"Well - wi’ all her talk of green and white I felt a bit off colour.
And I didn’t like to press her.
She were a power dresser."

Fast forward:

King William’s not been to see us for a while: his diary’s fully booked.
The backs of our houses are still overlooked.
We gaze up.
My grand - daughter says the police helicopter ‘s got a friend now,
it was lonely.
The two choppers, courtesy of Never Had It So New Deal the Third thud
across the sky and back like summer - crazy bugs.
"But," she says, "they can’t slice the rainbow."