A fable

First published in Column 8 on the 30^th September, 1992

Once upon a time there was a fountain.

For much of the day she was quiet and almost invisible to passers-by. But at certain hours, such as in the heat of midday, or in the cool of evening, music from an unseen source would play. Then it was as though a kind of magic overtook the fountain. She would begin to dance.

Her arches would soar high, and her spray shone in the sunlight. She would toss peaks of water hither and thither, interweaving them like figures in some old, formal dance. Though the music itself was somewhat unimaginative, there were moments when the fountains and the music were one.

The fountain was popular with people of all ages, and from all lands. Strangers were encouraged to come from far and near to listen to her music and see her dance; even to photograph her.

The fountain was never completely still. She had subdued moods when she was not leaping and prancing. Those who spied on her in these reflective moments might have found her less attractive. A tangle of sharp, thorny spikes could be seen, rather like the back of some prehistoric monster. The bushes nearby did their best to shelter the fountain when she was in this state, and were for the most part successful. Yet it was as though she was alternatively a beauty and a beast.

Then came a day when Great Ideas were put forward. Great Ideas that were to improve the look of the city in which the fountain lived. Much money was to be spent, and many changes were to take place. Decisions were made in chambers, and plans set afoot.

Someone decided that the fountain was no longer suitable – she did not fit in with the Great Ideas. As the flower of the field, she had flourished. Now when the wind passed over her place, she would be no more.

Hundreds of intricate pieces were dismantled and boxed up. She was no longer a thing alive, the sum of her parts; her spirit was split into components, to become lifeless pieces of piping.

The place where she had danced was covered over – her memory was regarded with as little honour as the subterranean toilets nearby: both sites vanished under hundreds of bricks as though they had never existed.

In her place, due to the theory that two are better than one, were installed twin ‘fountains’ of modern design, rather like plaster bath-tubs, or concrete saunas, or even worse, lead cisterns in which the ball-cock had ceased to function, and the water flowed continuously.

They claimed Mystery: how did the water churn forth continually yet never go anywhere? No one really cared; there was  no mystery about them, only pretence. They had no intrinsic beauty, and proved to be nothing more than bird-baths, or paddling pools for intrepid toddlers.

There was no peace about them. To sit near was to sit beside a noisy rushing waterfall, but without the grandeur; or a swirling weir damming nothing. They were as out of place as the multicoloured doors that once demeaned the Town Hall; some architect’s dream method of using up leftover paint. A method that left the Town Hall looking like a staid grandmother in fluorescent socks.

The true fountain, ever since, awaits her fate. She has sometimes heard arousing rumours that a new and more imposing site is to be her reward for suffering long dark days of imprisonment.

But, for her alas, they remain rumours.

 

The Star Fountain, to give it its proper title, because it was gifted to the city by the Star newspaper, was much loved, and many people remember it with delight. Unfortunately the powers that be decided it had had its day – apparently not consulting the Star itself. By all accounts the many pieces were stored somewhere – it seems a mystery as to where – with the vague idea of it being restored in another location. In due course however much of it corroded and was discarded, and the brass fittings were stolen and sold! Extraordinary.

From memory, when it played in the evenings, lights gave it different colours. 

The men’s toilets in the Octagon were underground and were a wonderful example of how to build a toilet and make it look good at the same time. The story goes that it was simply covered over when yet another Grand Decision was made and is still there. It’s more likely that it was filled in so that at no point would the ground suddenly open and people fall into its remains…