Reclaiming Clapham Common

Clapham Common, if we are being honest, cannot be described as London’s most beautiful open space. But as one who has lived just off it for 25 years, I have come to be very thankful for it. Never more so than over the past year, when the short stroll from our front door to the bandstand in the centre of the common, sitting there for a bit and then strolling home again, has become one of those small daily rituals of lockdown on which I have come to depend. 

A crucial part of the ritual, if you are a news junkie like me, is to leave your phone at home. Shut out the noise of the virtual world of Twitter – with all its shouting, all its clever point-scoring and everyone having issues with everything and knowing everything and hating everyone – and take in the sights and sounds of the real world.  (Or at least of that pleasant, middle-class, child-orientated corner of the real world known as “Nappy Valley” in which we live.) 

What do you hear and see? The rumble of traffic around the south circular, an occasional plane overhead and, apart from that, just children on their scooters with their families and dogs, some socially distanced friends chatting as they walk. That and birdsong.

Those happy sights and sounds have, of terrible necessity, disappeared or been drowned out of late. They were replaced first by the police helicopters circling incessantly over the common and its surrounding streets. Next, we had the ranks of police scouring the wooded area of the common, then the dredgers searching the ponds. Then the activity became less intense as the search moved to Kent, but that was worse because then one knew for sure what was coming. My world reversed in those days. Staying indoors was best. Twitter became the escape because to step outside the house and into the real world on my doorstep was to become overwhelmed with sadness. 

Then, on Saturday evening Clapham Common was noisy again, but this time with the sound of sirens and shouts of abuse. The following morning, when I visited the bandstand, bending down and looking close up at the flowers, I could see that a great many of them were there for Sarah. Small messages of love remembering the person. But far more prominent, drowning them out, were the large placards screaming,  ‘End Capitalism’;  ‘Overthrow the Patriarchy’; ‘Justice for women’. The virtual world of Twitter had come crashing into my real world and taken it over. It seemed so out of place. 

Clapham Common is the beating heart of Nappy Valley and, writing this on Mothering Sunday, I want to reclaim it as such. No politics here. No aggression or fury. Instead, what I want to see erected at our bandstand – lest we Clapham parents should ever forget to count our blessings – is nothing more than a simple and permanent memorial to Sarah Everard: a beautiful, bright young woman who brought joy to her family.  

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