
We cut through an alleyway that had once been the driveway to Clough Place, a house that had once belonged to William Hall, a file manufacturer, and which stood on the left. A substantial portion of that house has been demolished, but a section remains at the end of Charlotte Road looking onto St Mary’s Road.
To the right is a narrow basketball court that was once part of the garden to the house and had been adorned with carefully planted trees and shrubs.
I tell my colleague that I call this stretch of footpath ‘death alley,’ not as a joke, but because this was where a Sheffield solicitor had been shot dead by two assassins. My colleague is shocked.
It is broad daylight but there is a dark and looming presence that is St. Mary’s Church, and which casts a huge shadow over everything.
We continue up the path to where it opens into the graveyard. A man walks his dog on a stretch of grass, oblivious that the ground beneath him had once been the final resting place of the dearly departed, the gravestones removed. People sit on benches and appear harmless, happier drinking from their cans of beer. This is now called St. Mary’s Church Park, still a pleasant place to sit amongst the few remaining graves, but there is menace around.
There is a man loitering under a tree and he moves towards us. I don’t want to alarm my colleague, but I tell him to keep walking. I’m used to situations like this, but the best option is to keep a distance.
We cross Clough Road and head into Chaucer Yard where there is a vintage clothes shop and coffee house. My colleague goes in search of a bargain while I remain outside and light a cigarette.
The man appears on the other side of the road and stares. I recognise him and stare back. This isn’t a street drinker but someone who will rob for a living. He decides that I’m too tall, too clever, or perhaps not worth the effort, because he turns and disappears.
I lean on the wall and see Bramall Lane at the end of Clough Road where there is a constant flow of traffic, people walking up and down, and not the place where misdeeds are going to happen.
A police car turns into the road and hovers outside the gates of St. Mary’s Church, before making a left turn and cruising slowly along its driveway and vanishing on the other side.
Two men appear at the end of the road and walk quickly towards me, all the time casting furtive glances at the church gates. In no time at all, they pass, but before disappearing around the corner into Countess Road, they look back to make sure that nobody has seen them.
Moments later, a female comes from Bramall Lane, a student, but she is being followed by two more shifty characters. She knows that they are behind her and when she is level, stops and pretends to look for something in her bag. The two men pass and turn into Countess Road. Her eyes are alert, glad to see the back of them, and when she smiles, I know that she is grateful that I was there.

I finish my cigarette and cross the road to where I can see through the church railings. The old graveyard is empty, the loiterers have disappeared, and the guy who I thought was a robber had gone. They have seen the police car and know that it hasn’t returned, and that danger lurks for them too.
When my colleague returns, we go for coffee, and he asks if I’d noticed the dodgy character who’d followed us. I tell him not to worry.
But there is an issue because we are only a stone’s throw from the city centre and all its problems.
St. Mary’s Church Park is a bolt hole for those wanting to escape something or someone and is also a suitable retreat for peace and quiet. I consider that the church is for everyone: fellowships of every denomination, no social class, where God’s love can be shared, and that should apply to the outside.

Days after writing this post, I return to St. Mary’s alone and take photographs. It is a fabulously sunny day, and the light makes the old church shine. There are cars parked outside and I remember that this is still a working church, the website would indicate a thriving one, but today the former graveyard is deserted.
I sit on a bench, take in the surroundings, and think that this is quite a picturesque spot, and that its troubles are no different to those elsewhere in the city centre.
At that moment, a robin descends and hops on the ground in front of me. I notice that the flagstones are really gravestones, laid flat to form a path. I take it as a sign that our descendants are still around, and, in the spiritual community, it might be a visit from someone dead whose gravestone is missing.
©2024 David Poole. All Rights Reserved.
All images / DJP / 2024























