So, the day of 7 July 2007 dawned, and we were going toopen to the public at 10 AM. And, amazingly, for the firsttime in about six weeks, it was sunny. It was actually hot.
The sky was cloudless, even the park itself was cloudless,for a change. Down in the car park a small crowd wascollecting from half past nine onward, and a ribbon hadbeen strung across the entrance, ready to be cut as the zoowas officially reopened for business for the first time infifteen months.
Mum, Duncan, and several of the smartly dressed staffwere already down at the bottom when I arrived, but wewere far out numbered by the expectant crowd of mumswith buggies, family groups, and the odd OAP (old-agepensioner). The day before, the weather would have madethis highly unlikely, but this sudden gap in the clouds waslike the curtains unexpectedly opening on the cast of a play,long in rehearsals with the opening date constantlythreatened with delay. Suddenly we were on. These werereal customers, all genuinely wanting to visit a real zoo.
Some would even be wanting to buy a toy, have a meal,and go to the toilet; so, for the next eight hours (for the firsttime in our lives), this was our job: to see that this randomlyselected cross-section of the public got what they wanted,and left content with their experience.
Mum made a short speech thanking everyone for comingand the staff for all their hard work, then declared the parkopen and cut the ribbon. Watching her cut her firstceremonial ribbon in seventy-six years, I thought she mighthave been thinking a little about the house where she wasborn, which was not even a two-rooms-up, two-down inSheffield, but a one-up, one-down plus a small attic on top,with tin baths in front of the fire in the living/dining/kitchen/bathroom. But in fact that was just me beingsentimental, and Mum was thinking along much morepractical lines of, “Thank God there’s finally some moneycoming in” and “How can I get up to the top of the drivebefore all these people?”
As it happened we were carried up the drive at the headof the surge on a huge wave of positive energy andoptimism. Apart from me worrying about the steep gullieson the side of the drive which, it had been helpfully pointedout to me many times over the last few months, could easilysnap an ankle if someone went over one the wrong way(though in forty years they never had). Everyone in myimmediate vicinity somehow made it up the drive safely, butsoon they would be at the top, and the first complaintsabout the restaurant would start to come in, then about thekiosk, the pathways, the toilets, and the rubbish bins. Andthen, of course, there would be the Code Red. Animalrightsactivists cutting some wire, or an excited keepermaking a mistake, and suddenly Solomon is runningacross the picnic area with a baby in his mouth. Thescreaming crowd disperses never to return, and the sale ofthe zoo doesn’t cover the claims because we only had ￡5million public liability insurance.
Everywhere I looked, there was something that could gowrong. I constantly fiddled with my radio, checking that itcould scan both frequencies simultaneously, so that I couldpick up customer services catastrophes as well as animaldepartment disasters. I wasn’t actively expecting thesethings to happen in a pessimistic way, but I wouldn’t havebeen in the least bit surprised at this stage if any of themdid. The emergency mode had been going on for so long, itwas hard to stand back and see this day for what it was. Anenormous, unqualified success.
People were coming—pouring—up the drive, wanderingaround, enjoying the facilities. They were buying ice cream,cups of tea, lunch, and toys in the shop and smiling.
Furthermore, they were saying nice things to us and thekeepers. How well everything looked, what a refreshingchange it was, how happy the animals seemed, how hardwe must have worked. None of us were used to this. Upuntil now, most visitors from the outside world had beenofficials, bankers, inspectors, lawyers, or creditors of onesort or another, stressing the extreme seriousness of ourposition, the enormous amount of work ahead, and thedisastrous consequences if anything at all went wrong. Buthere we were, having finally got it right and being praised,continually all day, by a smiling and even grateful public.
Toward lunchtime I made my way up to the picnic area, andSolomon was nowhere to be seen, safely behind the wire,entertaining rather than eating his public. And the publicwere eating at the kiosk. Every picnic table was full; peoplewere sitting on the grass, relaxing and sipping tea—teathey had bought from the kiosk—while small children insocks burned off energy on the bouncy castles. I couldn’tresist a head count, and that first one revealed forty-twoadults visible from the bottom corner, which, times ￡8entrance fee, translated into ￡336. Right in front of me wehad raised enough money to more than pay for thatincredibly expensive power drill we’d had to buy threemonths before. Plus coffees and teas, plus all the otherpeople milling on the site and in the restaurant. Maybe itwas going to work after all.
Then I received my first complaint. “Why have you gotthese bouncy castles here?” demanded a mildly iratemother. “I brought my child here to see the animals, but hewon’t come off. They’re just a distraction.” I didn’t knowquite what to say, so I tried out my new customer servicesmode, apologized, but pointed out that many people usedthe bouncy castles as a chance for a break so their childrencould go back to looking at the animals when they’d burnedoff a bit of excess energy. This platitude seemed to work.
Though I took the complaint very seriously, as it wasoffered, and it made me question the core idea of playfacilities momentarily, I was confident enough by now thatevery zoo and almost every leisure attraction has a playarea of some sort, after all, and this was all we could affordat the moment. Usually it’s seen as a form of public service.
But there really is no pleasing some people, as I havediscovered, though that was the only complaint of the day.
As the day wore on, nothing bad happened. The keeperswere smiling almost in disbelief at being showered withcompliments, praise, and positive feedback. It had been along haul for them too, the old and the new, in very tryingtimes and with a level of uncertainty about their future thatmost had not experienced before. What they hadexperienced before, however, was the public, and I wasstruck how at ease they all seemed in moving through thecrowds, giving impromptu talks, then getting on with theirroutines. It made sense, of course. None of them hadworked in an empty zoo before they came here; crowdswere normal.
The only zoo I had ever worked in, however, was this one,which had always been empty. Any member of the publicon the site was our responsibility and had to be escorted atall times. In between being granted the license andopening, less than two weeks before, the local school hadasked to visit. I had said yes, and though it was technicallyallowed as a private visit, it had not gone down well withSteve, Anna, and Peter Wearden. Under strict supervisionit had been a tense time, shepherding twenty-six vulnerableyoungsters and their six or so adult caretakers through theminefield of dangers that, I had been trained, the zoopresented. Now, suddenly, there were children everywhere,running and laughing, virtually unsupervised and oddlyunharmed. I loved seeing them, recognizing the glee ontheir faces that said they were having a special day out.
Here, in our zoo. It was hard to take in.
The restaurant was also a teeming success: cakes,coffee, tea, panini, hot meals prepared by Gordon, our newchef, all selling well, all being consumed happily,nonchalantly even, by a satisfied public who took forgranted that this should be the case. If they had only seenthe room where they were eating even a week before, noone would have thought this achievement possible.
Then something did hit me: Katherine. Throughout theday, amongst the stream of general well-wishers, severalpeople had come and shaken my hand to offer theircondolences about Katherine. News of her death hadreached the local paper, which had sent a reporter a coupleof weeks afterward to cover it. I hadn’t minded, as thequestions were suitably restrained, and the young reporterwas suitably uncomfortable asking them. Until thephotographer turned up. He was a talker, a spiel merchant,which probably served him well with uncertain old ladieswhose cats had been rescued by the fire brigade or surlyland............