It stretched east to west and
seen midday sun, yet to its east it sat in the morning shade of the
reassuring warmth of the gas works tanks. To its west the evenings shade
crept menacingly from the prisons cold, evil, reassuring wall. Flanked
at each end by this shade of containment, where escape( from either end)
was the most talked about word, it was never dull, always, always,
bright and in spite of it's location the womb could not have been a
safer place to be. It was a warm place, filled with family. Every
dwelling an aunty's house, every bike an uncles. A place where children
could do what children do and grown-ups could just work, talk and watch
us grow up. Yes I remember that! Communication in the community. Where
each house had an aunt that polished brass knockers, scrubbed the door
steps and washed the pavements, always, every day, sometimes endlessly.
To be seen not to do so would have been unforgivable and broken the
precedence. It was so, so, important, every knocker, every doorknob,
every step, every pavement, every single house, every day and if some "Aunty
Duraglit" were ill and could not do it, some "Aunty Braso"
with outstretched tongue and elbow grease would get it done without
seeking credit. All this was done only after the carpets with feet had
walked and been endlesly thrust into the wall by turban headed aunts who
would not have looked out of place had they flown on them.Yes I remember
that!
The street had gaps that told us it had seen bad times. The houses
numbered from Aunty May's at No1 to Aunty Philis's at No 9 then there
was "the gap", until Aunty Betty's at No17. the gap was where
we played, off the car-less road. We played our grown- up games here not
really knowing the grown up cost. It was not an uncle or aunt that told
us,( it would not have been right.) it was time that said "Bomb
Patch" and 7 houses with yet more aunties and uncles had vanished.
Yes. I remember that!
Our house No31 showed many scars for 32 and 33 had also been lost. The
gas works and docks were the targets and the streets bomb patch was only
50 yards from the 3 large gas tanks that fuelled the Town, that would
have been curtains for everyone and it was a reminder to us post-war
baby's of what our elders had experienced. The bomb patches and shelled
houses were to become the adventure playgrounds of all us kids. Yes I
remember that! |
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| Then there was "Joe" who took over from "Charlie"
they did not live locally they spent thier day casually walking the
streets length. They were very likable, although they looked menacing in
there long garbadene macs, their mirror leather studded boots and trilby
hats that purposely hid there faces so well. They looked like "bogarts"
and their cigarettes hung loose from their smoky spoken drawl. Everybody
liked them uncles and aunts continually wrote to them and personally
delivered their letters, sometimes as an errand I would be asked to give
him letters, they even gave him money when it wasn't his birthday. My
wish was that one day I might be so popular. They were continually lost
in fog from their smoky spoken drawl, for the letters told them where to
go, and it was usually "each way!" Yes I remember that! |
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| Each house had a window-cill and
the Sun would set on a street where the folk would talk and walk and
walk and talk from cill to cill and into the evenings tired call. The
steps, knockers and pavements would shine back at a mystified moon and
parlor lights from flickering mantles would dance at the moths delight.
Aunts and uncles would laugh and we would sink into our young sleep
listening to the joy that made the bomb patch, gas works and prison,
distant but so, so, dark, in spite of the gas light, that hissed and
snaked out from the wall. In our beds we would listen as the voices
changed from cill to cill and like the moth to the mantle, we could not
resist the call to the sweet, safe, secure dream this laughter gave us.
The womb could not have been a safer place to be. Yes! I remember that. |
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