Neighbours

The end of the row was dominated by the red brick, iron-railed schools. The small infant school was separated by a central drive from the Juniors, the lair of the terrifying Miss Chudleigh, “Ugly Chugly” we called her, but not if she was in earshot. At the top of the drive was the Secondary Modern, where they put your head down the bog and pulled the chain.

Number 40, next to the school, was Fatty Rowland’s. I never knew his first name. He didn’t have a dad. I thought that he must be a prisoner of war because my father said that Fatty's dad had had a lucky escape. Mum said Mrs Rowlands was no better than she ought to be. Dad said she was a merry widow who had shed her widow’s weeds. Which was true as her front garden was kept neat and tidy by a man who must have been her gardener.

The Croton family lived at 42. They had twin girls who they had named Phillis and Dilys. They were dressed the same, had identical old-fashioned hairstyles but a different coloured bow so you could tell them apart, although I wondered why anyone would want to. Mr Croton was something on the buses, and my dad wouldn’t speak to him as he had had a cushy war.

The Haywards were at number 44. There were a lot of Haywards. The three eldest boys had first names beginning with M: Martin, Mervyn and Melvin. Then a girl, Mary, but they must have run out of M names and started at the beginning of the alphabet again when Adrian was born.

Adrian was a day older than I and was taller. Stick thin legs covered by grey woollen socks, which were kept up by his cub uniform garters. He had Brylcreamed, thin blond hair plastered to his head. He had a very high forehead, and I always imagined him as a strutting monocled Nazi. I used to mutter “Achtung, Spitfire” when I passed him. He didn’t invite me to his birthday parties, and I didn’t invite him to mine

We had history. He had been rude to poor Sibony Cole about her pink glasses, with one lens covered over, so we had a fight. A proper one, ringed by our mates chanting “Fight, fight, fight” until we were hauled off to see the Head. He got a black eye, I got a bloody nose, and we both got the slipper.

Then the Toogoodes, “That’s good with an e”, said Mrs Toogoode with an e. They had a television, the only one in the street. Mum said she was aptly named, as she thought herself too good for the likes of us and then would put her nose in the air, affect a comedy voice and say “Hawfully good programme on the television last night. Ha hopera.”

Mum said I wasn’t to play with the kids at 48. When I asked why, she said because they’ve got ginger hair, but I think it was more about the police car that pulled up one day. A Wolsely with a bell on the front and everything. I didn’t mind too much, except Bobby Tinkler was really good at swearing, although on the other hand, he always smelled of wee. He said his Dad was on holiday. “One with a black market, then,” my Dad had said when I told him.

Chris Bowering, my best friend, lived at number 50. Their house was a chaos of kids and smelt of toast. I stopped calling for him because we were always late for school. His dad had been in the Navy and kept his uniform in a chest in the hall. It was magnificent, lots of gold braid and badges. Chris said his dad was an admiral, but I didn’t believe him. Admirals didn’t live in council houses.

The Bennetts, Tony and Chris, were next. Their mum always called them in for their tea by their full names and we would all join in with her and chorus “Anthony, Christopher, tea time”. The Bennett boys were fearless, they would jump the widest part of the brook, climb the highest trees right up until the day that Tony fell and broke his fall on Chris. And both of their arms.

Terry Grant and Mick Mason were the next two houses. Their dads played in a band. On Friday and Saturday nights they would walk for the bus dressed in their dinner suits, carrying their instrument cases. Mr Grant, trombone, Mr Mason, trumpet. I think my dad was a bit jealous because he said, “Good job they don’t play the bloody piano”.

Malcolm lived in the next house. His mum was always very glamorous, with dark wavy hair and the reddest lipstick I had ever seen. Sometimes a fur coat, always a hat and once she had a dead fox draped round her neck. It had scary staring glass eyes. They were the “Dochertys”, although Mrs Docherty always said it was pronounced “Doherty”.

Malcolm didn’t have a dad, but he was fortunate because he had lots of uncles who came to stay. One of them looked just like Fatty Rowland’s gardener.

Mum said she was common because she smoked on the street. “Fur coat, we all know what that means”.

“I don’t,” I said,

“Your mother is referring to the potential paucity of nether garments,” said my Dad.

They always used big words when they were talking about grown-up things.

Still, he said she is a bit of alright.

I knew he was in trouble. Mum did her little mouth face, and her neck went red. I went out to play.