Page 82 - Exile-ebook
P. 82

82                      AN EXILE OF THE MIND                                                                       TIDDLERS IN A JAM JAR                         83


          the spectres of those immortalised in
          their monochrome world. But then,
          all that a photograph can offer is one
          frozen moment of a life. I stared gap-
          toothed in my Sunday glad rags as the
          photographer took aim. A blinding
          flash and the shutter clicked to capture
          that split second. All that remains is the
          true value of that treasured moment
          until even that becomes a memory
          eroded by time.
            The dim gitty, the entry with lat-
          tice above the door to let in a shard
          of light, led to our pocket-sized yard
          and also  that  of  our neighbour.    At six years old with my mother.                          The two-up, two-down terrace house in Rowan Street, Leicester.
          Homes were rarely locked. The toi-
          let  was a brick  lean-to, draughty  wall.  These  dusty  words  read  first                   Sack-covered  men  begrimed  in  with orange juice to lighten faces of
          and cobweb-laced,  where  I  sat  then  bottom-wiped  until the  next                       coal dust, their eyes peering lucent  children crinkled with revulsion.
          amongst spiders and learnt to read.  lesson.                                                white  in swarthy faces, shouldered     Housewives joined the long queues
          My  library  consisted  of  newspaper   With no running hot  water  the                     heavy  bags  to  the  coal  cellar. The  regardless of what was on offer. To
          squares tacked to the whitewashed  laundry bubbled in a copper tub over                     large grey horse could be heard clat-  stand patiently for hours come rain
                                               a blaze of coal in the  washhouse.                     tering its massive hooves, feather
                                               Clothes  were scrubbed  on a wash                      legged on the cobbled stones. Impa-
                                               board, corrugated  to  guarantee                       tient for his warm stable next to the
                                               early wear, blue-rinsed  and roller-                   blacksmith down the  road where  I
                                               mangled to dazzling spotlessness.                      would sometimes watch the horses
                                                  A tin tub hung on a nail for the                    being shod.
                                               weekly bath with a low-tide ration of                     Long rehearsed queues of mothers
                                               water to bathe in. The cleanest first,                 with babies joined at the hip and
                                               the grubbiest last, and dried off with                 their brood clinging to skirts, snaked
                                               bath towels cut in two for austerity.                  around welfare clinics for orange
                                               And  then  to  finally  toast  oneself                 juice,  cod liver oil and vitamin
                                               in  the  warmth  of  the  fire  with  lip-             tablets. A dollop of gnat’s piss slurped
             Copper for washing clothes.       scalding cocoa and a potato biscuit.                   from a communal spoon followed       Lining up for a dose of cod liver oil.
   77   78   79   80   81   82   83   84   85   86   87