Child from Home Read Online Free

benches, or ‘forms’. Rows of wooden, double-storey bunk beds had been installed and the local people entered the new, underground airraid shelter by means of a concrete ramp, which led down to thick, metal, blast-proof doors. The tunnels were lit by rows of electric bulbs powered by a generator and the timber-framed roofs were covered with corrugated metal sheeting, which had a deep layer of soil on top. In an emergency an exit could be made by means of wooden ladders that were fixed to the sides of brick-lined shafts placed along the tunnels at intervals. These and the brick street shelters were to be used by hundreds of local people.
    On the far side of The Common there were rundown allotments with the fences and sheds patched up with roof felt, bits of rotting wood and rusty corrugated metal sheeting. Close by stood a pigeon park, now in a state of disrepair, with the white paint of its wooden lofts flaking and peeling – all symptoms of the recent hard times.
    Groups of poorly clad men regularly gathered on a corner of The Common, most wearing ‘art silk’ mufflers tied in a tight knot above collarless shirts. Many of them had the gaunt-faced look of the long-term unemployed, depleted by too many years of hardship. Depressed and broken in spirit they felt that they were of no use to their families or anyone else, and could be seen slouching around at the street corners or on that particular area of The Common day after day. Several had hacking coughs, spitting great gobs of phlegm on to the ground or sucking on an empty tobacco pipe and staring blankly at nothing. A few, fortunate enough to have a few halfpennies in their pockets, played pitch and toss in the constant hope of winning a few more coppers to spend on beer and tobacco. A couple of scruffy lads stood cavy (lookout) for them, giving warning should the other type of ‘copper’ appear.
    Our house backed on to The Common and one day the rozzers (a local term for policemen) turned up in force. The hapless illegal gamblers scattered and one tried to make his escape by climbing over the wall into our backyard where Mam was hanging out the washing. She was heavily pregnant and the man’s sudden appearance startled her, making her cry out, at which Dad dashed out through the kitchen door. He was really angry and grabbed hold of the man saying, ‘Bugger off sharpish mate or I’ll punch your bloody lights out.’
    As a young man, Dad had brought home numerous presents from his postings in the Far East, one of them being the large tortoise that we kept as a pet. A beautiful ivory model of the Taj Mahal at Agra that he had brought back from India stood on the sideboard and could be lit from the inside. One of my earliest memories is of bleeding profusely after pushing George down Booth Street on his three-wheeler trike. We had been to visit Gran, who now lived round the corner on King George Street, when I slipped, and as I landed on my left knee a sharp piece of gravel cut deeply into it. I still have a small pyramid-shaped scar to show for it. In another incident I was wearing semi-transparent, rubberised pants that were elasticated and fitted tightly round my chubby thighs and, desperately needing to go to the lavatory, I could hold on no longer. I passed water, which soon saturated the Terry towelling of my inner pants and, when it could absorb no more, the ‘pee’ could be seen slowly filling up the ‘see-through’ pants. I remember the lovely warm feeling of it before it seeped out and turned cold as it trickled down my legs.
    My maternal grandmother, Florence Emma Bradford, a small, plumpish, fifty-year-old widow, lived a little closer to the bridge than us. Her fifteen-year-old daughter Irene (always known as Renee) was a slim, attractive, auburn-haired girl. A great bond of unspoken affection had developed between my parents and Mam’s winsome young sister. Dad used to call her his ‘Little