A substantial, double fronted Victorian family residence on Bromley Grove in typical South East London yellow-grey brick.
A path of cracked and uneven white paving stones bound by rope top edging leads to a wide porch at the front of the house. The path is blood stained with berries from the yew tree opposite the living room bay. Ghastly fairy tale faces inhabit the yew’s trunk and spy on the little people in the ground floor flat.
To the left of the house is a semi-detached barn of a garage. An emporium of the rich and exotic and untouchable – pungent sooty smells of oil, turpentine, paint and putty – yes, I did inhale. A US army duck – an amphibious vehicle – looms over me.
Beside the garage is a wooden gate to which my father has fixed batons to stop me escaping over it. Through the gate beyond the orchard – apple, pear and plum – is a maze of gooseberry, raspberry and black currant bushes riddled with leafy toddler tunnels.
The French windows at the back of the house open onto a wide gravel path above a steep grass slope we roll down onto the lawn. There stands the tree from which hangs a red painted wooden swing seat. They bring out an upholstered dining chair for Granny so she can push us on the swing all summer long singing Gaelic lullabies. At the bottom of the garden, behind the sandpit, is the dark, dark wood. My father and Brian have shares in a two-man saw. They work at the saw horse disposing of the dead and dying branches.
Back to the front of the house through the porch into the long, cool Minton tiled hall. Our front door is to the right at the back. Opposite, to the left, stairs lead up to the flats above, one on the first floor and another on the second. The latter is occupied by the bent and bereted, bearded and walking-sticked Miss Vogel, our landlady, who has lived in the house since she was a girl.
Through our front door, across the gloomy hall, stands a low, broad and heavy dark wood table beneath which I park my custom built open topped roadster with the personalised number plate. Behind the hall to the side of the house is the kitchen with walk in pantry. Off the long back straight are the guest room, dining room and the bedroom I share with my sister. At the far end are the toilet and bathroom. To the front of the house there is my parent’s bedroom, the room in which I was born. Back through the hall and to the front right hand side of the house is the lounge.
Old brown leather armchairs with tarnished brass upholstery studs on the arms and soft brown velvet seat cushions which smell of toffees. The sofa is a lethally sprung combination put-you-up and rack covered with a tartan throw. Persian rugs cover stained black floorboards. The bay window almost filled by an ancient bureau with green leatherette top waiting for that memorable Christmas and the laying out of my Lone Star Treble O gauge train set. Squeezed in beside the desk, another green and black upholstered dining chair on which I kneel to watch the cars, invalid carriages and horse drawn rag and bone wagons passing down Shortlands Road.
There is a brown grey marble tiled fireplace – the tiles are cracked and chipped along the edge and repaired with butterscotch resin. And here is my father standing with his back to the fire. He is conducting the NBC Symphony Orchestra in a performance of Dvorak’s Symphony No.9, From the New World. We are fascinated by the shiny black vinyl, the rich red label spinning, the sepia photographs of Toscanini and Dvorak and the warm metallic smell of the radiogram.
His green-grey cardigan buttoned up tight was probably once a good fit. His silk Paisley cravat tucked into his shirt. A cracked and yellowed cigarette holder clenched in cracked and yellowing teeth. Punches ripple from side to side with each timpani roll, his face screwed up, moustache bristling, he frowns, his concentration is intense, his hair flops onto his forehead with each dramatic convulsion. Our shoulders hunched and shaking, we are wracked with giggles and delight.
We never had it so good.
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