It was a mixed blessing to be born in the first decade of the twentieth century. It was referred to as the age of progression – a time of peace, stability and advancement – but that was not the case in our house. Only a few years after my birth in 1908, the whole world would change, and with it, my life.
Number sixty-four was almost in the centre of Walmer Terrace, a row of houses sharing party walls and poverty. Each property was so narrow, it was as if the whole street had been squeezed at both ends to fit it into the available space. I was certain that was the only way so many front doors could have been wedged between the army parade ground and the railway station. The door to our house was painted dark green. There was no brass knob to polish, not like the larger houses that surrounded the common. It should have been the gateway to a sanctuary, a private retreat. But our narrow house, only one room and a corridor in width was, by necessity, shared with another family. The Johnsons were unrelated to my parents, strangers to us all. My sister and I always remained studiously silent when we encountered them in the hallway.
Bert and Mary Johnson were not a happy couple, but they were well matched in their fiery temperaments. Both had loud voices, short tempers, and a quick, physical response to disagreements. Their living room, on the first floor, was directly above the bedroom my sister and I shared. In the evenings, when we were trying to get to sleep, the whole house would sometimes reverberate with their raised voices. Violent arguments filled the room above ours, frequently punctuated by blasphemous words from both Mr and Mrs Johnson. Some nights, those words would make us giggle. On other nights, when the wind howled through the railway cutting, or rain lashed in sudden bursts against the window, they would cause us to cower under the blankets. On the nights when we found it amusing, our joy was often cut short when Mrs Johnson’s whimpering cries marked an end to that evening’s skirmish. We would wait for the front door to slam, and listen to Mr Johnson’s hobnail boots clatter down the street on his way to the pub.
My sister and I would lay in bed at night, holding each other close, fearful the Johnston’s fights would resume later and somehow melt through the ceiling and envelop us in their violence. I would often echo my mother’s words of warning to my younger sister.
“Remember always to leave other folk to their own ways.”
That was my father’s mantra too, repeated so often it lost meaning over time.
I would also whisper, “You’re safe with me, I’ll always protect you.”
In the end, it was a promise I could not keep. After she was gone, I never promised anyone, anything, ever again.
Our mother had protected us when our father returned from the Great War. He was not as we remembered him. A strong man had left our house in the spring of 1915, a broken and nervous man returned four years later in the spring of 1919. He was quieter too. I could not remember the shape of his mouth when he used to laugh, and the light had gone from his pale blue eyes. From that time on, he rarely used more than five words in a row. When he did talk directly to us, he would sometimes employ his belt to emphasise a particular point, sliding it slowly from the loops on his trousers to induce fear in both of us.
My sister took to never speaking in anything louder than a whisper, fearing that she may say something wrong, cross one of those invisible lines that were now drawn through our lives.
In my thirteenth year, I learned to sew. A seamstress taught me to neaten a hem by drawing threads from remnants on the cutting room floor, instead of from a spool of cotton. The colour would match perfectly, and the thread be so fine,that the stitches would be near invisible. It was also the year when three sudden deaths left their mark on the rest of my life.
In the autumn of that year, my father finally secured a permanent job as a cart man. It was a little over a year since the summer in which he had returned, and our fortunes and future suddenly looked brighter. Among other tasks, he was charged, once a week, with delivering coal to the houses in our vicinity. There was always a little spillage from the rough hessian sacks, meaning we could look forward to cosy winter evenings and the end of ice on the inside of our windows.
My father never spoke about his years in Europe, but on his return, horses must have reminded him of some horrors he had witnessed, and he was never at ease around them. It was possible they sensed this feeling in him, and consequently, they weren’t keen on him either. Maybe that was why Jessie bolted, or maybe a car had scared her. Motor vehicles were no longer that rare in south-east London, but she was an old horse, more familiar with quieter streets. Whenever a car backfired, it would startle people, never mind animals and horses like Jessie. My father must have suffered many sudden loud noises in France, so it was possible that Jessie had also picked up on his nervousness. It was never confirmed what startled her that day, but it was more than likely a car.
My father must have tried to rein her in, but it was thought that his shouts and people rushing towards them to help only made Jessie more scared. Horse, cart, and driver careered towards Walmer Terrace from a side street, the cart was fully laden with heavy sacks of house coal.
The fencing which guarded the railway cutting, opposite our house, had not been repaired during the years of conflict. The older main posts had been appropriated for the war effort, and slender poles, barely more than saplings, held the rusting chain link fence in place. The flimsy strands of wire and rotting wooden posts were not enough to hold a frightened horse and its heavy load.
Both my father and Jessie died on the up line that Saturday, delaying the train taking supporters to Charlton football ground. Many people went to help. But some were only there to help themselves to free coal.
After my father’s death, I had to leave school and go to work. My newly acquired skills as a seamstress, in that small dressmaking shop, stood me in good stead. Soon after our loss, my sister also took ill. Spanish flu was assumed, and my mother and I cared for her as best we could. A doctor, in those days before the National Health Service, was not within our means.
The night my sister died the Johnsons were playing a record on their new phonograph. Alice took her last ragged breath in my arms, a wheezy cough accompanying the stomp of dancing feet and the words to ‘When the red-red-robin goes bob-bob-bobbing along’. I have never been able to listen to the song since that night without being taken back to those times.
Life at number 64 had no option but to continue. My fear over the Johnson’s arguments ceased abruptly one Sunday afternoon. Their fights had only increased in intensity since my sister’s death, each blaming the other for living in such a cursed house.
No longer confined to their rooms, the Johnson’s battles travelled through the house and into the garden. It too was narrow, no wider than the house. A concrete yard, for storing coal and hanging washing, gave way to a ragged vegetable patch. Further up the sloping ground was a jungle of stinging nettles and brambles, culminating at a fence with a rickety gate leading onto the common. Mr Johnson usually gave up the chase when the brambles tore at his trousers, but on that Sunday afternoon, Mrs Johnson stumbled and fell amongst the raspberry canes.
Mr Johnson had been brandishing a small hand axe. When he caught up with his wife, he buried the axe in her neck. Blood reddened the ground until it rained and washed the evidence away. My mother and I never found out what the argument was about. Probably nothing serious. There was a bountiful crop of raspberries that year, but we left them for the birds.
There are new tenants in our upstairs rooms now. But I had learned that getting close to people might expose you to disappointment and pain. I don’t speak to Mr and Mrs Blakeley any more often than is necessary. It is better not to make friends who may leave you.
As my mother said so often, it’s best to leave other folk to their own ways.
Bruce Aiken 