One Tuesday Morning 1957.

Enid’s old man walked past me on the staircase of the flats. He said nothing and neither did I, although he did look at me, wordless. After he had gone down I stood and listened to his footsteps on the concrete stairs. No one knew what he did for a living. He worked in the West End somewhere. He blew hot and cold with people. Some Days he would talk to me, some days he would ignore me and walk on past like strangers in the night. Once his footsteps ended I went to the balcony and watched him walk through the Square and out of sight down the slope. I took the bread rolls to my mother. She had asked me to go get it from the baker’s shop across the road. I wondered how Enid was and if her parents had rowed that morning. Sometimes they did and now and then he would hit Enid out of spite. My mother buttered me a roll with some cheese and I went and sat in the sitting room and poured myself a cup of tea. Over the coal wharf lorries were being loaded up with black sacks of coal. School in an hour. I wondered if it would be history with Mr Finn. The one subject I liked. The radio talked of the shipping forecast. I listened intently. I imagined myself a young sailor on some ship at sea.