Waiting One Saturday 1958.

It was the start of the Easter holidays and so no school, free to an extent from the constraints of that organization. I had called for Lydia that morning, and when her mother opened the door, she stood there in her work coat, and a cigarette stuck in the corner of her mouth, and said that Lydia wasn’t ready and that I would have to wait. So I waited outside and sat on the red-tiled doorstep. Across from where I sat were the block of flats where I lived with my family on the fourth floor. The man with his boxer dog walked by, he nodded to me and I nodded back, and I watched him until he disappeared down the slope. To my left over by the other block of flats, two girls were playing hopscotch on a chalk out area, enthralled in their game, I watched them, the rules of the game unknown by me, but seemed to carry on in its logic. A few boys were playing on the pram sheds, playing some kind of king of the castle game, sword fighting with invisible weapons, lost in the game, fighting in their own world. Enid’s father walked past, hands in his pockets, a cigarette in his mouth, his trilby hat pulled down to one side; he didn’t look my way, but ahead of himself, lost in thought. I wondered how long Lydia was going to be. Time was near to leave for the Saturday morning matinee at the cinema. If she wasn’t out in five minutes, I would have to leave without her or be late for the start of the films. Old Mrs Hubbard went past, a shopping bag in her left hand, a walking stick in her right hand. She walked slowly along, pausing now and then to get her breath. I watched until she went down the slope and out of sight. The door behind me opened and Lydia came out. She showed me the few coins her mother had given her, and we went on our way, across the Square and down the slope, and across Rockingham Street, and up Meadow Row, she talked about her big sister, but I was only half listening, though.