Tales of Pyrmont Road & Other Stories

by Maryann Brooks

Sunday quiet in the back streets and side roads of London: a welcome and much appreciated state of affairs stubbornly adhered to by the British working man.
This story begins in one such side road situated near the river Thames at Kew.
The year is 1923.

Fred Blackford leaned forward over his front gate, looked up and down the street and nodded with satisfaction; buying a house was definitely the right thing to do.

Not a bad place to live either, what with the buses up at the bridge and a school just round the corner. They didn’t have any kids yet but it was good to think about things like that.

Who’d have thought, he shifted one arm for comfort, that five years ago, round about this time, he was up to his knees in stinking French mud.

Not that he wasn’t used to mud; he’d trudged about in it often enough during the war. But years of back and forth fighting had added something to the wet stuff that made him sick just thinking about it.

Blood and guts.

Too much blood and too many guts.

That last summer of the war really had been bad, what with shells whining through the air and exploding all over the place. And bullets from nowhere, flying past your ears.

Day after day it was up and over the top when the whistle blew and keep your head down or next time you looked, it wouldn’t be there.

If you didn’t catch a bullet in the first couple of minutes, you stood a chance of making it to the barbed wire.

If you didn’t get blown apart by a shell at the barbed wire, you stood a good chance of making it to the enemy lines, where you’d better have your bayonet well fixed or else.

And after all that, providing you were still in one piece at the end of the day, you collapsed into a trench, sometimes the one you left that morning, and you ate, if you could, then slept, if you could, until the next time.

Stay alive. Stay alive. It’s all you thought about as you followed that whistle.

You became so hardened, you ignored the sudden gasp from beside you as someone dropped his rifle and fell to the ground.

You got to where you swore at the boot you nearly tripped over without a thought for the poor bloke who’s foot was still in it.

And when poor old Archie from up the street at home caught it from a shell, your only thought as you ran past what was left of him was, weren’t you lucky it wasn’t you.

Not nice to think like that? When fear took over, there was no nice.

He hardly slept because of the rats and his boot leather was actually going soft with being in the mud all the time. As for his feet? he was sure they were going moldy, they smelled so bad.

But the summer came to an end, the war came to an end, and for the first time in two years, he didn’t swear when he got soaked.

How could he? He was now on English soil. And this was English rain.

By early spring of 1919 he was on his way home; really on his way. A short bus ride, a slightly longer walk from the bus stop to his street and suddenly there he was, at his front door.

Up until now he’d been feeling pretty good but that feeling faded a bit as he contemplated the old brass door knocker.

How would his parents behave after him being away so long?

He needn’t have worried.

For a few minutes they forgot their old fashioned Victorian upbringing and welcomed him with genuine hugs and real kisses. Then it was back to the normality of semi formal; they asking polite questions and he replying in the expected manner.

It was as though he’d never left.

That evening he went for a walk, detouring on the way home to allow for a stop off at the pub. He’d not meant to do any visiting for a while but the pull of the old days was too much: he couldn’t wait to breath in that intoxicating mixture of tobacco smoke and beer fumes and join in the never ending call for “another pint please.”

Of course it would be different what with Archie gone as well as some of the others, but there’d be enough at least for a game of darts. And old Harry would be around to liven things up. Poor old sod lost a leg and a bit of his brain in the Boor war but he was still good for a thump on the piano.

Yes, they’d do fine; after they’d all raised a pint to lost comrades of course.

It was different alright, but not in a nice way; not even in a half nice way. The old owner was gone, the new one barely noticed him and when he looked around for old Harry, all he saw was the piano with no stool and dust on the lid that thick you could write your name in it.

So much for a soldier’s return; he had a quick one and left.

He soon found out it wasn’t going to be easy finding a job. He’d worked in the local stables as a lad but now he felt he should look for something better. Unfortunately there was no something better, not even, he found out when he enquired, his old job in the stables.

After yet another disappointing week of trudging from factory to factory and seeing yet another NO WORK sign on the gate, he took the bus to Kew Gardens; a quiet stroll in pleasant surroundings might help get rid of the miseries.

He’d not been to Kew since he was twelve but he remembered the trip well: the bus ride; the cricket on Kew green with serious players and not so serious viewers who, though busy with other things, remembered their manners long enough to call out an occasional, and encouraging, “good hit.” And at the other end of the green, the massive black iron gates that led to the largest garden he’d ever seen.

The war years had changed everything. The bus was old, the green was deserted and the huge gates were closed. Off to one side an old turnstile seemed to be the only way in.

But none of that mattered once he was inside. The caretakers might be older, indeed most of them looked well into their retirement years, but the gardens were as pristine as ever; the paths raked smooth, the rhododendrons well cared for, the green refuse containers freshly painted.

He was in such a good mood when he left the gardens, he decided to walk back across Kew bridge and get the bus up at the roundabout: if nothing else, he’d save a penny.

Hands in pockets and not thinking about anything in particular, he didn’t notice the crown ahead until he was almost on them.

The afternoon excursion had been pleasant enough but something extra, some fisticuffs maybe, would definitely improve the day; he quickened his step in anticipation.

A police van was already at the curb and by the time he’d managed to elbow his way through to the action, it had loaded up, closed up and was already pulling back into traffic. A single constable remained to urge everyone to “move along there,” but this was Sunday afternoon and no one was in a hurry to leave, certainly not without further discussion of the incident. His invitation was declined.

The constable tried once more. “Move along there,” he called out, following up his exhortation with a slowly spoken and clearly enunciated, “if you please.” This appeared to work; the watchers took the hint and began to disperse.

Satisfied he’d resolved a possibly dangerous situation, the constable eased the strap of his helmet across his chin, squared his shoulders and continued his ponderous way across the bridge.

Fred would have continued across the bridge as well but he dearly wanted to know what he’d missed. Domestic battles are seldom fought in broad daylight and never to his knowledge in the middle of a bridge, and an accident takes longer to clear so what had it been?

“Anything special,” he asked the girl standing at the parapet, maintaining a respectful distance as he spoke; he didn’t want her to think he was trying to pick her up.

That didn’t stop him noticing the pretty way her hair kind of curled out under the narrow brim of her hat. And the tidy way she stood even though she was leaning against the parapet.

His mother would have approved of that straight back. She might not have approved of that short skirt but it was the fashion. And it looked very good on this young lady.

“Not really,” she replied without looking at him, “just some drunk trying to cross the bridge on the outside.”

“They do it often?” he leaned over to see what kind of ledge was down there and found himself staring at a strip of granite barely wide enough to accommodate a pigeon.

“Now and then,” she answered, “we see them from where I live.”

“Oh?”

“Over there,” she indicated the north bank ofthe river and a group of trees a few hundred yards downstream from the bridge.

“Nice,” he said, seeing the houses on the tow path and wondering which one was hers.

“Not there,” she laughed as she corrected him, “the street behind the pub. You can see the bridge from our corner.”

“Sorry,” he turned to apologize and found himself being regarded with some interest.

His first thought was how did he look?

He knew his trousers had a good crease and he knew his jacket hung well; father had given it to him just before the war.

It was rather lightweight for so early in the season but it had that dateless look, well tailored casuals tended to have. That alone made it smart enough to be noticed.

“I’m Fred by the way,” it was time for introductions, “short for Frederick but everyone calls me Fred.”

“How do you do Fred,” she nodded politely, then grinned, “and I’m Doris, short for Doris but my friends call me Dorie.”

The friendship established, she allowed him to walk her to the corner of her street and when he asked if he might see her again, she agreed.

He eventually found a job working for his uncle Irwin in the woodworking shop that he, uncle Irwin, owned. Uncle Irwin even let him lodge in his house during the week which helped a lot; it was a long, very long, bicycle ride between Eltham and the shop in Barnes.

Fred had never thought about doing this kind of work. He’d never actually thought about doing any kind of work, having done little but help out in the local stables until he went into the army.

But working with his hands was pleasurable as well as rewarding, and when, a year later, he was given a raise, a deserved raise according to uncle Irwin, he decided now was the time to do what he’d been thinking about for quite a while; propose to Doris.

Doris was a woman of few words. After first asking what took him so long she gave him a quick kiss, which was her way of saying yes, then set about planning their wedding.

They honeymooned in a small town on the south coast called Bognor, almost unknown until his majesty King George V recuperated there after an illness. But that was years later.

After four very pleasant, and sunny, days, they returned and set up house in two rooms over a shop in Barnes. This tiny flat could only be entered from the back alley, but it was dry and draught free and the water supply and the toilet were right at the bottom of the stairs. Also there was an old shed inside the back wall where Fred could safely stow his bicycle. Last but definitely not least, the rent was affordable.

Fred hadn’t thought much about the future when he was single; he’d stopped thinking about it altogether while he was in France. But this was different. He was married, with the responsibilities of a married man. He sought advice from the only man he trusted.

“Put your money in bricks and mortar,” his father was a man of few words where it mattered; “bricks and mortar son, you can’t beat it for a married man.”

This made sense; William Blackford had saved hard all his working life and now, with his home paid for and some savings put aside to help with the pension, he was doing alright.

Fred’s father gave him sound advice on a wide range of subjects. His mother’s advice was more direct and personal; the mere though of her repeated admonition to ‘stand up straight’ had him away from the gate and to his feet before he realized where he was. Grinning at the foolishness of his action, he resumed his comfortable position.

This house buying thing had begun a year ago when Doris received a letter from her mother. The writing was barely legible because the old lady never bothered to buy a new nib for her pen and the worn one splayed ink all over the paper. But the message was clear.

“The society that owns the street is putting all the houses up for sale,” she wrote, “and when they sell number seventeen I’ll have to leave and I just don‘t know what I’m going to do.”

Fred knew number seventeen well. While he and Doris were courting he’d been a frequent caller. Doris’s mother had received him cordially before they were married and she received him warmly when he and Doris visited later as man and wife. He liked and respected his mother in law and it upset him to think of her being forced to leave the house she’d called home for much of her married life. The letter gave him an idea.

He approached his father for a loan, just enough to make up the down payment on a house: he explained he had number seventeen in mind.

The old man was so tickled Fred had taken to heart his advice about “bricks and mortar” he agreed to lend the needed balance. He even helped fill out all the forms.

When the letter arrived informing Fred his application to the loan company had been approved, Doris donned her Sunday hat, he wore his Sunday collar and his grandfather’s genuine gold stone tie pin, and together, they went over to Eltham to tell his parents the good news.

After an excellent dinner, Fred and his father went for their usual walk, a habit developed when Fred was a small boy. This rarely took them further than the back garden but it kept them out of the way while the washing up was done. Today, while Fred and his father were out, Doris helped her mother in law in the kitchen.

The back garden at Eltham was long, narrow, and filled end to end with flowers and vegetables: Fred’s father was retired and his garden was his hobby.

Closest to the kitchen, blue and white Michaelmas daisies competed for space with massed goldenrod. After that there were pinks and petunias and forget-me-nots and whatever was seasonal. Then there were the vegetables, lots of vegetables. Except potatoes; Thomas Blackford never bothered with potatoes.

Half way down on one side and hidden from the house by a small garden shed, was the compost heap. Beside but not touching the compost heap was a fine patch of rhubarb.

Today, after first inspecting his prize Michaelmas daisies, Fred’s father led the way to the rhubarb patch, ostensibly to discuss the correct application of horse manure, a must according to Fred’s father, if you’re ever going to grow good rhubarb.

He swore by the droppings from the Guinness horses but Fred, not yet in that prestigious position of actually growing his own rhubarb, reckoned one load of horse manure was good as another.

Today, Thomas Blackford was not interested in rhubarb. After first making sure he couldn’t be seen from the kitchen window, he pulled several pound notes from his pocket.

“Buy something nice for the house,” he pushed them into Fred’s hand, “after you’ve settled in, that is. You can tell Doris where it came from,” he poked at the handful of notes, “but for now anyway, don’t say anything to your mother,” he tilted his head in direction of the kitchen, and his wife. “If she thought I was giving away stuff like that,” he nodded to where the notes were now safe in Fred’s pocket, “she’d have me off to the loony bin.”

Fred smiled at the remembrance then stood up and stretched. After that he stood back and regarded the wrought iron gate. Be as good as new with a fresh coat of paint. He put paint on his mental list of things to get, one day, then leaned forward and resumed his position. Daydreaming was nice. When you had time for it.

He hadn’t told Doris about the five pounds. He’d tell her after the surprise which he’d decided was to be a nice new gas stove.

She hadn’t mentioned buying a gas stove but he remembered the look in her eyes when she saw the newspaper advertisement. And when he found the hole where she’d cut it out, he knew she was serious. The cutting was tucked away in her recipe book so all he had to do was go and find it before he went to the gas showrooms. Hopefully there would be some money left over for Doris to buy new curtains. New lace curtains maybe? For the front room?

Pyrmont Road, like other roads, streets and avenues of the time, was a slave to tradition. A front gate left open or a front hedge poorly trimmed was not considered an affront to society. But woe betide the house that showed its face without the obligatory pair of lace curtains in the downstairs front window. White of course.

Fred almost laughed out loud when he and Doris arrived at number seventeen this morning to find the lace curtains still in place. Bet the old lady was too scared to take them down he thought but he kept said thoughts to himself as Doris was a bit touchy about her mother right now.

He and Doris had talked long into the night before coming to the conclusion that when they took possession, her mother should be asked to stay on and live with them. And after all that, what had the old lady done? Upped and moved herself and her furniture to her son Leonard’s place over in Deptford.

Doris hadn’t seemed too put out about it which surprised Fred but they’d only been married three years and he had a lot to learn. About women in general. And Doris in particular. The main thing was that Doris was happy to be back in her old home and more than anything, Fred wanted to make Doris happy.

In this mellow frame of mind, he leaned on the gate and waited for the moving men. The key to his front door was in his pocket. All he needed now was his furniture.

Written by Maryann Brooks 

May 9th, 2010

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