Death, the life story

By Alifestory

Norma

The street I grew up on had over a 100 houses, packed in tightly one beside the other.  By the 1970s this was a street in decline: all former seafaring folk, beside one, had long gone and as the 60s ticked over into the 70s it became increasingly ‘undesirable.’  In those days there were few cars so we were allowed to play outside. The acceptable area for our roaming extended from Coltman Street to the Boulevard which meant we had three streets of equal length to make mischief.

When I was 7, 8 and 9 we never really went much beyond King’s Bench Street, our street – apart from to the shops: Pawson’s and  Shepard’s where we went daily for some item or other.  I remember buying the 4oz of chopped pork, cut thin, for our packed lunches and having to watch to ensure that the assistant didn’t go beyond the wafer setting, or there wouldn’t be enough meat for the sandwiches the next day.  It was tricky having to complain if she did so…on the upside, this scrutiny sometimes paid off so that there were more slices than were needed in which case you could unpack the grease proof paper of the pork slowly down the alley at the top of the street and take the spare slice to eat on the way back home, careful to re-package the order so it didn’t look disturbed at all.

Some things come into focus slowly.  One such thing is the can of air freshener that sat by the till on the counter top of Pawson’s shop.  I didn’t really understand what this was for although it was always there, often with the lid removed ready for immediate use.  I was dallying by the magazines when the reason for its presence became clear.

The old lady came into the shop for something or other leaving outside the wrecked old pram she pushed about as a shopping trolley.  She was wearing a very grand looking coat, which had seen better days, with a stole of sorts around her neck, and a fur hat, held at a jaunty angle held on with a pin.  She was loud and bright, laughing with the shop ladies picking up and putting down various items and then buying one small thing before leaving in a flurry.  Her bright pink lipstick had missed her lips and glowed from her teeth.  I forget her name: but years later my sister and I when we were on the Cancer and Polio round (selling charity leaflets to donators) used to argue about who would take the leaflet up to this woman’s house on Coltman Street.  Being the younger sister, I usually lost the argument which meant that not only did I have to go up to the house, trailing up the steps, an effort in itself, I also had to go in because the lady invariably had misplaced her purse and you would be invited to wait until she found it.  This was a fate worse than death: she had dozens of cats and no urge to clean up.  This was when I discovered I could hold my breath for a long time.

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