Neighbours

On the floor above us, there lived a woman called Mrs.G who had an annoying daughter. I can't remember much about her now, except that there was no Mr.G that I can remember. When they moved out around 1970 we took over their floor too, and this meant that my sister and I each had a room to ourselves. On the top floor there lived an Irish woman who we affectionately called Auntie Pat. She had two children, Yvonne and Frank, who were our friends. There was no Uncle Pat. They lived in three rooms. There was no kitchen on that floor; the cooker was out on the landing. There was no toilet or bathroom, and the only sink was a tiny cracked porcelain thing halfway up the stairs. It had a single tap sticking out on a pipe, and a little Ascot. They must have had to wash themselves standing on the stairs. They moved to Birmingham in about 1972, and I'm not surprised. We were heartbroken, of course.

The lady who took over their flat was called Mrs.H. There was no Mr.H, but she had two little girls, aged 5 and 3. My mum didn't like her because she had too many boyfriends. I didn't like her because she always looked confused, and her boyfriends were always in the toilet. They looked different every day, and I was scared of them. They would come to the front door, and sometimes I answered it. They would look at me funny, and then go upstairs to see Mrs.H. My sister and I never knew what they were doing up there, but it used to make the ceiling creak. The worst thing about all those men was that they always left cigarette ends floating in the toilet pan. The toilet pan had the words 'New Volvia' written on it, and that confused me too. The little girls used to draw on the toilet wall with brown paint. I never understood why they did that. It upset me. I remember one evening hearing the children crying, and my dad had to investigate. They had been locked in their room by Mrs.H who had gone out to the pub to find some more boyfriends. I remember Mrs.H swearing at my parents for sticking their noses in her business; apparently she was very cross because she had to come home from the pub early.

One Christmas Mrs.H gave me a present. It was called The Observer's Book of Astronomy, by Patrick Moore. It is the only thing I can remember about that Christmas. I liked her after that, since she got me such a great present, but I was still scared of her. I still have that book, and in retrospect I find it hard to believe that one of my favourite presents was bought for me by an alcoholic prostitute.

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