My World Florence Street

Sitting alone by an open fire I watch the flames flicker, the smoke rise and the shadows dance; they push me back fifty years to a time when I was eight.

I go to see Ambrose. He’s in the kitchen throwing bits of wood on his fire and singing a happy song. He’s always happy and when he opens his mouth he looks like a hippopotamus ‘cause he’s fat and his front teeth are missing. The cat, which Ambrose calls his little tabby friend, sits watching him on the big comfy chair with the stuffing sticking out: it’s the only chair. The fire crackles and makes wavy shadows on the walls and ceiling. The ceiling’s falling down. I like the kitchen; it’s warm and cosy. Ambrose sits in the comfy chair and the cat sits on his knee. I turn a bucket upside down, sit on that and say, ‘Tell me the story about the big black spider.’ He does and I imagine the back shadows dancing behind the flames of the fire to be its huge hairy legs. Then I go upstairs to play in the empty bedrooms. In the big bedroom, next to a big cardboard box there’s a hole in the floor. That’s where Ambrose gets the wood for the fire. I jump up and throw my leg over the edge of the box, just as a cowboy throws his leg over his horse. It gets me into the box but I hurt my private parts in the process. Still, I’m in the box and the sides hide me from the whole world. The cardboard smells mouldy and when I thump it there isn’t the echo you get when it’s new. I get fed up with the box, rock it until it falls over, crawl out like a commando, and go back down stairs to Ambrose. He’s slurps on a dirty mug of tea, and feeds his little tabby friend with sardines from a tin then sucks his fingers through the gap in his teeth.

I like Ambrose. He made me a sword by nailing two bits of wood together and shoved it through our letter box when we were out. It’s great. I think I’ll kill a dragon. This is my world. This is Florence Street. Mum says the houses are terraced houses and are dirty and condemned. That means they’re going to be pulled down. Some are empty and some are still lived in. My house is number three. Ambrose lives across the street in number two. He’s old ‘cause he only has bits of white hair that stick up on his head, and he wears braces, and when he laughs his belly wobbles.

I run up to the end of the street. There’s a lamp post guarding the entrance to another world. I circle him. I jab at him then take a big swish. My sword breaks! Aw! I feel like crying. It was the best sword! Oh, well, it’s a dagger now. I take a side step, somersault past this guard, whose head lights up when it gets dark, and dash off to kill the dragon with my new dagger.

I come home the back way and when you’ve just killed a dragon you don’t go through the door you climb the wall. I take a run at the wall and jump to reach the top. As I lift myself up the bricks come away and I crash to the ground. The bricks hit me on the chest and the pain in my back stops me from breathing. I try to suck in air but it hurts too much. I’m going to die. Then it hits me! Mum’s gonna kill me when she sees that wall. I stand up but can’t stand straight. If I take little breaths I can stand the pain. I stagger around to the front of the house, leaning sideways and backwards and panting. If I go in the front way I can say I know nothing about no bricks falling off no walls. By the time I get to the front door I can stand straight. Good. She won’t notice. I slam the door to be sure she hears me. ‘Hello Mum! It’s only me Mum! Just coming in the front way for a change.’

She’s angry. Oh good, it’s to do with the old piano she bought for us to learn to play on. I banged on it a few times and got bored; then dad came home from the pub one dark night and banged on it too; trouble was, he was in the wrong house. Mum said she was ashamed, so she sold the piano to the woman up the street, who came and took it straight away. She said she’d pay for it on Friday. Mum’s mad because the woman moved out today and never did pay. Mum needed that money. She’ll laugh about it tomorrow, and say it was a cheek, ‘cause that’s how my mum is.

The fire cracks and my memories make me smile; they make me feel good; and although they’re filtered through time and enriched by reliving, they are my past as I choose to remember.

It’s morning now and my back doesn’t hurt too much. I go up the street to the empty house, climb in through the open window and find an old hammer in the kitchen. I shove it into my belt. It looks good. There’s an old pram too. I could use those wheels to make a cart. I can’t get them off so I hide the pram in the cubby under the stairs. I’ll have to come back later, with tools.

I watch the black shadows dancing behind the flames just as they did so long ago and I feel as warm and cosy as I did then. I value my memories and the lessons they carry with them. Even in my adult years my childhood still proves to be the foundations of those life’s values on which I stand.

It’s morning again. I drag on a shirt and pants and jump down stairs' four at a time. I shout, ‘I’m going out!’ But Mum runs from the kitchen and stops me. I’m not allowed out all morning. ‘Why?’ It’s because of the funeral. I go into the front room where the curtains on the window are closed and I roll my marbles around the furniture; blue and green are the cavalry, red and yellow are the Indians. The cavalry comes from behind the chair to ambush the Indians as they roll across the floor. Cars are out in the street. I was told not to look but I’ve got to. And I can ‘cause Mum’s back in the kitchen. I pull back the corner of the curtain and see two black cars.

The first one has a polished wood box in it with shiny metal handles. It’s the first time I’ve seen a coffin and I try to imagine Mr Garbutt from up the street lying in it. What does he look like squashed inside? Paul is in the second black car. His coffin is smaller than his dad’s and his Mum is clinging to it and crying heaps. I hear my Mum coming so I jump down from the window and go back to my cavalry and Indians.

When I’m let out I go up to the empty house and climb in through the broken window. The glass takes a chunk out of my knee. It doesn’t bleed at first and the hole is the shape of a boat. It stings a bit and I poke at it with my finger. It’s deep and when it does bleed I watch the blood run down my leg like a big snake until it starts to soak into my sock. I stick my finger in the hole and stop the blood. I had a chunk just like it taken out of my hand last year. The nurse said it wasn’t that bad but she’d put a couple of stitches in it anyway. It wasn’t so exciting having stitches so I don’t think I’ll bother this time. Every time I take my finger out of the hole it starts to bleed again, so I start walking back home with my finger on my knee. It makes me laugh because the way I’m walking, bent over, stiff legged and finger in the hole, I feel like the hunch back I saw at the movies. I make noises like someone deranged and limp and laugh all the way home. The hunch back of Florence Street, that’s me!

With six sticking plasters, stuck on my knee in the shape of a star, and blocking up the hole, I watch the cavalry charge out from behind the sofa and smash into the Indians. There’s a screech of tyres in the street. I look out of the window and see Ambrose with his hands pressed against his face. He’s staring at the cat lying at his feet. He kneels beside his little tabby friend and holds its head as it dies. Then he picks it up, holds it like a baby and just stands there as if he doesn’t know what to do next. His belly starts to shake but he’s not laughing. Ambrose looks so alone.

The fire’s dying. I prod at it with the poker. Sparks fly and it bursts back into life again. The fire’s a metaphor for life itself. It burns brightly then dies away and then with a prod or a change of direction, a new beginning.

I go to my gran’s house and sleep over and when I come home I go to see Ambrose. The door’s closed. That’s funny. I try to see through the window but I’m too small, so I go the back door, open it and go inside. The fire’s out in the kitchen. It’s cold and it’s miserable; no shadows; so no good for story telling. Upstairs, in the big bedroom, the big cardboard box is missing but the hole in the floor is still there. I get mad and I swing at it with my hammer and make the hole bigger and hear plaster falling into the cold kitchen below. Ambrose has gone: it’s just another empty house.

I complain to my Mum that Ambrose has moved out. She tells me we move tomorrow, to that new estate in the country. ‘Why?’ I ask. She says I should be happy about it. She just doesn’t understand. Oh, well, maybe there’ll be a tree to climb.

Ends.