Open Writing

Our first home was a flat converted from the second floor of an old Victorian house. Next door filling the whole house of a similar size lived a large family. It took a while to untangle the web of their numbers and relationships, but it quickly became obvious that the head and ruler was a diminutive woman permanently dressed in a brightly coloured overall, with dark hair, an ample bosom and a very loud voice.

I finally discovered that there was a Mr. Harris, Mrs Harris and nine children, ranging in age from twenty four down to eighteen months, one of whom was a married daughter, with a small son who spent most of his time with grandma, playing happily with his uncle six months younger than himself.

When I became pregnant, Mrs Harris with a seemingly inner radar, homed in and took me under her wing. My own mother being many miles away, Mrs. H as she became known with affection was a great comfort as I struggled with not just morning sickness, but all day sickness rendering me utterly useless. She would appear at odd times with soup, commiseration and advice. Sympathetic but with a no nonsense approach, she would psychologically bully me to get out for some fresh air and exercise, making excuses that she had run out of something , so if I was going near such and such a shop, usually at the further end of town, she would be most grateful. Her gimlet eyes dared me to refuse.

The house was always full of people and their possessions, yet everywhere was spotless, with Mrs. H constantly preparing meals. The clothes line in the garden weighed down daily with washing when the weather permitted. If it was wet, this was festooned on pulleys in the back kitchen . No washing machine or spin dryers to help, just a gas boiler and a mangle.

I think I must have been one of the few people to see Mrs. H sit down. She would invite. No! Command me round for a cup of tea in the afternoon, when the older members of the family were at work, the children at school and the two toddlers having their afternoon nap. Even then she would have her mending basket by her side as we talked.

Looking at a wedding photo that took pride of place on the kitchen dresser, I think there must have been some Latin blood in her veins, with her long dark hair, beautiful eyes and shapely fulsome figure she had been a lovely bride. Her hair was still dark but now cut short and her face had lost the smoothness of youth, but her eyes still shone and her fiery temperament dominated any gathering. I would watch in amazement as her tall grown up sons would meekly obey their mother's commands to "Clear that clobber off the table and get those coal scuttles filled" or to her daughters "Lay that table, and if you want to go out to-night there's your ironing to finish first." Each had their allotted tasks and could moan and grumble in vain. Mrs H's word was law.

Saturdays were an exception, when Mr. H. became the centre of attention. He proudly held the position of referee to the local football team. His departure from the house could not be made until a strict check by Mrs. H. of his pristinely laundered kit even to a new cord on his whistle, were to her satisfaction.

I remember the night I went into labour, we had no telephone but Mrs. H had given us a key to her house with permission to use her telephone at any time day or night. As soon as he opened the door at midnight my husband was met by Mrs. H. who stayed with me until the ambulance arrived.

Mrs. H was a strict disciplinarian, not averse to the odd smack, but quick to comfort the tears of the smaller children brought on by a tumble or knock. There were lots of cuddles, sometimes for two or more at a time, it seemed as if she was a vital king pin in the centre of a small army. But there was no sympathy for any stupidity.

When her second daughter got married, everything was done at home, the preparations were number one priority for weeks beforehand, even making and icing the three tiered wedding cake, which I felt privileged to be asked to look after until the big day. The four bridesmaids also used our home to get dressed. How everyone managed next door I will never know. We were invited to the reception, which went on until the early hours. Relatives seemed to appear from all parts of the country, and Mrs. H. buzzed around encompassing everyone.

Come Christmas, preparations were unbelievable. The house would be festooned with decorations made by all the younger children, and Christmas Eve saw Mr. and Mrs. H set off about 4p.m. to buy the festive turkey. In those days at the end of the afternoon any birds still left in the butchers, were drastically reduced in price, as were the vegetables and fruit in the market. The atmosphere as the bargain hunters toured the streets was full of good humour with plenty of banter between the shopkeepers and the customers. It was the days when Christmas Clubs and annual bonuses were paid out the week before. So I am sure there were some secret last minute stocking fillers to be purchased.

When we moved I missed my good neighbour, but I am sure that wherever she may be. Mrs H. will be in undisputed control.