Pie 'n' Mash and Prefabs Read Free

Mark, both born after me.
    Number Two housed Charlie and Ann Tickton with their daughter Pat and sons Alan, Barry and baby Keith. Ann’s nickname was ‘Polly’ because, whenever Mum popped in tosee her, Ann would always say, ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ Keith was known as ‘Ki-Ki’ and he came in useful whenever there was a thunderstorm. ‘Don’t worry, Norman,’ Mum would reassure me. ‘It’s only Ki-Ki’s mother having coal delivered.’
    The Willets, Tom and Mary, lived at number three with their twins, Colin and Barbara. Colin had flaming red hair while Barbara’s was jet black. Mary’s nickname, probably not hard to guess, was ‘Twinny’.
    At number four were Vic and his wife, Molly. They had three children, Sylvia, Pat and Terrence. Vic was a bit thin on top, earning himself the nickname ‘Baldy’, which at some point evolved into ‘Bally’, which is how I always knew him. One of the first things Bally did on moving into the prefab was to remove the pilot light from the immersion heater to save money.
    Tom and Joan lived at number five with their son, Richard. Tom was a motorcycle policeman and, although he changed jobs within a year of moving in to become a P.E. teacher at Hackney Downs Grammar School, forever after he was known as ‘Copper’. Richard would be called in from playing outside on most Sundays to have his ‘marmalade tea’.
    Next door to us at number six lived the one and only ‘Bandy Bertha’ Rogers, whose great hobby seemed to consist of distributing bowls of chicken soup, unsolicited, up and down the row of prefabs. A veritable walking soup kitchen, she was, to put it mildly, a character. Any neighbourhood without such a woman was definitely missing out. At a time when the Government was nationalising all its major services and utilities for the benefit of the country, we felt that she too should have been nationalised and made available to all the citizens ofthis fine land but fate had decreed we should have her all to ourselves. An East End Jewess, she was small and plump, and in no way suited her real name, Sybil. She was definitely a born Bertha. Her husband, Geoffrey, and her son, David, were in their own way characters as well but nothing to compare with the magnitude of the woman of the house.
    Bertha and Geoffrey were both ex-RAF and before coming to the prefabs had been squatting in a disused Air Force hut. Having got married during the War, when peace came, Geoffrey seemed bemused by the situation he now found himself in and must have wondered what on earth had possessed him to marry such a woman. His mother lived in Sawbridgeworth, Hertfordshire, and, when visiting her son, deplored the disaster he had brought upon himself. Bertha was most definitely not her idea of a daughter-in-law. Sawbridgeworth was probably quite unaware that such people existed. Bertha’s dedication to her chicken soup knew no bounds. One day, she came round to ask us if she could borrow some vermicelli for the soup. ‘But only if it is Rakusen’s,’ she insisted. ‘Otherwise I won’t have it.’
    If you stood at our front door and looked out, there was a neat terraced row of Victorian houses over the other side of Millfields Road, between two side roads called Chippendale Street and Sewdley Street. If you stood at their front doors, you would have seen our little prefabs blocking their once-clear view of the green Millfields. I don’t know what they thought of our group of seven more or less homeless families moving into these new-fangled prefabs. Maybe they should have received a rate rebate, except, of course, for those living opposite Bertha, who should have had an extra entertainment tax levied on them.
    Perhaps the only owner who didn’t mind the arrival of the new families was Peter Curtis, who owned the off-licence that stood directly opposite us on the corner of