Custard Heroes

She lived on Highgate Hill, no less, right opposite the church. She was built like a mahogany wardrobe and she smelt like one, too. She boomed rather than spoke in a disturbingly deep smoker’s voice which had flecks of phlegm around the edges and she had a curious habit of addressing the wall instead of the person to whom she was talking. She was known as Mrs. W., although saying it out loud took longer than using her full name. She looked down her nose at Uncle.

The Wind Waif of Weald Hall

“You’re not having a bike so don’t keep on about it!” “But Mum…” “Did you hear what I said?”

No holds barred

My old man left school at the age of 12 after his own father had gone and got himself killed for king and poverty in the first battle of the Somme. As de facto head of the burgeoning Taylor household in Roman Rd, Ilford, there was to be no schooling for him. In wartime the only work available for a dead dad’s lad was labouring on a farm. It was there that was kindled in him a love of that noblest of beasts: the cart-horse – affectionate giants chock full of muscle and gentleness.

Left hand Lenny

“I thought you said you knew how to drive,” said Auntie Edith tartly, clutching the leather handbag containing all her money tightly to her chest. “A right pickle you’ve landed us in now!” Devoted as he was to his wife of 35 years standing, Lenny detested that superior air of hers. “Gawd, give me strength,” he muttered to himself as he turned to face the RAC man, the two traffic cops and the offended Friesian cow.

The Great British Army

Grandfather George was a cook in the Great British Army. A veteran of several campaigns with the Royal Kents in the Boer war, he was, by all accounts, a popular man. As a ten-year old child, my father, another George, was fiercely proud of his Dad in uniform. He cut such a fine figure, with his clipped moustache and row of medals along his chest, a glossy metal identification medallion hung hidden around his neck.

The Finest Sparkplug Cleaner in the Land

When I was a lad we had an old ‘sit up and beg’ Ford called “Tinribs”. She was a deep, shiny, rich black colour with some tan-brown patches, which put you in mind of a Doberman dog.

Bucket and Spade

Bucket was just the kind of brindle-coated, shaggy-matted mongrel, complete with a servile smile on its chops, that genteel Frinton-on-Sea cats like Spade detested.

How Hen lost his Head for Helen

Clocking in at the depot that penultimate morning in July 1968, Hen rubbed his thumb ruefully to ease the rheumatism, wondering why it always started in that spot. He knew it would soon spread up his arm and grip his neck like the hangman’s noose. ‘Weather’s changing,’ he thought, ‘and I’m getting past it.’