v Batley (home) Sat 7th Feb 1970

Down on the corner, out in the street,
Willy and the poorboys are playin;
Bring a nickel; tap your feet.
Down on the Corner - Creedence Clearwater Revival - #31 Feb 70


He pulls back the single curtain on the living room window and sleepily gazes out at the lashing rain which has relentlessly pounded the grey cobblestones of Burley for the previous four days.

The small front yard of the back-to-back property on Lumley Mount that his dad rents from a man who lives in the posher district of Roundhay, a man that they have never met but a man who employs a particularly obnoxious, oily little runt to collect the rent every Friday night, is flooded to a depth of a couple of inches near the low front wall and if the pool of water encroaches any nearer to the house he knows his dad will make him go out there in the rain with a broom and sweep it into the street before it starts to flood the cellar.

He takes three steps across the tiny living room to the old utility sideboard on the wall opposite the fireplace and turns a dial on the huge Pye radio that sits atop the austere, dark veneered plywood cabinet that his mother polishes with love every day as if it were a Chippendale, and watches as the tuning dial glows a dirty orange and eventually from somewhere inside the mysterious depths of the two waveband machine there comes a hissing noise because once again its moved off its Radio One tuning spot and so he tweaks the tuning dial a fraction to catch the last of the monotone refrain of Lee Marvin groaning that he was born under a wandering star.

Ed Stewpot Stewart reads another dedication to another child somewhere in the south of the country and the sounds of White Plains "My Baby Loves Lovin" fills the small, cold and slightly damp living room as he goes into the scullery to put the kettle on the gas ring for the first of this mornings cups of tea and while he is in there his dad stomps down the staircase and slams open the door into the living room,

"Eric, where are you"
"In the scullery dad, cup of tea ?"
"No, put yer coat on, I might need a push again"
"I'm in me pyjamas dad"
"Nivver mind, get some boots on and put my raincoat on, I'm late"

His dad has got an overtime shift this saturday morning in the joinery shop at Kirkstall Forge but he's late and his Honda 50 moped hasn't been starting that well in the rain this week, if it wont fire up on the short descent down the hill onto Lumley Road then he'll have to push the bloody moped until it does start while his dad sits on it peddling like buggery.

"Jesus christ, you need to get rid of that bloody thing"
"Nowt wrong with it once it gets going"
"It won't get going though will it, thats whats bloody wrong with it"
"Stop bloody arguing and put that raincoat on, come on I'm late"
"Jesus christ..."

By the time he's dragged his work boots down from the shelf at the top of the cellar stairs and pulled on the old raincoat that always hangs behind the cellar stairs door his dad is outside and has pulled back the tarpaulin that shelters his Honda 50 moped from the worst of the rain each night and he helps the old man wheel it out onto the street and holds it while his father straps on the off white "tin pot" helmet with the scuffed leather sides and pulls on the old goggles that he bought in an army surplus store, "Monty's desert goggles" his dad always calls them, he'll need them today in this rain.

While he's waiting for his dad to prepare himself for the journey to The Forge he pulls the raincoat tightly around his neck with one hand, his bare feet inside the work boots are cold and rain is already trickling inside them as he didn't tie them up before he rushed outside, what a bloody miserable start to a saturday, if he hadn't got up to have a piss and then found himself downstairs making a pot of tea then he'd still be in bed and his old man would have to sort out the bloody moped on his own.

"Right, I'm ready, go wait at bottom of t'street for me"

He turns into the wind and belting rain to trudge down the short hill to wait for his dad and the knackered moped when they reach the level intersection with Lumley Road, its tough peddling the moped along Lumley Road on the cobbles, in fact its quicker to walk than to try and pedal that bloody thing, he turns back to his father,

"You going to t'match this afty ?"
"What ?"
"Going to t'match ?"
"Hang on"

His father unbuttons the press studs on the helmet and lifts up one of the leather flaps to hear him better

"You what ?"
"Ah said, are you going t'match this afty ?"
"Who's playing ?"
"You've forgotten already haven't you ?"
"No, who is it ?"
"Its challenge cup"
"Ah know, but who is it ?"
"Batley"
"Oh aye, yeah, if I'm back in time, depends on t'foreman"
"I'll not wait then"
"No, now gerrof down t'street"

As predicted the moped coughs and puffs out miniature clouds of blue smoke as it hurtles down the 50 yards of hill that is Lumley Mount but it doesn't fire up of its own accord and his dad has to brake as he reaches the intersection with Lumley Road, the son can see his dads mouth moving in a curse as man and bike slide sideways around the corner of the street in a speedway stylee, and he screams out at his son "Push you bugger, Push, c'mon..."

He pushes man and machine for 150 yards along the cobbles before the moped coughs once then whimpers into life, put-put-putting his father off on his way to work at a stately 15mph, the son gets a wave from his father in some sort of thanks before he turns to walk back to Lumley Mount.

As he passes one of the many identical terraced houses on Lumley Road he notices a neighbour with his head under the bonnet of a Reliant Robin, another victim of the relentless damp, another bloke who is going to be late for work again because he relies too much on unreliable transport, the man stands up from under the bonnet as he passes.

"Ay up Eric"
"Ay up", he can't remember his neighbours name but he drinks in The Cardigan sometimes.
"Know owt about cars then ?"
"Aye, yours is knackered, your forever under that bonnet"
"Ah know, yer cheeky bugger, ah'm going to be late for work again, bloody ovvertime today an all"
"Aye, ah've just pushed old man off on his nifty fifty, he'll be late an all"
"Aye ah watched yer, couldn't give me a push an all could you, its just this damp see..."
"Ah'm in me pyjamas mate, ah've got kettle on in t'house..."
"Go on it won't take a minute, just get me to top of Stanmore Hill, theres a good lad"
"Ah'm in me bloody pyjamas..."

But the neighbour has already jumped in the three wheeled car and turned the key in the dead ignition and is motioning for Eric to go behind the car and shove it out onto the street.

"Ah'm in me bloody pyjamas, ah'm bloody soaked wet through, and ah've had no bloody breakfast yet..." but no-one is listening.

And when he's pushed his neighbours tiny fibre glass car with the dead engine thats no more powerful than the one on his dads moped to the top of Stanmore Hill and watched it gather momentum down the steep slope, weaving from side to side, skidding and slipping on the wet cobbles, and when it explodes into life with a bang and a flash of expelled petrol, he receives another wave of acknowledgement from a grateful driver and turns once more into the wind and perpetual lashing rain, pulls the raincoat collar around his neck and heads up the hill to the shelter of his home, a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich on his mind.

But as he climbs the four stone steps to their front door it is opened by his mother holding the scullery pedal bin in her hand,

"Put this in t'bin Eric love"
"For christ sakes mother can't it wait, look at me, ah'm out here in me pyjamas"
"What you doing out in this weather in yer pyjamas yer daft sod ?"
"Ah don't know mother, but ah'm soaked and I want me breakfast"
"Well seeing as you're already wet, empty this in t'bin and I'll put kettle on love"
"Ah put kettle on ten minutes ago mother"
"Aye well, I've just used all that for my cuppa, I'll boil you another"

He carries the pedal bin back down the steps to the metal dustbin that stands in the corner of the yard, currently standing in four inches of rainwater, and notices then that the bloody cats have had the lid off the bin again and this weeks rubbish is strewn all around submerged in the water, and just as he's thinking about ignoring the mess of newspapers, potato and vegetable peelings and egg shells his mother reads his mind and as the rain starts to come down so heavy that he can almost not hear her she reminds him,

"Look at that bloody mess Eric, them bloody cats 'ave been in t'bin again wait 'till I see her at number 12, pick it all up before you come in won't you love ?"

And cursing his luck at getting out of bed so early he stands in the pool of rainwater which covers his boot tops and seeps in to his bare feet through the laceholes, distracting his thoughts from the fact that his pyjama bottoms are also soaking up rainwater, he bends and scoops up clumps of sodden, stinking rubbish and replaces it back in the bin, one of those bloody cats from up the street is going to pay for this one day soon.