E17 Stories

An anthology of writing by people

from Walthamstow

Contents
3.
4.
7.
10.
12.
15.
17.
19.
21.
23.
26.
27.
28.
30.
32.
33.
36.
38.
39.
41.
42.
43.
44.

Introduction Amy Mason

Yours Sincerley, Bedford Road Maryam Elahi
Between the market and the marshes Kathy Trevelyan
North Countess Road Blanche Anderson
The Standard Janice Hillman
Walthamstow Market Viviane Fathimani
Walthamstow Market Alexis Jack
Walthamstow Market Nadine Adams-Austin
St James Park Nadege Brossier
Apsley Road Paul Geary
Jacks market Suzanne Page
Heat Rising on Keith Road Jane Harriott
The Old Beaumont Estate Towers Fitzroy Johnson
A stroll through Walthamstow Market Fitzroy Johnson
Walthamstow Central Mark Daniels
Once upon a time at Walthamstow Nandos Mark Daniels
Ata in Walthamstow Market Diane Kpeidja
Orford Road Tia Jethwa
Farm Cottages, Low Hall Lane Kevin Fleisch
Wood Street Recalled David Newman
Bedroom on Orford Road Sonita Turner
Magic Market Berk Keskin, Adam Awan, Bilal Yaaoob, Abbass
Majid, Kassim Awan, Genevieve Luck
Red Lion Girl Alex Stratford

Introduction
Working with local people to put together this anthology has
been a funny, fascinating, illuminating, and sometimes very moving
experience. As writer-in-residence at Walthamstow Library (funded by
Arts Council England with support from Waltham Forest Council), I have
met people from all sections of the community, and hope that their varied
voices and experiences of E17 are evident in the work weve included in
this book.
As well as open-access workshops led by me and poet/performer Rob
Auton, I worked with specific groups including Think Arts (an arts group
for adults with mental health issues), The Limes (an inclusive centre for
children with and without disabilities), and the youth group at Waltham
Forest Community Hub.
Each piece of writing has a local road or place name as its title, and
my hope is that we might gather some real insight into the way our
neighbours see the streets we think we know.
Thanks to all who helped make this work possible Arts Council
England, Waltham Forest Council, The Limes, Think Arts, Waltham Forest
Community Hub but mostly to the unique and brilliant people of E17.
Amy Mason

Yours sincerely, Bedford Road

Maryam Elahi
Dearest Walthamstow,
Its about time I told you what really goes on in the streets. For too long
youve been tricked by a smoke screen of fabricated illusions, believing
that the tiny town you live in is ordinary and plain. Im afraid I have to
confess; Walthamstow is anything but plain. Youll find that in even the
most normalised communities, little glimmers of magic exist. By magic I
dont mean the twinkling of Christmas lights on Walthamstows famously
lop-sided tree, or the orchestra of colours of the dog stadium. No, I
mean real magic, circumstances that the non-magical community cannot
explain without the idea of science or serendipity. Many members of the
magical community dont want to own up to our mistakes, so I will have to
explain our actions.
Id like to keep my anonymity, although I doubt any of you will believe
me because youve been told that we dont exist. I have two reasons that
persuade me to keep my identity hidden. The first being I dont wish to
be harassed by your children (Ive been to one toddler group, I couldnt
possibly win that fight). The second reason is that the magical community
will be upset with me outing myself. I know humans will take this with what is that human saying - a pinch of salt. If any part of my confession
seems like a decorated crown of delusions and you choose to not believe
me, then that is your own fault. If you do believe and help me keep this a
secret, then you are very smart and will go far in life.
Non magical creatures prefer a linear chronology of events, so I will
start from the beginning. I dont know when we all decided to live in
Walthamstow. It wasnt a conscious decision but something that felt right;
to use a non-magical euphemism, it was a gut feeling. Not to give too
much about myself away, I came to reside in Bedford Road a century
ago. Bedford Road was a popular place for fantastical creatures to live
because it is near Lloyd Park, and we do love nature. When I arrived, the
magical community was established and no human was any wiser.
4

Magical and non-magical creatures are similar. We devoured the menu

at the fried chicken joints, were active in the Labour party and helped
heckle Winston Churchill. There were elves to witches, even a couple of
ogres managed to sneak under the escalators of Walthamstow Central
Station (terribly sorry about the repairs). I must say, I did enjoy your way
of living; perhaps that is why your community appealed to us and seemed
a suitable place to settle. You are a mixing pot of sorts, looking beyond
the constraints of skin colour and seeing each other as equal. I imagine
if we did reveal ourselves, you all would be fairly content with it, which is
reassuring. However, none of you can keep a secret so we didnt tell you.
Ill highlight only two of the big incidents the fantastical community were
a part of. If I were to talk about all of the catastrophes we committed
this wouldnt be a letter but an encyclopaedia. But before I do there is
something you non magical beings must understand; fantastical creatures
get bored very easily. Not to say you Walthamstovians are boring, its just
sometimes, the rest of us need to exercise our magical muscles. Think
of it as being similar to your arts and crafts, or whatever your community
does in Lloyd Park. However when we do this, we find ourselves causing
some trouble. Well trouble to me has a flexible definition; I mean you got
a new cinema eventually, didnt you?
The cinema is probably a good place to start confessing. The
Walthamstow cinema was always a popular place for magical creatures,
particularly the gremlins and witches, who tend to visit in the evening
when its shut. There is something about humans pretending to be
fantastical creatures that is just comical to us. But sometimes, your
depiction of us can be hurtful which is exactly what happened one night
during a screening about us. I cant remember the title of the film, it was
something to do with a boy with a lightning shaped scar. Anyway to cut a
long story short (another one of your sayings), the witches were infuriated
and destroyed everything. Thus, Im sure youre aware, you were left with
no cinema.
The witches of Walthamstow werent the only ones who destroyed
a pivotal part of your community, the dwarves did too. Walthamstow did
something to the dwarf community. They went from being peanut brained
munchkins to the mini mafia. The Walthamstow Stadium wasnt just a dog
race track, but the dwarf one too. They would get rowdy off gambling
and their aggression was uncontrollable so those little tykes would do a
lot of damage. The plethora of gambling establishments available didnt
help either, it just added fuel to the fire (I can use idioms, Im practically
human now). That might have been the Walthamstow imprint on the dwarf
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community. Not that Im saying citizens of Walthamstow are aggressive,

but they do have a unique type of passion. Yours are a passionate bunch,
whether its about food, arts or politics. That rubbed off onto the dwarf
community, they wanted to give gambling their all and they did in a way.
What surprised us was that Walthamstow changed us, were tougher,
care more and accept differences more easily. I used to think there was
nothing humanity could teach us, that the fantastical creatures held all
the magic, but all my years at Bedford Road have taught me the exact
opposite. Walthamstow is magical, theres an electric atmosphere that
surges through you and creates a sense of community. Who doesnt want
a place to belong, or call home? Because thats what Walthamstow is, my
magical home.
Until next time,
Bedford Road.

Maryam Elahi is 21 and has lived in Walthamstow for her whole life. She
loves cats, culture and creative writing.

Between the market and the marshes

Kathy Trevelyan
I love the quiet in my street, off the main drag in its own little world. The
silver birch outside my window, the closeness of the marshes and the
river with its stillness, kestrels, cows and rowers.
The closeness of the market with its vibrant bustle, the bright fruit and
veg a pound a bowl, the languages and foods from all over the world.
The cafes and charity shops.
Our houses are small, built for workers at the cusp of the nineteenth
and twentieth centuries, for workers from the copper mill. The older
residents, the long term Walthamstow people, born here, growing old
here, are gradually dying. Net curtains being replaced by slatted wooden
blinds. They still collect for funerals and people stand respectfully on the
street as the hearse goes by. But this community is almost gone. I hope
its memories are being recorded, stored for sharing. Memories of this
world before the internet, before the growth of consumer culture. This
older world of make do and mend, where things were put to rights over a
pot of tea and people knew their neighbours. This world of hardship and
resilience, the new NHS never taken for granted, the horrors of war, the
optimism of rebuilding and peace.
A different world is growing in our streets, one based on coffee
shops, children, arts and shared interests. A world where its fine to be
different, and where difference is being redefined. Little Free Libraries
are springing up, murals appear on the ends of terraces, the old cinema
is being reinvented and reopened. People talk about these things at
the corner as we wait for the bus. There is a buzzing of change, of
possibilities. But there is nostalgia too, for the older Walthamstow, of
Manzes pie and mash, the snooker hall, nights at the dog track.
Ruby wanders around her house now. I saw her last night, through
the frosted glass of her front door. A hand on each wall, the belt of her
pink dressing gown pulled tight. Tiny and lost. I didnt knock, it may
have frightened her, she may not know me. Lost as her memories drift
away. Does she remember the brother she lived with for so many years?
7

Unmarried siblings sharing tea, gardening and gossip. He asked me

once whats it like up there Kath? face turned towards the sky as a plane
passed overhead. For them London was a distant place, not home. Home
was Walthamstow. Friends were few but close. Now Ruby exists in her
own mist, supported by her oldest friend. No family left. Maureen shops,
takes her out, deals with social services. Other neighbours enquire after
her, is there anything we can do? But there is nothing.
Walthamstow is changing fast. Now its sought after, cool, the new
Hackney. House prices are soaring, memories being kept alive by
community projects, by neighbours. Nobody alive now remembers the
first powered flight from the marshes in1909, the crazy anarchist robbery
that led to armed chases through the streets that same year, but they are
remembered in Vestry House Museum. Some remember the war when
bombs fell and there were air raid shelters, and the men were gone.
Rationing and were all in it together. But even these memories are
fading, becoming exhibits in the museum, words on a page.
Rubys brother George used to tell stories of the river flooding when he
was a boy, water streaming all the way up to the market. He used to get
sent out with the other boys to catch the floating cabbages and potatoes
and bring them home for dinner before they were stolen by the river. Now
we have a drainage channel and the cabbages are safe on the stalls.
To one end of our street, ten minutes walk away, cyclists stream along
the river in their own pedal power rush hour. Joggers sweat by, rowers
row, dogs sniff and run. I walk, watch, sit and drink tea as the swans drift
by, indifferent to all this human activity, until someone throws them some
food. Sometimes a group of us go to the marshes at night and meet at the
long table to wave at the International Space Station as it passes, or to
gasp at the meteor showers. We take wine and food and marvel at what
stars we can see through the citys light pollution. Wonder at the people in
the Space Station, looking down at us, at our shared world. In the autumn
people learn to scythe on the old Lammas lands and celebrate apple
day. Every new year now we gather to wassail trees, beehives, pubs and
homes. Remembering and recreating ancient rituals and celebrating
community.
Ten minutes walk in the other direction market traders shout their wares,
men sit outside cafes, smoking, people search through racks of dresses,
imagining warmer days. Teenage girls laugh as they pass, thoughts on
the evening, boys and high heels. A family chooses fresh fruit together,
their two children eager for the apples. Old friends chat over tea as
teenage boys lurch along, trousers low, voices mumbled. Children pull at
mothers sleeves, wanting bright toys, discounted sweets.
8

These people are from many cultures, and a glorious mix of languages
rises from the street. The market is like a river of change channelled
through an older, more settled foundation.
Change brings discord as well as excitement. But we seem, on the
whole, to deal with it well in our streets, with our neighbours and across
our varied community. While some refuse to look outside a narrow field
of vision, many more seek understanding and a way forward that is
inclusive,respectful of difference and aware of shared needs.
Walthamstow is recorded in around 1075 as Wilcumestowe, meaning
the Place of Welcome. A lovely meaning, and an aspiration I think.
Our area is a melting pot of people, cultures and languages. And my
house sits between. Between neighbours whos families came from many
lands. Between the ancient marshland and the busy market.
We are between times too, as old fades to new and we become
residents of a dynamic new Walthamstow full of art, theatre, music
and possibilities. I hope that as we embrace this future we honour and
remember the past.

Kathy moved to Walthamstow in 1999. She is an actor who loves to write

and draw.

North Countess Road

Blanche Anderson
North Countess road. 7.15am.
Here I am baby blasted awake by the sound of wondrous Stevie. My
thought being, of course, that if I dedicate my alarm tone to a suitably
upbeat and cheery tune that I will have a suitably upbeat and cheery day.
But as I groan and press snooze for the 3rd time I truly begin to question
my logic.
Outside the borough is already awake. Must get up.
I haul myself out of bed. Thump to the loo, then the kitchen, then back
again to the bedroom. Here I frantically choose anything clean to throw
on.
Note to self: must deactivate the snooze option on my phone, must not
be late again tomorrow, must finally do washing tonight. Out the door I fly,
trying not to slam it. Must not wake the flatmates.
The freezing crisp air impacts my cheeks. The cold has made the
door stiff and as I tug I nearly fall backwards. It closes with a bang. Must
apologise to the flatmates later.
Headphones in my ears, I pick a suitably upbeat and cheery playlist
and off I go.
Must snap out of this flustered and grumpy state before I arrive at work.
Must hurry up. Alternatively, must conjure up a realistic excuse for being
late.
The kids walk pass me as they head to school. I still cant get used to
hearing children with English accents. They amaze me. Their confidence,
their energy (I mean its 8am for Christs sake!) and their utter lack of
understanding that when its as cold as this, its time to put on a coat.
Must stop turning into my mother!
I pass the same rushed lady I pass every day. She practically runs with
the push-chair to get her little one to nursery. Always such a rush. We
never say Hi.
I walk past Priory Court. I smile. One of the blocks is called Balmoral
House which reminds me of home. God I miss home. I miss my parents. I
10

want to see them.

I pass the crowd at the bus stop. I always feel self-conscious at this
point but I dont know why.
Must keep walking. Must not be late.
As I walk I try to guess how much a property would cost me in this area.
Must start saving for a deposit. Must. I really must!
I turn right at Walthamstow Fire Station and continue down Forest Road.
The hustle, the bustle, the traffic, the noise.
I pump up my music to drown out my surroundings.
I pass the same brother and sister I pass every day. She too cool to
talk to him, he too young to understand. We dont acknowledge each
other. This part of the commute is always a busy blur. I need all my
concentration to navigate across the manic roads and between cars.
I pass the same supermarket I pass every day. Must remember to pick
up some bananas, tinned tomatoes and milk on my way home.
Finally, I am here.
The Victoria Line is operating a good service
I march to the end of the of platform to ensure a seat.
I hear the tracks buzz before I see the train. As it approaches I see
my seat waiting and empty. Must not push in front to get to it though. Must
wait my turn.
Must not make eye contact.
Must keep my headphones in.
Must keep my head down.
Must give up my seat if required.
Must change lines in 20 minutes.
Must get to my desk for 5 to 9.
Tonight comes; I dont do my washing, I dont do my food shop, I
avoid my flatmates.

Blanche Anderson is 27. She was born and bred in Scotland, then moved
to Liverpool to study before coming to Walthamstow, where she has been
living for nearly 4 years.

11

The Standard
Janice Hillman
For eight years now Christopher had had the same commute. Victoria
Line to Blackhorse Road, cross over Ferry Lane to the bus stop, hop onto
the 123 bus up the Forest Road, past the fire station and the town hall and
the college, and home.
The routine was sufficiently ingrained, now, that he scarcely saw the
landmarks he passed. He could do the journey on autopilot, and usually
did.
A few weeks ago, hed half-noticed that the Standard was closing down.
Probably going to be flats, he thought vaguely to himself. Pub and music
venue opposite a Tube station? Bound to be worth more as a collection
of little boxes for people to live in. Every pub in London was going to be a
collection of little boxes sooner or later. Shame. But that was progress for
you, Christopher supposed.
Today he emerged from the subterranean fug to the open air of
Blackhorse Road with an extra dose of relief, since it was Friday and his
last Tube ride till the weekend was done. As he crossed the road, the
Standard caught his eye again: CLOSING DOWN SALE SATURDAY.
EVERYTHING MUST GO.
Everything must go? What the hell would a closed-down music venue
be selling off?
Christopher thought about the Standard on the bus. He hadnt set
foot in the place for more than ten years, but his memories of it were as
clear as a mountain spring; which was more than could be said for the
atmosphere inside the Standard as it used to be. The air in there made
even the Victoria Line trains seem hygienic and wholesome.
Next day, instead of enjoying a Saturday lie-in, Christopher arose
and took the bus back down to Blackhorse Road, as though going to
work. Instead of entering the station, he crossed Ferry Lane again and
approached the Standards back door, where temporary signs pointed
punters toward the closing-down sale.
Inside, it was just as he remembered, just as it had been when
12

he was twenty-two and his music was going to bring society to its knees
by the sheer force of power chords and approximate rhymes. Everything
was painted the same black. There were tables, with random items for
sale scattered across them; bar towels, pump clips, a couple of small
fridges from behind the bar, half a dozen CDs from bands hed never
heard of, bands after his time. He climbed up onto the stage and looked
down at the few people poking around the remnants of the Standards
fittings, then peered through the doorway to the dressing room at the side
of the stage. It was still plastered with band graffiti. Somewhere, three
or four levels down on the palimpsests that were the walls, was his own
writing.
Something caught his eye on the floor; a guitar pick, lying there
abandoned. He scooped it up and pocketed it.
Hey!
For a second, Christopher thought someone was about to accuse him
of stealing the pick.
Uh... the other person went on, as though suddenly unsure of himself.
Didnt you used to be Kris Quisling?
The name startled Christopher. It wasnt a monicker hed gone under for
a long time.
Well, yes, but He broke off as he recognised the other man. Jesus,
youre Nicky Nullset!
Nicky laughed, embarrassed. I was. Just Nick Macleod again, these
days. God, its a shame to see the old place brought down to this, isnt it?
You still play the drums?
Nah, not really. When we broke up I sold them to some geezer in
Chingford. I still miss playing, though. Do you?
No, said Christopher, knowing it was a lie as he spoke. He overruled
himself and spoke again. Actually, yes. We had some good times in
here, remember?
Too right, sighed Nick. We played our very first gig in here.
Remember that awful band we had to follow, the sixth-form students
playing Oasis covers? And they got about fifty people in because they all
brought along their college mates.
Yeah, and we had what, eight? My knees were trembling so much I
could hardly walk on stage.
The two men looked round the destitute venue for a silent moment. You
know, said Christopher, breaking the silence, I never did figure out why
they called it the Standard Music Venue. It was anything but standard. It
kicked ass.
Nick looked puzzled for a moment, then laughed. He still had the
13

peculiar, nasal laugh which Christopher hadnt heard for a decade.

Not standard in that sense, you clot. Standard as in a flag or a banner.
Its a common enough pub name.
Oh, my god. I never even made that connection. For a second
Christopher felt embarrassed, but Nick laughed again, defusing the gaffe.
Hey, heres my number, Nick said to him, pulling a card out of his
pocket. We ought to go for a drink some time.
We really ought. Shame we cant just come here for one, eh? said
Christopher, and Nicky sighed a sigh of assent.
Something propped against the wall caught Christophers eye; the neon
sign that had once hung over the stage, advertising a brand of US bottled
beer that the Standard hadnt even sold, now unplugged and dark.
Hey, he said to the man behind the impromptu cash desk. How much
for that sign?
It was extremely awkward for him to get the sign home on the 123,
and a couple of other passengers who had to squeeze past its bulk,
inadequately concealed inside a dustbin bag, tut-tutted in annoyance.
But finally he made it in through his front door with it.
He put the sign on the table and considered it. It seemed absurdly huge
for his flats small sitting room, not to mention the fact that it was grubby
and covered in a variety of stains and stickiness.
Kris didnt care a damn.
After hed looked at the neon for a couple of minutes, he grabbed
the stepladder and set it up below the trapdoor to his loft. He plunged
upward into the dark void, and emerged with a satisfied expression and a
dusty guitar.

Janice Hillman has worked as a secretary, a librarian, an insurance clerk,

a solicitor, a musician, a drayman (drayperson?), and a layabout (by far
her favourite). She has lived in Walthamstow since 2007, and has recently
completed her first novel.

14

Walthamstow Market
Viviane Fathimani
It was hidden right at the back of the shelf. But my eagle eyes or yeux
de lynx as my grandma used to call them (referring mistakenly to my
sisters eyes, knowing one of us had good eye-sight) were able to spot a
misplaced treasure virtually anywhere.
I had no idea how long it had been there of course but it smelt quite
fresh; at least thats what I told myself as I picked it up and sniffed it,
oil dripping down my fingers. Oh well, I have quite dry hands anyway I
decided as I smoothed it over; massaged it in like moisturiser. Now my
hands smelt of it too they smelt AMAZING actually...maybe Ill taste a
sneaky, teeny-tiny piece see if its any good still. A quick glance over
each shoulder; wouldnt want anyone to see me spit it out, should I need
to. Nope no-one looking, all too busy Sanjeev serving up a delicious
plate of pakoras doused in chilli, the builders outside singing along to a
tune on the radio they obviously dont know the words to; market stalls
hustling and bustling to their Saturday morning custom.
As I looked past the market stalls, green lights glared out at me
from across the road reading buffet, seeming to egg me on in their
brightness: go on - do it! Their subliminal message flashed on and
off persuading me with the power of neon. I heard it loud and clear: Eat
it! No-one cares and youre a bit peckish. Shouldnt really have skipped
breakfast but now youre here face to face with this obviously, deliberately
placed treat; an offering from the universe poison for the curious; a trap
for the weak. Nah, dont be silly. Its fine. Itll do you good to fill that big
empty space inside your stomach.
Fine. I ignore mums repulsed expression in my head. Shes too
careful, anyway. Its good to give your organism some germs. Build some
antibodies, make it stronger. No, no antibiotics for me Doctor not me,
dont touch the stuff cept this time I took a risk; anyone would have
went all Eve over a juicy red apple. Guess I deserve this nasty illness I got
as a result.
Still: I was starving! Searched my pockets for some change I was sure
15

I had enough for a doughnut from Percy Ingles. I had 50p I knew I did - I
remember the shiny coin in my hand as I handed it...over...oh - to that
man outside Wood Street Station. Oh yeah. Oh well. It was cold and he
looked hungry. Bet he wouldnt turn down an onion bhaji from Sanjeevs;
Walthamstows finest.
Right: thats it. Im taking the plunge - straight into my mouth and
oh yeah its good. A bit warm still inside must be fresh from this
mornings batch. Sanjeev is an A-MAY-ZING cook. Wow the spices are
really going round in my mouth - they are so alive! Best decision ever
and; the hunger is subsiding. Aw, thanks Sanjeev. I close my eyes to
savour the last morsel, chew it over well; lunch is HOURS away. Plus Im
low on funds.
Satisfied with my choices, I take a seat by the window, finish my feast.
Taste buds happy. Stomach happy. Sanjeev ... er ... not looking so
happy... Sanjeev yelling... I wonder whats wrong with Sanjeev..? I focus
my attention on the words being thrown around for a bit; after all maybe I
can help the pakora king.
Sorrri Sanjeev, reely stupid of me
Idiot, top shelf? Eye level? Vat you think rat going to climb up here
to find it? Useless! Now some poor fellow vill poison himself; well done
Nadeem! What you can do now? Find him give him antidote?! Just go for
break and PLEASE; no more crazy shit! Ulloo ka patta!
Nadeem hung his apron up and rushed guiltily out the door; letting the
whole of Walthamstow market in One paand a paand of bananas
and out again, abandoning me to my silence; just as quickly as it had first
interrupted my thoughts.
And then the penny which had somehow momentarily become
overwhelmed by an extreme sense of vertigo and was refusing to jump;
got over itself and dropped. I ate the poison; the onion bhaji was a trap
for the rat it didnt suspect a hungry 15 year old to take a chance on it!
Risk his life to fill the void! IDIOT!
Ive gone all hot with fever. I feel ill; the poison must be taking effect!
Poison on an empty stomach as well. What a fool. How am I gonna get
out of this one? What am I gonna to do? The room is starting to spin...
Sanjeev-! I call out in horror.

Viviane Fathimani is 31 and grew up in Walthamstow

16

Walthamstow Market
Alexis Jack
Based in the hub of Walthamstows E17, off Hoe Street and beyond the
famous market it needs to be seen,
Looking back when I first moved here I do recall the long winding market
and me traipsing from stall to stall,
The loud shouts of two for ten, on many a bargain I would spend,
The old tat and fake designer things, my friends would stare in awe at my
dazzling bling!
The delicious smell of fragrant foods, pakoras, chicken tikka, winkles and
lemugeme, oh how my stomach growls at the thought of them.
My hips rocking with the excess carbs, my taste buds on fire like an
electric charge!
The array of colours from the beautiful materials sold, the shining jewellery
adorn many a body when sold.
But its all changed now you see, not as long and bustling with glee, Still
noisy, busy, but less to see, more up market, gentrified you see,
Expensive restaurants, bars and posh cafes you see, controlled parking
and major driving restrictions which do not please,
Now so more up market a new travel find, but I still have my memories of
the old kind.

17

A time for change like a rising sun, but somewhere somehow I still
rummage in the depths of my mind for my bargain find. My memories of
the ole Walthamstow that I am still trying to find.

Alexis Jack is a 45 year old poet who loves dancing, jazz music and all
things vintage and old. She has lived in Walthamstow for 19 years.

18

Walthamstow Market
Nadine Adams-Austin
My foot hurts. Mum is already metres ahead while I am recovering my
foot from the onslaught of the pram attached to a baby and bearing all
sorts from the market. I wait a second before turning, in part to assess
the damage to my foot, and to give the pram owner a chance to respond
promptly. But then I feel it again - the pram colliding with my other foot.
My eyes roll up toward the heavens in supplication. I hear my inner voice
pray softly, please dont stop me now...and I turn with all kinds of choice
words at the ready.
I dont care that its Saturday morning and its busy.
I dont care that three of us are now blocking the bustling crowd.
I dont even care that by now my mum will have crossed over
Palmerston Road and reached Wilkinsons before Ive managed to stop
her.
That pram owner is going to pay.
I give her the Look.
The Look that says, if I were a mutant Id be blasting laser beams at
you right now for wrecking both of my feet.
The Look that says, I am a ninja, and I can destroy that pram just by
looking at it.
The Look that says, Oi, how rude are you? Watch where youre going!
She looks up, a slight frown on her face, seemingly perplexed at why
the object in front is motionless. Meets my eyes, feels my imaginary laser
beams and steps back involuntarily, knocking someone else behind her.
I look down at the bottom of her pram which remains connected to my
foot. And look up at her again with a cocked eyebrow. She follows my
gaze down and back up again, her eyes widening, and she starts to
apologise profusely. Im so sorry! I...didnt see you...sorry....
I tell her that its impossible to not see me. Im 510, weigh more than
Ill ever confess, and she should feel when her pram is colliding with
something, or make sure that she never drives. I tell her that she needs to
upgrade to a pram with bumpers, and that her steering is rubbish. I turn
19

away, telling her that shes holding up the market flow and has allowed
my mum to spend way more than allowed in Wilkinsons and is probably
in Iceland now.
In my mind anyway. In reality, only two seconds have passed and I can
see my mum at the stall ahead buying plantain, and the pain has eased
with the ladys apology. I nod and limp away.

Nadine has lived in Waltham Forest for most of her life and has often
thought about doing some creative writing. This is her first attempt!

20

St James Park
Nadege Brossier
I go back
To the scene of the crime
St James Park
Where we had met for the first time
And as I walk down the Avenue
I am looking for a clue
I attempt to solve the riddle
The message sent in that bottle
Out of the thousands thrown at sea
Yours was the one found by me
For one key going missing
Gravity pulls down the whole building
Your heart still belongs to her
You told me that it was over
But feelings have their own way
Its not up to us to command them away
I had a smile upon my face
When you took my heart to replace
The one that she kept
Now theres an empty feeling in my chest
The archangel sent me a sign
But I did not care for his message

21

It was not the one that I wanted

The sky is dark as I am leaving the park
The market has been cleared
There is nothing to learn here
I sit at a caf and order a new heart
The other you took away
Better make a new start
Nadege is a 35-year-old French woman who has have been living in
Walthamstow for 14 years. She works as an accountant but has always
written little poems/ stories and tries to make songs out of some of them.

22

Apsley Road
Paul Geary
Our fight for life
I was born on the 17th August 1965, a premature baby both me and
mum nearly died. She had blood poisoning. She only weighed six stone.
All my mother had in her body was one pint of blood. She told me she
looked like a ghost. The white sheets she was laying in ended up blood
red. I think she must of been a real fighter to go through that and come
out the other side. I was born a breech birth so you could say I was short
of breath somewhat. I had wires here, there, every bloody where. Fifteen
convulsions one after the other when I was a baby which no doubt didnt
help me much. I think thats the reason why mum had an irrational fear of
me going out and doing things, meeting people. My mum never let me
out of her sight which didnt do me any favours. It just made things harder
for me in the future (sorry to say, Mum). She never had anyone to help
her that got her down I very often heard her crying at night it was a hard
lonely life for her. Things were sweet until the age of 10 years old. Then I
started having fits. From then on my life went down hill with no breaks. Ive
had an headache and felt sick ever since I had the fits. My doctors said
it could be my epilepsy or it could be the tablets (yeah it could be but it
could also be something else). They didnt do anything or investigate. I
wasnt allowed to go out play. All I could do was watch the kids from the
balcony playing football or whatever they were doing. Thats why I got
bitter towards her, I guess.
My epilepsy a living hell
The feeling I get in my head would be equivalent to shaking up a bottle
of water then holding it still but the water keeps moving. I feel dizzy all
day. It is relentless! I get pins and needles in my feet, more so my right
foot. It can make it hard to walk. My forehead feels like Ive got a live wire
attached to my head with a current going through from the bridge of my
23

nose. Its so annoying its hard to concentrate and think. I feel extremely
tired all the time. I can feel like my life is a living hell and theres no way
out. It has affected me in every way possible. Five minutes from my front
door I had a fit. I didnt know where I was. I fell down on the pavement.
Luckily a woman sees me and helped. I remember my doctor asked me
how I was once and I said ok but I wouldnt mind meeting a nice girl. She
replied and said women dont wonna be a nurse to anyone like me. I feel
like Ive had doctors playing god, telling me what I can and cant do. It
has ruined the best part of my life. I feel like people dont wonna know me
because of it. Especially girls. All they see is my face, not the pain in my
head. They dont look at me and see a person. All they see is someone
who is disabled in their eyes.
My memory
What memory! Its like swimming in treacle. Its impossible for me
to remember how to cook so I go out to eat. Trying to find a place or
roads just as hard. I can go to a place and not find it again for months.
Its so embarrassing. I cant remember names of roads, songs and their
words, any dates all through my life it feels like a horrid joke.
Beaten and attacked
When I started having fits I was spat at, kicked, punched and pushed on
the floor. Someone even suggested to make me fit. Lucky it didnt go that
far. I was beaten up, if not every day, then every other day. It became the
norm. I ended up expecting it. Once I stayed off school for three weeks.
Id had a cold, three fits and chicken pox. When I went back to school I
had really graphic words put in one of my books amongst other things.
Not one thing was ever done. I hope you understand, it didnt make me
feel good. It showed me how alone I was. If they had apologised it would
have been easier to live with. Ive never been able to trust anyone since
school. Ive had no reason to. Just because youve got a disability It feels
as though people think they can treat you badly. Ill talk to them but never
the less I hate them. In a way I still had contact with people, I suppose.
Not the sort I wanted though.
The worst day of my life
On the 8th of April mum died of lung cancer, she was 71 years old when
she passed away. Mum had stopped smoking about 12 or so years ago.
24

She ended up with C .O. P. D. in a wheelchair with an oxygen bottle. She

was in so much pain that I think maybe it was the best thing to happen
to her. She had a cough for 3 weeks. There was an advert on TV that if
youd had a cough for that long you should go and see the doctor. She
went, but the doctor did nothing to catch it. Ill never forgive or forget that
moment. It took the only person in my life away from me. We argued yeah
just like other people. Youre not normal if you dont. It sounds funny but
give me those arguments any day because I miss em. Its been one and
a half years. Ive been on my own, its gone so quick. But Im doing better
than I thought I would.

25

Jacks market
Suzanne Page
A mix of sweet and sour reached his nose to announce his imminent
arrival. The caramelised nuts, the butchers block and the fish mongers
dish of the day all adding a layer to the markets welcome.
Jack turned the corner to see the market stalls billowing in the wind like
a friendly wave. The recent rain had coloured the paving with a wet sheen
giving the illusion of newness.
For Jack the market had always been a feature in his life; like an oil
tanker in a shipping lane sometimes close to the shore or sometimes
just visible on the horizon. As a child Jack had clutched his mothers
skirt as followed her and his grandmother around the market on their
weekly shop, he bought his fruit and veg there in his bachelor days and
he avoided it like the plague when his missus and kids were around
favouring a pint and the match at the boozer at the end of the market.
Jack trundled his shopping trolley towards the stalls. People were
milling around busily from stall to stall like ants foraging for food.
The youth of the day were hanging around the edges, not fully involved
but present. Their sullen adolescence a grumbling point for Jack as it
acted as a reminder of his increasing years.
Mothers were busy shepherding their young through the obstacle
course of the market, trying to collect their shopping while maintaining
the location of their flock. A healthy pair of lungs belonging to a toddler
announced their frustration at being confined against their will in a buggy.
The mother moved forward with an apologetic grimace and the sea of
shoppers parted to let her journey on.
For Jack his weekly visits to the market marked the passage of time in a
way the morning commute once did and the school bell before then. The
market to Jack was like an old friend, always present but ever changing.
Suzanne is an charity worker and visual artist living locally in Bakers
Arms.
26

Heat Rising on Keith Road

Jane Harriott
My bedroom is in the loft. We moved upwards when my teenage daughter
railed against the tiny box room, her bed, inches from the ceiling, with a
desk and cupboard underneath. A miniature room for a maximum, hulking
teenager.
My room is functional, aspiring to minimalism; clutter contained, clothes
hidden and books arranged, not by Dewey, genre or alphabet, but by
height. It pleases me to see straight lines. But sentimentality has seeped
in - a meerkat bought by my son on a school trip to the Isle of Wight and a
chipped owl with ruby eyes, a Mothers Day present.
My hormones dictate the temperature, between chilly and sub zero. An
industrial fan on standby for additional coolness. My husband, huddled
beneath the duvet, fully dressed like a combat soldier on exercise,
muttering, Its like fucking Siberia in here.

Jane is a menopausal 52 year-old woman, living and working in

Walthamstow.

27

The Old Beaumont Estate Towers

Fitzroy Johnson
Tall and lean from the sides
each seemed bigger vying to compete
two towers menacing sky-line
limpet satellite dishes crowded concrete
The dwellers a diverse mix
their children playing down below
flapping garments of multi hues
hung from balcony railings
Two towers dominated view
toddlers played, youngers learned
serving their apprenticeship
to hustle silent into the night
Cockroaches scurried elsewhere
rude boys gathered Tuesday evenings
nothing to do vacant minds idle hands
but I didnt gawp when that happened
Rude boys taught youngers to carry
guns and drugs in satchel bags
rude boys menaced the estate
I saw them from my back garden
Greasy paper discarded trash
danced with the wind as it blew
the towers emptied divested of limpets
making way for the new
28

Sprawling and spanning no longer

crumpled down into rubble
hiding vermin flee from lift shafts
rude boys without any youngers
bereft of apprentices and threat
Where have all the rude boys gone
they pass now and then
I feel their menace no more
left us with peace and hope to endure.
*Younger an up and coming member of a gang.

29

A stroll through Walthamstow Market (Memories of

Grandma)
Fitzroy Johnson
I hadnt thought of my grandmother for a long time, until then. She came
back to me whilst I strolled through the cornucopia of people, goods and
food on display in Walthamstow market. I had shopped in the market
many times, getting yam, sweet potato, dasheen, plantain, snappers,
avocados, tinned ackee, salt fish and of course breadfruit.
Unexpected memories of grandmother Josephine surfaced in an usual
place. Grandmother Josephine ruled our family, she laid down the law.
As a young lad, if I misbehaved and grandma knew about it, I would be
ordered to fetch the swish stick for my punishment. Strokes of the swish
stick were applied according to how many my misbehaviour warranted.
Grandma usually wore what she called a tie-head which was her head
scarf. She had a tie-head for many occasions. One was for sleeping with
at night, one for doing the house work, several for dressing up, for going
to church and going to market on a Saturday. My favourite was red,
green and orange swirled into a pleasing pattern; she looked regal and
glamorous when she wore that one.
Strolling through Walthamstow market, I entered a shop full with
wondrous coloured yarns of cloth. Whilst browsing through the fabrics I
wished to purchase for a gift to my wife, I glimpsed the red and green of
the silk. The first thing I noticed was a blip faster heart beat, dryness of
mouth and a sharp involuntary intake of breath, which were dismissed as
signs of anxiety. I browsed and lingered a little longer, touching, feeling,
eyes drawn to the myriad of colours. Outside the shop, a stall holder
yelled, One pound a bowl. Another shouted fresh fruits, come and get
your fresh fruits here.
Was there anything you wanted? the shopkeeper asked.
No-no, just browsing, I replied.
I went to the red and green silk fabric on a rack at the back of the
shop and twirled it between my fingers. It felt sensuous. Sleek silkiness
30

caressed my finger and moved something inside me. A feeling of

nostalgia took hold. I wanted to be back home in the Caribbean then.
Faraway from the cold and the market. Faraway from the bustling, busy
streets of Walthamstow. I would have given anything then to hear my
grandma chiding me again.
Bless you grandma, may your memory live long in my heart.

Fitzroy Johnson is a retired grandfather, living on the Beaumont Estate.

He is very active in local groups, and is interested in creative writing and
poetry. He has lived in Leyton for 16 years.

31

Walthamstow Central
Mark Daniels
Theyve come from the village, The market and the estate.
They pass each other hurriedly. Theyre all running late.
The gentrified, the gentlemen, Generations, first, second and... unknown.
Mosque worshippers, churchgoers,
Neon junkyard-lovers, Gods very own.
City-bound businesswomen, Slapping on the lippy. Homebound party
girls,
Of course, via the chippy.
Nigerian, Jamaican,
Indian, Romanian.
School runs, Hen-do nuns, Swathes of anonymous someones.
Doyins got a day out planned,
With her friend Doris.
Library book group, not that shes read it, Then a coffee at the William
Morris.
Waleeds off on a big first date, With his potential new beau. But how best
to impress,
A Chinese or a Nandos?
Sammys not going anywhere.
Hes just on a bench, rolling a menthol. But they all cross paths,
At Walthamstow Central.

32

Once upon a time at Walthamstow Nandos

Mark Daniels
The build-up to this moment had been a long and emotional one. 25
years of uncertainty, of dishonesty and of self-doubt. But all that would
change today, thought Adam, as he sat nervously, fiddling with his
napkin. Nothing would be the same after todays momentous event at
Walthamstow Nandos. Cookie approached the table. A scatty whirlwind
of a woman she was, loitering somewhere between cool hipster girl and
crazy cat lady. She grinned as she placed the armful of sauce bottles on
the table and took her seat opposite her oldest friend, Adam.
Ive got something to tell you, he said, full of sincerity.
Dont tell me youre in love with me, Adam, because you know...Im a
lesbian, Cookie quipped, ever the joker.
Can you just let me...
Ah, or have I brought the wrong sauces? No hot stuff for you. You want
lemon and herb, right? No need to be so dramatic!
No, look, this is actually very hard for me to say out loud. I cant even
believe Im saying it, to be honest.
Right, so, are you actually aware that youre not really saying
anything?
Im, Adam paused whilst plucking up 25 years worth of courage,
gay.
Cookie took a big slurp of her Sprite and then cooed, awww. Bless
you.
Adam looked confused as if expecting something somewhat more
profound. Could this truly be the reaction hed been waiting for? That
didnt feel momentous or life-changing at all.
Not bless you in a sneeze way, you know, Cookie clarified, more
in a... well, not in a Jesus way either. Somewhere between sneeze and
Jesus, I suppose. She slurped again. That almost rhymes, doesnt it?
Thats all you have to say? Youre not surprised?
Oh, Ive known for years, my love.
How could you have possibly known? Even I havent known for years.
33

Its called a gaydar. Youll get one soon. Just give it time.
Adam protested, But, I mean, Im not gay gay, you know? I like football.
And The Fast and the Furious. And, and...
Hey, never confess to liking The Fast and the Furious in public. And
might I ask,what do you suppose a gay person should like then?
Well, you know, George Michael and Eurovision and stuff.
You need to update your gay references, my flower.
Dont call me that.
Oh, dont worry, I meant a big manly flower, like a sunflower. A
sunflower that likes football and shit films, she said mockingly.
Im a proper man though, you know? Adam sat up straight and
declared, A mans man.
You can say that again.
I do all normal man things. I eat in Nandos. Gay people dont eat in
Nandos!
With lemon and herb sauce though.
Adam rolled his eyes. Cookie looked around and leant in to him over
the table, as if she had some top-secret gay-person knowledge to impart.
Of course, this was Cookie, so she didnt actually speak any quieter. If
anything, it felt to Adam that she was yelling as loudly as her lungs would
allow.
See those guys over there? she gestured elaborately with her head.
Massive pooftas. Like, massive.
In Nandos?
Oh yeah. Look, hes looking into his phone. I bet hes on Grindr right
now.
How can you know?
I just know.
And you see the waitress over there? This time, Cookie opted for a
full-on, incredibly indiscreet point.
Yeah?
Shes a lesbian.
How could you possibly know that?
I had sex with her last week.
You big slut, you, laughed Adam.
Hey. You know my names Cookie?
Yeah?
Bite me.
They both laughed. Adam let out big, thunderous guffaws that released
a swathe of tension in the realisation that, indeed, nothing had changed at
all. Perhaps this wasnt such a big deal. Adam began to stand up.
34

Where are you off to? Gonna ask for Grindr guys number?
Adam looked embarrassed. Erm... no. But, you know. I need lemon
and herb.

Mark Daniels (29) is a copywriter in an ad agency and performs stand- up

comedy in his spare time. Hes looking for ways to expand his writing into
other areas, particularly comedy writing.

35

Ata in Walthamstow Market

Diane Kpeidja
First, I passed the stall without noticing it. Then, I smelt it! I thought: no,
no, it is impossible; not here, not in London, not in Walthamstow market.
I am thousands of kilometres from home. I am Ouest-African. How come,
just at a corner in London market, I can smell Ata. My senses must be
playing me.
Ata is a cake I used to have in the morning in my childhood back home.
I never imagined that I could find some on sale here in London. I decided
to turn back to check if it is for real or it is just a similarity. I wanted to
make sure it wasnt a dream. I saw a lady behind her stall.
Hello, sorry to disturb you. I smelt Ata, is that possible you are selling
it?
She smiled, and replied : Yes, It is. Are you new in London? Especially
in Walthamstow ? Because I have been selling this about 10 years now.
Yes, I am, I said back to her. Then, behind on a shelf, was a large
bowl. She took the lid off and revealed the treasure. I can see around a
hundred of them. It is the same cake, the same smell,the exact shape as
in my native country. I asked her the price of each. I need to touch it, to
taste it. I paid and bit into it.
Hooray, it is the same taste. I took my phone, I need to talk to my sister,
I need to tell everybody. I rang my sister : Guess what I have just eaten.
She laughs: I dont know, just tell me.
Ata I said, and she said she was happy for me. She asked me if it was
the same as at home and I said yes. Then, I hang off and get back to the
lady. She looked amazed by my attitude. I bought some Ata from her to
bring to my husband and my children.
Ever since, when it is Saturday, and I hate shopping that day, I feel
happy to come by to great the stall keeper and have a little chat.
Sometimes, I will buy some cakes. I even manage to bring her new
customers. Lets say it was a nice discovery.
36

Diane Kpeidja (39) has been been living in Walthamstow for about 3
years and is the mother of two. She is interested in reading, writing, and
traveling.

37

Orford Road
Tia Jethwa
The house that I grew up in overwhelms me with great happiness
but also sorrow. From a young age hearing my parents arguing over
such petty things. The touch of my fathers hand, once hurting me, to
the softness of my mothers nurturing soul. All I see is a home built from
nothing to something, and filled with the memories that will always be
buried in my heart no matter what.
The taste of my mothers food was always divine, fresh food prepared
every day by a woman who grew up with so little but gave so much.
The smells of the house are smells of things and people that can never,
ever, be replaced.

Tia is 17 and studies hair and media makeup at Epping Forest College.
She began working as a professional makeup artist at just 15, working at
two London Fashion Weeks.

38

Farm Cottages, Low Hall Lane

Kevin Fleisch
The last time I moved house was the day the bombs went off in central
London, 7/7, causing rather more chaos than expected.
My recently unemployed 18 year old grandson was coming down to
help me move from the back of the (then) dog track to Low Hall Lane, off
Markhouse Road, where theres a church with a lighthouse on top.
He had to sign on, and ended up on a bus from Halifax- some of the
bombers had got on at the same stop, four hours earlier. Everyone was
asked to leave at St. Albans as coaches werent coming into London: but
he managed to get through anyway, despite the phones being switched
too early. Im used to this, he said: I was in the army.
He arrived in time to celebrate a successful move in the local pub,
having avoided all the hard work (for that day). In-between, wed
had issues with the refuse from three houses being accepted: the gaffer
appeared to have gone looking for a relative who worked near Tavistock
Place, where one of the bombs had gone off, and we almost ended up
with an extra day for the lorry.
Over a decade later, I find its a great place to live: wonderful
neighbours, ranging from 18 months to 78 in the cul-de-sac of nine
houses where I live. I have a through floor lift and a walk in, sit down
shower - M.E., my major disability affects my energy levels and makes my
bad back worse.
There are a choice of buses and a train station (St. James) within a few
minutes walk, and I can get to all the art galleries, adult education centres
easily, as well as having cinemas and shops round the corner as well as
big supermarkets within easy reach.
Theres allotments over the road (they suffered chemical warfare in
the 1940s), and a park with a huge field at the back where Ive had
fascinating chats when walking my friends dog - its a friendly area with
lots of supportive neighbours, a calm counterbalance to the disastrous
day I arrived.
39

Kevin is a 70 year old man with multiple disabilities who has worked
as an adult educator and disability advocate. He supports Manchester
United, likes modern jazz and 60s rock, and has three kids, five
grandchildren and seven great grandchildren. Kevin started writing his
first novel 4 years ago and is half way there!

40

Wood Street Recalled

David Newman
Beginning with Wood Street Library on the corner of Forest Road and
Wood Street, there are names of famous people from the borough
engraved on two sides of the library wall. Including B. Disraeli, G.
Monoux, W. Morris and R. Ascham.
Carrying on down Wood Street in a southerly direction on the right hand
side is an old shop mostly of wooden construction dating from the 18th
century. You will see that there are some very old trees both in the front
and in the garden behind. It was called Joness the butchers until roughly
1970. It is a grade II listed building, now trading as an organic produce
shop selling fruit and vegetables mainly.
Going on down Wood Street, two thirds of Wood Street in the Eastern
Hemisphere and one third is in the Western Hemisphere, denoted by a
sign/plaque in the pavement at No.209 Wood Street.
If you carry on down Wood Street to beyond Wood Street Station on
the left hand side you come to No.245 Wood Street which is where
Elm Cottage once stood. It was demolished in 1913. In its place a new
building, a film studio, was erected. The Broadwest Studios stood in a half
acre site, a photograph of the studio taken in 1918 showed a two storey
building, the lower storey was in brick and the upper in glass. The roof
was glass in a steel framework. The studio went bankrupt in 1924 and
stood empty until 1926. In March 1933 the studio was converted into a
factory (making novelty items) and was used until it burnt down in August
1959. A new factory has been erected on the site.

David Newman is 53 years old. This is the first time he has been
published. He enjoys local history and art and belongs to Walthamstow
Historical Society, which has been established for just over 100 years.
41

Bedroom on Orford Road

Sonita Turner
My bedroom is every room to me. It is my living room, my study, my
sleeping quarters, my library, my storage space, my archive, my
beginning/middle/end of day, my hell-hole and my sanctuary. It is my
place of ideas, dreams, fantasies, tears, laughter, love and hate, joy and
sorrow, mirrors and cracked walls, shiny and sparkly things, and dusty
untouched things. It is soft, hard, dull, bright, and never, ever boring.

Sonita Turner is a local youth worker who has lived in Walthamstow for 15
years. She has two daughters, loves the area, and is dedicated to helping
the young people of Waltham Forest become wonderful adults.

42

Magic market
Berk Keskin, Adam Awan, Bilal Yaaoob, Abbass Majid,
Kassim Awan, Genevieve Luck
On a drizzly day the market is the same as always,
cultural and colourful,
tasting like spicy samosas,
sounding like different voices and languages.
There are clothes, shoes and piles of bags,
bowls of the same old fruit and veg,
and toys playing Gangnam Style over-and-over again...
But what if the market was all ours?
Thered be Little Mix posters,
tons of One Direction things to buy,
shops selling Turkish DVDs, games and computer parts one thats just
filled with Tomb Raider stuff
plus a massive stall selling Spider-Man gear.
The music would be loud
Turkish, Bollywood, Michael Jackson blasting out
and people would be dancing and singing down the street.

43

Red Lion Girl

Alex Stratford
What did you say? she asked. But gently. The wind ruffled her blonde
hair along the fur lined collar of her coat, zipped all the way up still,
despite the blue sky. Autumn was saying goodbye but had saved a day
when shoppers could bustle without umbrellas or hats, dredging up
sunglasses if they could find them and shoaling outside every caf that
had not packed away its outdoor tables. Boots and Poundland had their
doors flung open as if for a festival and the wooden deck of the New
Horizon patisserie looked like passengers were ready to set sail on a
summer cruise.
The two of them had been drawn outside too, like birds finding a
patch of warm roof to fluff their feathers and sun themselves. She lit up a
cigarette, turning carefully with each exhale to blow the smoke away from
him, ducking under and away from his kisses despite his protestations
that her smoky lips were his favourite taste in the world. Two glasses of
wine stood in front of them like frozen dancers, sunlight glancing through
their veils of condensation. They sat quietly, but together, waiting for the
time on the church clock tower to tell them what they had to do.
Nothing, he said. Smiled at her. Curled his arm around her waist and
pulled them tightly together on the hard bench. He opened his mouth
like he was going to say something but catching himself mid- breath it
came out more as a cough reversed, dragging his words back down. She
looked up at him quizzically, mouth traced with the hint of a smile.
Ummm..... He tried again. Did you like your McDonalds?
I LOVED my McDonalds!
Ah good, babe. He could not stop himself grinning even as he
wondered whether any remaining flecks of quarter pounder were spoiling
her view of him.
Where are we now? she asked.
Leytonstone hon.
And where was that pub where we danced?
This one honey. The Red Lion.
44

Ahh that was fun. I love you my sexy groover.

God she got him every time. His face creased with joy but this time he
had enough forethought to run his tongue round his teeth and check his
smile was beautiful.
And where was it you sang to me? Rang me up from that concert
you nutter! She was openly laughing now, brown eyes sparkling with
mischief.
Oh Leyton baby.....the cricket ground. Yes...I still can. You to
meeeeeeeeeeeeeee are everythinggggggggggggggggg.....the dah
dah dah that I can sing, oh baby, oh babyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy..... He
glanced around nervously but no-one had heard his hoarse whisper.
Sweetie.... Time to try again. Babe....Im going to miss you so much.
She looked down now, eyes hidden for a moment. But the grip of her
hand around his tightened. Not just holding his fingers. Entangling with
them.
Darling.... I want us. I want our story to come true. Because it can. I
dont want a glorious romantic nearly Us hon. I want our happy ending.
I know you cant escape yet. But we can bust you out. You started
changing a long time ago gorgeous. So when the doors open hon, step
outside. Be brave like we know you are and come to me.
She smiled at him. Bent forward and kissed him on the lips. Long and
full. And they hugged and kissed and all the lunchtime noise swirled
around them as they clung to each other. Shoppers passing, babies
crying and cars whining while all the time they stayed lost in each other
and their passion.
Im going to miss you hon. So much. I dont know when Im going to
see you again. Were a bit amazing you and me you know gorgeous. We
would go to the ends of the earth for each other and we wont let the ends
of the earth keep us apart either. I love you.
She whispered back, I love you too babe.
A plane slid silently across a horizon now flecked with clouds, tugged
like a fairground balloon. And then a small white ball rolled down the
slope from under the gate behind them, pitter-pattering its way into the
gutter and coming to rest against the red and white of a raided KFC
carton.
What the hell.....theyve got table tennis here! Want a game?
In heels?
Im not wearing heels....
Idiot. Ok then but I get a 10 point start.
3 points....
5 points!
45

He wanted to continue arguing but he looked at this woman whom he

thought the most beautiful on earth and knew he had run out of times he
could say no. 5 points then baby.
Ahhh Im glad you saw sense honey. She grinned, her face flushed
with the first psychological victory. But what does the winner get?
Oh thats easy hon.....you get to sing to me.
Sing what?
And they got up, swapping titles of all the songs that people they had
never met had written about them.
You Are Not Alone!
Oh nooo......Thinking of You!
Thinking Out Loud!
Stay Another Day....... Ill keep you here forever darling. He paused.
Babe, you never know, it might get cancelled.
And silently and simultaneously they both thought thats NEVER going
to happen.
He held her hand and they walked through the heavy double doors
into the pub. The crowd grew thicker as they threaded their way between
the tables and chairs, past the families and buggies and the groups of
mates chatting and laughing. Finally, they became lost to the eye as they
disappeared into the courtyard. And then all that people on the outside
would have heard over the gate as the afternoon passed were shrieks of
laughter and triumph...
My serve! No my serve! Cheat! Plonker! What are you doing dizzy!....
with love and kisses and bounces and points counting down the clock.
And sometime that day, unnoticed, the planes stopped flying above, and
departing became far less important than coming back home.

Alex (55) worked in Waltham Forest many years ago and after a long
gap has spent the last year getting to know and enjoy the borough once
again. In Waltham Forest he has found magic in many different places.

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E17 Sto

An anthology of wr
from Walth