When I was Twelve

Ironically they called it Green Lane. Buses roared past the door, every day but Sunday.

Around the corner was the railway station with trains to London which left every hour or so. I’d go to school by train.

We still had the blackout material up, a thick ugly curtain that muffled sound, and the worst of the river damp. The sitting room’s bow-window filtered light enough most days to reach the dining table covered by a faded plush table-cloth that reached the floor. That’s where my baby brother played, shoving matchboxes across the oriental carpet. I slept on a trundle bed in the corner by the fireplace.

Granny’s bedroom was at the top of the stairs, and Mummy had the back room with my brother’s cot in the corner. Tight enough quarters, but better than the convent where I’d shared a dormitory with thirteen others. I was lucky to be at home. I hadn’t yet begun the trials of adolescence, the war was over. Peace was very new. I had just drawn the house across the street in pencil, which Mummy gave to the owner. Ambitious dreams still to come.

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About helenscribe

Helen is a long-time writer, with experience in both fiction and non-fiction. Her latest fiction, an English cozy mystery "The Domino Deaths" is available on Amazon. She is also an amateur painter and sailor.
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