chapter 17/June 1958
Steve caught a breath as they entered the dim, old-fashioned house that stank of cigarette smoke and a lingering cabbagey odour of yesterday’s dinner. But these smells were preferable to those that pervaded in Prospero Street, and he barely noticed them or the gloomy interior, or the threadbare carpet with its pattern so worn it was now no more than a sad mish-mash of green, yellow and brown with occasional mysterious splodges of orange and red. Something else caught his attention.
“Horses!” he exclaimed in delight, clenching and unclenching his fists in a flurry of excitement, gazing round in wide-eyed awe, as Ted pushed the front door open wide to usher them inside and sunlight danced happily down the hall. They had just left the bedsit and were entering, or so the little boy felt, Heaven.
Al’ Ted placed a grandfatherly hand on the youngster’s head. “Ah, so you like ‘em too, ‘ey? Pity nobody else did!” He added bitterly, a sucking noise accompanying his words as he adjusted his loose-fitting dentures with his tongue. Memories of being reported to the council, though it happened several years ago, still stung.
A pin-stripe-suited man from the Council Housing Department visited, took out lots of paperwork, asked lots of questions, made lots of notes, apparently found nothing likely to be a health or safety hazard, as the anonymous neighbour(s) had hinted, and went away, never to be seen again. An official brown envelope arrived a few days later, the enclosed letter, confirming no further action would be taken, dotted by half a teacup ring, as if to say either he was a very busy person and not to be bothered about this matter again or extremely relaxed over the whole affair and currently enjoying tea and biscuits.
Ted’s collection continued unabated but the accusation still smarted. He never did discover who made the anonymous telephone call(s) and, aware he was viewed by all as a peculiarity who did not belong, consequently suspected everyone, bar the Husains, outcasts themselves, of having had a hand in it.
It was gratifying to have someone appreciate his hobby at last, even if that someone was only a four year old child, and he puffed up with pride. Horse pictures covered every wall of the hallway, some framed, some mere sketches, some cut from magazines and newspapers, some hung carefully on picture rails, some placed neatly, some hung haphazardly with a mixture of sellotape, drawing tacks and paste. Horse ornaments of every size and description crowded into every space of the front room and were now busy encroaching on the back room-cum-kitchen, as though every horse ornament in the world had been called together in urgent meeting. Farmers’ horses pulling ploughs, wild horses in mid gallop, quiet horses grazing, mythical horses flying, chariot horses racing, lanky foals and tender mothers nuzzling, haughty show horses trotting, rodeo horses bucking, brass, porcelain and bronze horses, plastic, glass and ceramic horses, silver-plated, shell and soap horses, horses made of coal or cork or crystal…it seemed every type of horse, every occasion, every medium, was represented.
When Ted Hankey’s wife was still alive, the horses belonged to what one might term a respectable, even exclusive, club: small china and crystal ornaments weekly dusted and neatly kept in the polished glass cabinet, three watercolours of horses, painted by local art college students, who once a month anxiously displayed their artwork in the hope of a sale to the general public, and a solitary brand new cast iron horse-shoe door knocker fastened on to the front door. But after Flo’s death, Ted poured his heart and soul into his collection. It had begun with renewed vigour, innocently enough, a few days after the funeral, when a rusty used horseshoe, abandoned property of one Daisy May, police horse, taken to be shoed at one Woolton blacksmith’s by one PC John Wharton, was discovered in a rain-filled gutter and could be later discovered nailed on the back door.
After that, Ted no longer wept in loneliness, but instead immersed himself in his hobby. Pictures of horses were cut out of newspapers, magazines and books and glued, tacked or sellotaped (pre-Council Housing Department Official’s visit) to a notice-board, which had been dug out from the might be used junk room, and later (post-Council Housing Department Official’s visit) space by then being at a premium, anywhere on the walls; jumble sales and curio shops often sold out of horse-themed items within minutes of being patronized by an eccentric elderly customer who constantly broke wind.
By now Ted was not only spending winnings from the bookies on his hobby, but also most of his pension and, without Syed’s generosity in regularly providing him with a “grocery box” (Ted, who’s forgetfulness was increasing, genuinely believed he had paid for it and kindly Syed did not enlighten him; nor did he enlighten his wife Margie, who had very firm ideas on adhering to the No Tick rule) he might have gone days without eating. And Syed, in order not to arouse Margie’s suspicions, often went without himself. He didn’t give away stock to anyone, as we have said, but of course Ted was more than a customer, he was a friend.
But eating and other worldly concerns were not on Al’ Ted’s mind at that moment. Just as nowadays he occasionally forgot to shave or to have breakfast or to put on shoes before going into the yard, he simply forgot all about Kathy and took Steve by the hand to lead him around his personal horse exhibition, explaining about the different breeds and histories and how this and that particular item had come about, as though the unassuming council house were the British Museum and little Steven Ross visiting Royalty.
Kathy put down their few belongings and conducted her own tour. Messy but not dirty, cluttered but not disgusting, brown with cigarette smoke and black with age but not uninhabitable, was her conclusion. She had lived in far, far worse places. She rifled through the larder and made herself tea and dry toast - there wasn’t much else as Ted had forgotten to shop and Syed not yet provided the grocery box - and sat at a table that had been rammed into a corner of the back room-cum-kitchen, then helped herself to one of Ted’s cigarettes and flicked through his Echo. Rent free, a willing babysitter, doolally enough to be pushed around, and who obviously still cooked, to judge by the used pans and vegetable peelings, so she could even be sure of free meals. It would definitely do.
Kathy retired to the arm-chair, feeling like Steve, though for very different reasons, that she too had arrived in Paradise.
