E17Stories - Unknown

8/18/2019 E17Stories - Unknown

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Contents

3. Introduction my Mason

. Yours Sincerley, Bedford Road Maryam Elahi

7. Between the market and the marshes Kathy Trevelyan

10. North Countess Road Blanche Anderson

12. he Standard Janice Hillman 15. althamstow Market iviane Fathimani

17. althamstow Market Alexis Jack

19. althamstow Market Nadine Adams-Austin

21. St James Park Nadege Brossier

23. psley Road Paul Geary

26. ack’s market Suzanne Page

27. Heat Rising on Keith Road Jane Harriott

28. he Old Beaumont Estate Towers itzroy Johnson

30. stroll through Walthamstow Market Fitzroy Johnson 32. althamstow Central Mark Daniels

33. Once upon a time at Walthamstow Nando’s Mark Daniels

36. ta in Walthamstow Market Diane Kpeidja

38. Orford Road Tia Jethwa

39. Farm Cottages, Low Hall Lane Kevin Fleisch

41. ood Street Recalled David Newman

42. Bedroom on Orford Road Sonita Turner

43. Magic Market Berk Keskin, Adam Awan, Bilal Yaaoob, Abbass

Majid, Kassim Awan, Genevieve Luck

44. Red Lion Girl Alex Stratford


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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 variedvoices and experiences of E17 are evident in the work we’ve included in

this book.

As well as open-access workshops led by me and poet/performer Rob

Auton, I worked with specifc 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 ourneighbours 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


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Yours sincerely, Bedford Road

Maryam Elahi

Dearest Walthamstow,

It’s about time I told you what really goes on in the streets. For too long

you’ve been tricked by a smoke screen of fabricated illusions, believing

that the tiny town you live in is ordinary and plain. I’m afraid I have to

confess; Walthamstow is anything but plain. You’ll nd that in even the

most normalised communities, little glimmers of magic exist. By ‘magic’ I

don’t mean the twinkling of Christmas lights on Walthamstow’s 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 don’t want to own up to our mistakes, so I will have to

explain our actions. I’d like to keep my anonymity, although I doubt any of you will believe

me because you’ve been told that we don’t exist. I have two reasons that

persuade me to keep my identity hidden. The rst being I don’t ish to

be harassed by your children (I’ve been to one toddler group, I couldn’t

possibly win that ght). 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 don’t know when we all decided to live in

Walthamstow. It wasn’t 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.


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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 CentralStation (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 didn’t tell you.

I’ll 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 wouldn’t be a letter but an encyclopaedia. But before I do there issomething you non magical beings must understand; fantastical creatures

get bored very easily. Not to say you Walthamstovians are boring, it’s 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 nd ourselves causing

some ‘trouble’. Well ‘trouble’ to me has a exible denition; I mean you got

a new cinema eventually, didn’t 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 eveningwhen it’s ‘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 can’t remember the title of the lm, 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, I’m sure you’re aware, you were left with

no cinema.

The witches of Walthamstow weren’t 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 maa. The Walthamstow Stadium wasn’t 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 didn’t

help either, it just added fuel to the re (I can use idioms, I m practically

human now). That might have been the Walthamstow imprint on the dwarf


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community. Not that I’m saying citizens of Walthamstow are aggressive,

but they do have a unique type of passion. Yours are a passionate bunch,

whether it’s 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, we’re 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, there’s an electric atmosphere that

surges through you and creates a sense of community. Who doesn’t want

a place to belong, or call home? Because that’s 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.


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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 thisworld 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 it’s ne to be

different, and where difference is being redened. 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

Manze’s 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 didn’t 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?


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

once ‘what’s 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 it’s ‘sought after,’ cool, the new

Hackney. House prices are soaring, memories being kept alive by

community projects, by neighbours. Nobody alive now remembers the

rst powered ight 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 ‘we’re all in it together.’ But even these memories are

fading, becoming exhibits in the museum, words on a page.

Ruby’s brother George used to tell stories of the river ooding 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 oating 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 driftby, 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 city’s 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

mother’s sleeves, wanting bright toys, discounted sweets.


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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 acrossour varied community. While some refuse to look outside a narrow eld

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 who’s 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 becomeresidents 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.


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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 nally do washing tonight. Out the door I y,

trying not to slam it. Must not wake the atmates. 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 atmates later.

Headphones in my ears, I pick a suitably upbeat and cheery playlist

and off I go.

Must snap out of this ustered 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 can’t get used to

hearing children with English accents. They amaze me. Their condence,

their energy (I mean its 8am for Christ’s sake!) and their utter lack of

understanding that when it’s as cold as this, it’s 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


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want to see them.

I pass the crowd at the bus stop. I always feel self-conscious at this

point but I don’t 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 trafc, 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 don’t 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 pickup 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 don’t do my washing, I don’t do my food shop, I

avoid my atmates.

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.


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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 re station and the town hall and

the college, and home.

The routine was sufciently ingrained, now, that he scarcely saw the

landmarks he passed. He could do the journey on autopilot, and usually

did.

A few weeks ago, he’d half-noticed that the Standard was closing down.

Probably going to be ats, he thought vaguely to himself. Pub a d 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 hadn’t 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 Standard’s 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


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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 he’d neverheard of, bands after his time. He climbed up onto the stage and looked

down at the few people poking around the remnants of the Standard’s

ttings, then peered through the doorway to the dressing room at the side

of the stage. It was still plastered with band grafti. Somewhere, three

or four levels down on the palimpsests that were the walls, was his own

writing.

Something caught his eye on the oor; a guitar pick, lying t ere

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.

“Didn’t you used to be Kris Quisling?”

The name startled Christopher. It wasn’t a monicker he’d gone under for

a long time.

“Well, yes, but –“ He broke off as he recognised the other man. “Jesus,

you’re Nicky Nullset!”

Nicky laughed, embarrassed. “I was. Just Nick Macleod again, these

days. God, it’s a shame to see the old place brought down to this, isn’t 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 rst gig in here.

Remember that awful band we had to follow, the sixth-form students

playing Oasis covers? And they got about fty 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 gure 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


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peculiar, nasal laugh which Christopher hadn’t heard for a decade.

“Not standard in that sense, you clot. Standard as in a ag or a banner.

It’s 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, here’s 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 can’t just come here for one, eh?” said

Christopher, and Nicky sighed a sigh of assent.

Something propped against the wall caught Christopher’s eye; the neon

sign that had once hung over the stage, advertising a brand of US bottled

beer that the Standard hadn’t 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 nally 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 at’s small sitting room, not to mention the fact that it was grubby

and covered in a variety of stains and stickiness.

Kris didn’t care a damn.

After he’d looked at the neon for a couple of minutes, he grabbed

the stepladder and set it up below the trapdoor to his loft. He plungedupward into the dark void, and emerged with a satised 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 frst novel.


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Walthamstow Market

Viviane Fathimani

It was hidden right at the back of the shelf. But my eagle eyes or yeux

e lyn as my grandma used to call them (referring mistakenly to my

sister’s 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 that’s what I told myself as I picked it up and sniffed it,

oil dripping down my fngers. 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 I’ll taste a

sneaky, teeny-tiny piece – see if it’s any good still. A quick glance over

each shoulder; wouldn’t 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 atune on the radio they obviously don’t 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! heir subliminal message ashed on and

off persuading me with the power of neon. I heard it loud and clear: Eat

it! No-one cares and you’re a bit peckish. Shouldn’t really have skipped

breakfast but now you’re 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, don’t be silly. It’s ne. It’ll do you good to ll that big

empty space inside your stomach.

Fine. I ignore mum’s repulsed expression in my head. She’s too

careful, anyway. It’s good to give your organism some germs. Build some

antibodies, make it stronger. No, no antibiotics for me Doctor – not me,

on’t 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


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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 wouldn’t turn down an onion bhaji from Sanjeev’s;

Walthamstow’s nest. Right: that’s it. I’m taking the plunge - straight into my mouth and

oh yeah it’s good. A bit warm still inside – must be fresh from this

morning’s 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 I’m

low on funds.

Satised with my choices, I take a seat by the window, nish my feast.

Taste buds happy. Stomach happy. Sanjeev ... er ... not looking sohappy... Sanjeev yelling... I wonder what’s 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 nd 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 rst

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 didn’t suspect a hungry 15 year old to take a chance on it!

Risk his life to ll the void! IDIOT!

I’ve 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


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Walthamstow Market

Alexis Jac

Based in the hub of Walthamstow’s E17, off Hoe Street and beyond the

famous market it needs to be seen,

Looking back when I rst 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 re li e an

electric charge!

The array of colours from the beautiful materials sold, the shining jewellery

adorn many a body when sold.

But it’s all changed now you see, not as long and bustling with glee, Still

noisy, busy, but less to see, more up market, gentried 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 nd, but I still have my memories of

the old kind.


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A time for change like a rising sun, but somewhere somehow I still

rummage in the depths of my mind for my bargain nd. My memories of

the ole Walthamstow that I am still trying to nd.

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.


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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 don’t stop me now...and I turn with all kinds of choice

words at the ready.

I don’t care that it’s Saturday morning and it’s busy.

I don’t care that three of us are now blocking the bustling crowd.

I don’t even care that by now my mum will have crossed over

Palmerston Road and reached Wilkinson’s before I’ve 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 I’d 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 you’re 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. “I’m so sorry! I...didn’t see you...sorry...”.

I tell her that it’s impossible to not see me. I’m 5’10’’, weigh more than

I’ll 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


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away, telling her that she’s holding up the market fow and has allowed

my mum to spend way more than allowed in Wilkinson’s 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 easedwith the lady’s 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 frst attempt!


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21

St James Park

Nadege Brossier

I go back

To the scene of the crime

St James Park

Where we had met for the rst 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 missingGravity pulls down the whole building

Your heart still belongs to her

You told me that it was over

But feelings have their own way

It’s 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 there’s an empty feeling in my chest

The archangel sent me a sign

But I did not care for his message


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22

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 café and order a new heartThe 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.


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23

Apsley Road

Paul Geary

ur g t or e

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 ghter 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 didn’t

help me much. I think that’s 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 didn’t do me any favours. It just made things harderfor 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 ts. From then on my life went down hill with no breaks. I’ve

had an headache and felt sick ever since I had the ts. 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 didn’t do anything or investigate. I

wasn’t allowed to go out play. All I could do was watch the kids from the

balcony playing football or whatever they were doing. That’s why I got

bitter towards her, I guess.

y ep epsy — a v ng e

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 I’ve got a live wire

attached to my head with a current going through from the bridge of my


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nose. It’s so annoying it’s hard to concentrate and think. I feel extremely

tired all the time. I can feel like my life is a living hell and there’s no way

out. It has affected me in every way possible. Five minutes from my front

door I had a t. I didn’t know where I was. I fell down on the pavement.

Luckily a woman sees me and helped. I remember my doctor asked mehow I was once and I said ok but I wouldn’t mind meeting a nice girl. She

replied and said women don’t wonna be a nurse to anyone like me. I feel

like I’ve had doctors playing god, telling me what I can and can’t do. It

has ruined the best part of my life. I feel like people don’t wonna know me

because of it. Especially girls. All they see is my face, not the pain in my

head. They don’t look at me and see a person. All they see is someone

who is disabled in their eyes.

y memory

What memory! It’s like swimming in treacle. It’s impossible for me

to remember how to cook so I go out to eat. Trying to nd a place or

road’s just as hard. I can go to a place and not nd it again for months.

It’s so embarrassing. I can’t 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 ts I was spat at, kicked, punched and pushed onthe oor. Someone even suggested to make me t. Lucky it didn’t 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.

I’d had a cold, three ts 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 didn’t make me

feel good. It showed me how alone I was. If they had apologised it would

have been easier to live with. I’ve never been able to trust anyone since

school. I’ve had no reason to. Just because you’ve got a disability It feels

as though people think they can treat you badly. I’ll 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.


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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

you’d had a cough for that long you should go and see the doctor. She

went, but the doctor did nothing to catch it. I‘ll never forgive or forget thatmoment. It took the only person in my life away from me. We argued yeah

just like other people. You’re not normal if you don’t. It sounds funny but

give me those arguments any day because I miss ‘em. It’s been one and

a half years. I’ve been on my own, it’s gone so quick. But I’m doing better

than I thought I would.


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26

Jack’s market

Suzanne Page

A mix of sweet and sour reached his nose to announce his imminent

arrival. The caramelised nuts, the butcher’s block and the sh onger’s

dish of the day all adding a layer to the market’s 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 mother’s

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 ock. A healthy pair of lungs belonging to a toddler

announced their frustration at being conned 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.


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27

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, “It’s like fucking Siberia in here.”

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

Walthamstow.


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28

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

apping garments of multi hues

hung from balcony railings

Two towers dominated view

toddlers played, youngers learned

serving their apprenticeshipto hustle silent into the night

Cockroaches scurried elsewhere

rude boys gathered Tuesday evenings

nothing to do — vacant minds — idle hands

but I didn’t 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


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Sprawling and spanning no longer

crumpled down into rubble

hiding vermin ee 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.


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0

A stroll through Walthamstow Market (Memories of

Grandma)

Fitzroy Johnson

I hadn’t thought of my grandmother for a long time, until then. She came

back to me whilst I strolled through the cornucopia of people, goods andfood on display in Walthamstow market. I had shopped in the market

many times, getting yam, sweet potato, dasheen, plantain, snappers,

avocados, tinned ackee, salt sh 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 withat 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 rst thing I noticed was a blip faster heart beat, dryness of

mouth and a sharp involuntary intake of breath, which were dismissed assigns 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 ngers. It felt sensuous. Sleek silkiness


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caressed my nger 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.


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2

Walthamstow Central

Mark Daniels

They’ve come from the village, The market and the estate.

They pass each other hurriedly. They’re all running late.

The gentried, the gentlemen, Generations, rst, second and... nknown.

Mosque worshippers, churchgoers,

Neon junkyard-lovers, God’s 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.

Doyin’s got a day out planned,

With her friend Doris.

Library book group, not that she’s read it, Then a coffee at the William

Morris.

Waleed’s off on a big rst date, With his potential new beau. But how best

to impress,

A Chinese or a Nando’s?

Sammy’s not going anywhere.

He’s just on a bench, rolling a menthol. But they all cross paths,

At Walthamstow Central.


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Once upon a time at Walthamstow Nando’s

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, fddling with his

napkin. Nothing would be the same after today’s momentous event at

Walthamstow Nando’s. 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.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” he said, full of sincerity.

“Don’t tell me you’re in love with me, Adam, because you know...I’m 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 wantlemon and herb, right? No need to be so dramatic!”

“No, look, this is actually very hard for me to say out loud. I can’t even

believe I’m saying it, to be honest.”

“Right, so, are you actually aware that you’re not really saying

anything?”

“I’m,” 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 he’d been waiting for? That

didn’t feel momentous or life-changing at all.

“Not ‘bless you’ in a sneeze way, you know,” Cookie clarifed, “more

in a... well, not in a Jesus way either. Somewhere between sneeze and

Jesus, I suppose.” She slurped again. “That almost rhymes, doesn’t it?”

“That’s all you have to say? You’re not surprised?”

“Oh, I’ve known for years, my love.”

“How could you have possibly known? Even I haven’t known for years.”


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“It’s called a gaydar. You’ll get one soon. Just give it time.”

Adam protested, “But, I mean, I’m 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 ower.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I meant a big manly ower, like a sunower. A

sunower that likes football and shit lms, ” she said mockingly.

“I’m a proper man though, you know?” Adam sat up straight and

declared, “A man’s man.”

“You can say that again.”

“I do all normal man things. I eat in Nando’s. Gay people don’t eat inNando’s!”

“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 didn’t 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 Nando’s?” “Oh yeah. Look, he’s looking into his phone. I bet he’s 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?”

“She’s 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 name’s 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 wasn’t such a big deal. Adam began to stand up.


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“Where are you off to? Gonna ask for Grindr guy’s 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. He’s looking for ways to expand his writing into

other areas, particularly comedy writing.


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6

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 fnd 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 wasn’t 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 don’t 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. Let’s say it was a nice discovery.


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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.


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8

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 father’s hand, once hurting me, to

the softness of my mother’s nurturing soul. All I see is a home built from

nothing to something, and flled with the memories that will always be

buried in my heart no matter what.

The taste of my mother’s 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.


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39

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 there’s 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 weren’t coming into London: but

he managed to get through anyway, despite the phones being switched

too early. “I’m 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, we’d

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 nd it’s 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 oor 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.

There’s allotments over the road (they suffered chemical warfare in

the 1940s), and a park with a huge eld at the back where I’ve ad

fascinating chats when walking my friend’s dog - it’s a friendly area with

lots of supportive neighbours, a calm counterbalance to the disastrous

day I arrived.


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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, ve

grandchildren and seven great grandchildren. Kevin started writing his

rst novel 4 years ago and is half way there!


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41

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 Jones’s 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 lm 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 frst time he has bee

published. He enjoys local history and art and belongs to Walthamstow

Historical Society, which has been established for just over 100 years.


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2

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.


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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?

There’d be Little Mix posters,

tons of One Direction things to buy,

shops selling Turkish DVDs, games and computer parts — one that’s justflled with omb 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.


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4

Red Lion Girl

Alex Stratford

“What did you say?’” she asked. But gently. The wind rufed 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 nd them and shoaling outside every café that

had not packed away its outdoor tables. Boots and Poundland had their

doors ung 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 nding a

patch of warm roof to uff 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 protestationsthat 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 McDonald’s?”

“I LOVED my McDonald’s!”

“Ah good, babe.” He could not stop himself grinning even as he

wondered whether any remaining ecks 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.”


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“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 concertyou 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....I’m 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 fngers. Entangling withthem.

“Darling.... I want us. I want our story to come true. Because it can. I

don’t want a glorious romantic nearly Us hon. I want our happy ending.

I know you can’t 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 otherand their passion.

“I’m going to miss you hon. So much. I don’t know when I’m going to

see you again. We’re a bit amazing you and me you know gorgeous. We

would go to the ends of the earth for each other and we won’t 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 ecked 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.....they’ve got table tennis here! Want a game?”

“In heels?”

“I’m not wearing heels....”

“Idiot. Ok then but I get a 10 point start.”

“3 points....”

“5 points!”


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6

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 I’m glad you saw sense honey.” She grinned, her face ushed

with the rst psychological victory. “But what does the winner get?” “Oh that’s 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’....... I’ll keep you here forever darling.” He paused.

“Babe, you never know, it might get cancelled.” And silently and simultaneously they both thought that’s 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 ying 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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E17Stories - Unknown

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