A Change of Clothes
Always I knew there'd been knitted rugs pat on the lino in my parents' room, punts to push off on or stepping stones I could change on a whim, to frighten myself, into crocodiles. The cane-seated chair had always been there, right-angled, handily placed for my climb up the bed's sheer face and onto the plateau of Saturday morning when the world moved over and let me in.
There under the Heath, next door to the station - Gospel Oak — and close to the shops at South End Green, what more could I want?
Not school — not learning my name was odd; or having Steve Lawrence ask why my Dad and Mum spoke funny; or under their bed one wet afternoon finding the case carefully packed: a change of clothes even for me, some papers in English and some in a language that had to be Polish, and right at the bottom a wallet containing £25 that over the years, needing this and that, I gradually spent, each time really meaning to pay it all back.
Michael Laskey
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