The schoolyard is still now, though in my mind it still rings to sound of heavy footed scampering feet. The sound of children’s voices, droning to the beat of the nine times table, drifts through an open window as I slip behind the driving wheel and start the engine. Trundling backwards, I swing the van round to face the row of garden gates, the engine rumbling contentedly at the thought of what lies beyond. Pressing my foot on the accelerator I urge it on, over the road and into a left turn and park up among the streets of gardenless two up, two down houses laid out like ploughed furrows. The identical front doors, always spotlessly clean and reserved for Sunday visitors, glare at each other over deep grey tarmac, but I am no Sunday visitor. Instead, I heave my case from the back of the van and head toward the back yards where gossip is tossed back and forth over chest high brick walls and children play within easy thumping distance on the broad tarmac run.
“Hello Mrs Tooley. Nice day Mrs Smith,” I tip my hat and greet each one of my customers with a deeply comforting sense of déjà vu. In their turn they survey me critically over stoically crossed arms, a cursory nod and occasional ‘eyup’ passing for social pleasantry. Bleached blonde and dyed black, rollered up and pinnied in; these are the women for whom I am a deliver of dreams in the privacy of their back yards demanding a length of service befitting hard decisions for two bob down and a tanner a week.
Hope For The Tally Man
