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We rode in silence. My Grandfather gripped the wheel of his Bedford lorry and puffed on a roll up. His cardigan pocket sagged under the weight of a lighter tapping against a tin of tobacco. His hand rested upon the long spindly gear stick. A bright golden sovereign ring shone from his little finger. The gearbox groaned and clunked up into another gear, our only music as we rumbled along the road. He wore a beige cardigan, underneath a white cotton shirt topped off with a paisley cravat. His trilby hat hung on the back of his head, atop a slick of grey blond Brylcreemed hair. He glanced over and spoke, breaking the silence in the cab.

“Aw’right Stevie son, not long now!”

The smell of engine oil filled the cab, mingling with the smell of the leather seats and my mother’s perfume. She stared silently out of the half open window and puffed away on a cigarette. Every now and then after blowing the smoke out of the window, she would look at me and straighten my jumper, or tidy my hair. Not busily but gently, her face sad, her eyes fixed on the task, refusing to look into mine.

We arrived in Priory Park road late in the afternoon. The biscuit coloured September sun fell about the Edwardian townhouses on the street. Three stories high and due for demolition, they provided accommodation for up to three families. The families shared gas stoves on the landings, which had to be fed with sixpences.

Ginger Boggins sat on the bonnet of his white jaguar. He waved, slid off the car and walked across the road to meet us as we pulled up.

My grandmother, a tall raven haired woman, stood with her sons Johnny David and Alan. John slid his arm around my mother’s waist and pulled her toward him. She smiled for the first time that day.

“Take ‘im please Mary” my mum asked uncertainly. Ginger Boggins handed my Mother a ten pound note.

“Stick that in your bag” he said with a smile.

Mary stepped forward and scooped me up into her arms. The scent of carbolic soap wafted off her as she flung me expertly around onto her left hip.

“Leave the furniture on the back ’arry” said Alan as he ruffled my hair and poked half a crown into my pocket.

Alfie Al the toy man swept into the street in his large green truck. He reversed up to the rear of my grandad’s scrap lorry. He was a large man, made larger by the Crombie overcoat and bowler hat he wore that day.

“All right Joan? I’ll sort the furniture out; let me know when you need it.” Alfie tipped his bowler and walked toward my Grandad.

I played with my Nan’s long black hair and rested my head in the nape of her neck.

The men, without thought gathered around my mother and I.

No words were needed to explain the level of support and protection we both now had.

We were home, at last we were home.

© Stephen Pullman 2011