Memories are made of this

Was this it then?
Esther was summoned to leave her desk by the grotesque teacher who had caused her to involuntarily shiver whenever she opened her mouth to utter a word in the battleship which was her teacher’s class-room.
Oh, how scared she felt as she fled through the streets in the valley and along Thread-mill Lane where once, years ago, newly milled cloth would hang. Then ten minutes later steadying as she faced the steep slope where the Co-op drapery and butchers, as well as the wet fish shop owners, jostled for mainly boot and shoe part time female customers with their baskets and bags and popular papers of that day. There they would patiently queue whilst passing on the latest golden tit bits of the previous day to those who had the inclination or manners to listen or turn their heads deliberately away, not wishing to be labeled as gossips and the like with their characters or the progress of their children to think carefully about and eleven plus uniforms to purchase. And thereby they believed set their kids free from the dross and the grind as their own working lives had often sadly been.
Breathless and fearfully her spindly legs propelled between the mid-morning traffic now clogging up the A6 and then continuing with thumping heart and dry lips along the long grey street. All manner of thoughts invaded her mind including the thought so disturbing that Joe might have killed her mum or brother in a fit of fury. Or maybe her mum might suddenly have been taken ill or knocked down by a speeding car, how horrifying a thought that was! On a lighter note, her stepfather might just have simply and quietly dropped down dead. It was news she didn’t really want to hear, and yet confusingly, she also yearned for such information as it would sort the problem out; not least for his guide dog who must have been so puzzled by the cruelty that daily reigned down on its well-groomed back. The inspector for the guide dogs had just kept his allotted appointment to see how their expertly trained guide dog was progressing. The young man with the crooked teeth and windswept blonde hair smiled up from his red mini as he slammed the door to and waving briefly at Esther, drove away down the long grey flat street reassured that everything regarding the dog’s welfare was in order as it had been in the years before. Only moments earlier he had ticked all the boxes and past the time of day with Joe, who spoke so quietly and perfectly well as he reached down to cradle gently the head of his dog as she in turn had rested her soft warm coat on his beer-stained trousers knees, and her eyes on the leash that would always lay close by on the arm of his thread-bare chair. At least she had been offered the opportunity of wandering safe and blissfully free whilst her master supped innocently his tea from a pint mug, knowing as he did that his stronger drug that would pall his senses and his humanity for what would follow later. At tea time again Joe had sat in his chair in the corner with his arms crossed impatiently whilst Laura carefully carried another mug of tea and a plate stacked irregularly with best ham sandwiches. How that had saddened and frustrated Esther, as she quietly watched her mum make do with a boiled egg and bread and butter, but sometimes not even that. Meanwhile, he still protested through his ill-fitting false teeth that he would be reporting her to his own doctor about how she was always starving him and he would be dying soon.
Was it so very bad of Esther to simply dream he would hurry up and die? But that fantasy didn’t seem to be answered then. How could she whistle and sing so brightly and cover her sadness so well? Maybe only god would know that! Esther was so afraid to tell anyone of her childhood and scared she would be repulsed by those who knew the truth. How could National Assistance fuel his drinking she wondered, knowing how it felt to be marginalized, Esther was positive that she wouldn’t ever do that to others then or in the future that was of course if life were ever to improve.
Her family’s relative poverty was either viewed with sympathy or disdain. She was probably not the only target of school bullies. In the classroom her books, bag, pencils and rubbers were tossed around the room. It didn’t take long to realize it was better to wait quietly and not to make a fuss if she was to avoid continual bullying outside the ‘security’ of home. Surely similar treatment and indeed cruelty was happening to other members of her family. But were they not also to ashamed to speak out loud about such treatment. Was it better to be at home or school? Sometimes it was difficult to say.
Sylvia was one of the few people who came into their home to do a few hours cleaning each week. She talked about how during the war she had patched service men’s trousers who were billeted right around there town and did general mending for the Americans and regaled them with memories as to how these same men took them in the back of their army trucks to dances at different places like Chelveston Drill hall. She was a hard working person who, although small in stature, never seemed to stand still as she rushed from job to job but always putting her own family first. She would often come up with her own way of delivering speech such as; she makes the bullets for him to fire, they’re all tarred with the same brush, he’d argue with an echo, our cat ran up your alley, and a watched pot never boils!