August 12, 2012 in creative writing
We are moving soon out of the house that belongs to Bernard Reynolds’daughters. Bernard was a sculptor who worked for Henry Moore and made a lot of municipal sculpture, he also liked: ladies, moths, birds and skulls as is evident from the many physical traces he left in the house.
We are moving to Burrell Road. The first time we visited the house a forensic van was parked two doors down, the second time there was a drugs raid.
Our neighbours intrigue me. I met Sylvia the other day, her hand was soaking wet and she wore a lot of silver jewellery, her teeth were rotten but she seemed very friendly. The house next door to us I call ‘The Hairy House’. It looks as if it has been derelict for about twenty years and the EON man pointed out the cobwebs on the bins and the stacks of paintings on the sofa, grey with dust. Sylvia says ‘Oh no that’s Tony, he won’t answer the door’. There is a sound of constantly running water that reminds me of the Lake District coming form the back of Tony’s house and it’s green with moss. There are huge parts of roof missing and the garden is full of matted trees and brambles. Yesterday when I looked in our new back garden a child’s hula-hoop had been passed through Tony’s broken fence and placed on our flowerbed.
Apparently too there are three large underground tunnels that burrow under the road. They used to be used to store wine and were later used as air raid shelters.