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Authors: Carl Neville
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the artists from Goldsmiths College or the urban pioneers priced out of Shoreditch, or Hoxton, or Stoke Newington, or Peckham.
And as if by magic, as though summoned somehow, local legend Peckham Bob has ambled quietly up beside them. Irwin double-takes in mock surprise, claps him on the shoulder, grins.
That’s Irwin, there’s always some undercurrent of mirth there, waiting to bubble up, bubble over. Paula wishes she could find that, some subterranean stream, some wellspring of wit and warmth, but all she feels these days is dryly hollow, as though most of her is elsewhere, attached to the causes and the people she fights for, and she herself is just the empty centre from which her actions emanate.
Alright, Peckham Bob says. He’s tiny, must be what, late Sixties now? Fag permanently in his mouth, one of the indefatigable, unkillable children of the very poor. He hasn’t lived in Peckham for nigh-on 40 years. Still, that’s who he is, Peckham Bob, the name the overhang of an age, not so long ago, when people were more rooted, when shifting areas was a big deal.
Peckham Bob, bless him, can talk. He and Irwin together are an endless pantomime of obscure in-jokes, wild gags, remorseless ribbing. Peckham Bob is wearing a Stetson he picked up for a quid from Help the Aged. Keeps the rain off his big nose, he says.
Peckham Cowboy Bob! Irwin shouts. You come to clean up this dirty part of town? You got your work cut out cowboy!
This will be a long, possibly arduous exchange of banter and Paula Adonor politely excuses herself, but gets collared again down at Wavelengths by Tricia, giving out leaflets for a meeting at the Albany on Saturday morning to continue opposing the re-development of the Dockside, greenlighted now by the mayor and sold off to a Singaporean consortium, 80% of the forthcoming flats, released in eighteen months’ time, already sold off-plan on junkets through Asia and beyond, in Nigeria, Angola, Ukraine, Turkey, Argentina, all the crumbling BRICS, looking for solid steel, glass and concrete assets via SafeHaven Properties’ worldwide outreach programme.
She listens politely and nods. She knows it all, Tricia knows she knows it all, but the litany, the catechism of complaints and injustices, the incantatory qualities of repeating again and again their objections, the demands, addressed ultimately to deaf ears, to deals already done, to a world already sold twice over. These imprecations seem to soothe and bolster her, and Paula Adonor feels she needs to lend a supportive ear.
Be supportive, care. She feels a surge of anger she subdues with a smile. That’s where she’s ended up, when she was determined as a child, a teenager, not to be a caregiver, doling out reserves of emotional strength and compassion. A degree in physics for god’s sake and her time has been spent caring for kids, a dying husband, a crippled child, working in social services, in community support.
As she rounds the corner onto Giffin Street she glances into the gym and sees Louise in there, hood up, balancing on one leg with some dumbbells held out in front of her, grimacing as she tries to slowly lower herself and feels a little surge of relief. She is there, she’s OK, Joolzy hanging out chatting by the Smith machine. He will keep an eye on her, said he would. He’s a good guy. Lee is with Penny. She’s a good woman.
She can’t help it, she worries about her daughter, why wouldn’t she? It’s all she has left, and she’s apprehensive. So that’s still there, not completely emptied out yet at least. There’s still that love for her daughter.
Have a rest Paula, have a break if you can. You are feeling defeated. Some self-care is necessary, without that how will you fight on?
So, yes, she worries about Louise. Why wouldn’t she? Mothers worry about their children, about their daughters, their angry daughters, only seventeen, already seen the worst of it. Would it be better if she hadn’t been exposed, so young,
And as if by magic, as though summoned somehow, local legend Peckham Bob has ambled quietly up beside them. Irwin double-takes in mock surprise, claps him on the shoulder, grins.
That’s Irwin, there’s always some undercurrent of mirth there, waiting to bubble up, bubble over. Paula wishes she could find that, some subterranean stream, some wellspring of wit and warmth, but all she feels these days is dryly hollow, as though most of her is elsewhere, attached to the causes and the people she fights for, and she herself is just the empty centre from which her actions emanate.
Alright, Peckham Bob says. He’s tiny, must be what, late Sixties now? Fag permanently in his mouth, one of the indefatigable, unkillable children of the very poor. He hasn’t lived in Peckham for nigh-on 40 years. Still, that’s who he is, Peckham Bob, the name the overhang of an age, not so long ago, when people were more rooted, when shifting areas was a big deal.
Peckham Bob, bless him, can talk. He and Irwin together are an endless pantomime of obscure in-jokes, wild gags, remorseless ribbing. Peckham Bob is wearing a Stetson he picked up for a quid from Help the Aged. Keeps the rain off his big nose, he says.
Peckham Cowboy Bob! Irwin shouts. You come to clean up this dirty part of town? You got your work cut out cowboy!
This will be a long, possibly arduous exchange of banter and Paula Adonor politely excuses herself, but gets collared again down at Wavelengths by Tricia, giving out leaflets for a meeting at the Albany on Saturday morning to continue opposing the re-development of the Dockside, greenlighted now by the mayor and sold off to a Singaporean consortium, 80% of the forthcoming flats, released in eighteen months’ time, already sold off-plan on junkets through Asia and beyond, in Nigeria, Angola, Ukraine, Turkey, Argentina, all the crumbling BRICS, looking for solid steel, glass and concrete assets via SafeHaven Properties’ worldwide outreach programme.
She listens politely and nods. She knows it all, Tricia knows she knows it all, but the litany, the catechism of complaints and injustices, the incantatory qualities of repeating again and again their objections, the demands, addressed ultimately to deaf ears, to deals already done, to a world already sold twice over. These imprecations seem to soothe and bolster her, and Paula Adonor feels she needs to lend a supportive ear.
Be supportive, care. She feels a surge of anger she subdues with a smile. That’s where she’s ended up, when she was determined as a child, a teenager, not to be a caregiver, doling out reserves of emotional strength and compassion. A degree in physics for god’s sake and her time has been spent caring for kids, a dying husband, a crippled child, working in social services, in community support.
As she rounds the corner onto Giffin Street she glances into the gym and sees Louise in there, hood up, balancing on one leg with some dumbbells held out in front of her, grimacing as she tries to slowly lower herself and feels a little surge of relief. She is there, she’s OK, Joolzy hanging out chatting by the Smith machine. He will keep an eye on her, said he would. He’s a good guy. Lee is with Penny. She’s a good woman.
She can’t help it, she worries about her daughter, why wouldn’t she? It’s all she has left, and she’s apprehensive. So that’s still there, not completely emptied out yet at least. There’s still that love for her daughter.
Have a rest Paula, have a break if you can. You are feeling defeated. Some self-care is necessary, without that how will you fight on?
So, yes, she worries about Louise. Why wouldn’t she? Mothers worry about their children, about their daughters, their angry daughters, only seventeen, already seen the worst of it. Would it be better if she hadn’t been exposed, so young,
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