After ten minutes we had a reasonable haul and at home we set about conducting an experiment. Two conkers each went into vinegar to soak, two each in the oven to bake. We would see which turned out toughest. Meanwhile I took a handful down to the cellar where Ray has his woodwork shop and drilled holes in them. We threaded them on bits of string and bootlaces. Tom and I played the first game. Taking turns to bash each other’s conker with our own. After half a dozen strikes my conker split in half much to Tom’s delight. Seeing this Maddie decided she wanted to keep hers to look at ‘not ruin them like that’ and she took them up to her room to a place of safety. After one more match which Tom also won, he went to watch telly and I started making tea. While I peeled vegetables and boiled rice, my mind turned to work and I wondered what awaited me later that day. My stomach fluttered with anticipation-and not the pleasant sort.
The area of St Georges where the Ibrahims lived had all the depressing features of urban poverty. Just one of the row of shops I passed remained open though only the illuminated sign gave the game away as the windows were covered with steel shutters and the roof edged with vicious looking razor wire. The surrounding shops were boarded up, and covered in graffiti. Litter pooled around the pavements and broken glass glimmered in among the weeds.
Several of the houses also had broken or boarded up windows and one was blackened by fire. A little further along a car had met the same fate, its charred shell yet to be removed by the authorities.
I turned into Canterbury Close and drove along looking for Mr Poole’s. There were semi-detached, redbrick houses either side and a turning circle at the dead end. The road curved so it wasn’t possible to see the junction once I reached his house which was about half way down on the right hand side. Most of the houses looked in need of repairs and a fresh coat of paint. The council had been selling off stock but this wasn’t the sort of area where tenants would exercise their right to buy even if they had the means. All the houses had gardens and, here and there, I could see the proof of someone putting in time and attention: trees in autumn finery and winter pansies in a hanging basket. For others the garden was left untended, left for the children to run wild in or used to dump rubbish.
I parked outside Mr Poole’s and looked across at the Ibrahim’s. There were two rough rectangles of black paint daubed on the brickwork beneath the lounge window and on the door – presumably to cover up graffiti left by their tormentors.
