Читать книгу No One Said It Would Be Easy - Des Molloy - Страница 15

8

Gestation

Life is not always linear, and on reflection, it is often the zig-zags that are the most interesting. I hadn’t really been living in The Box for all that long when I got a ring from one of the girls from another big well-known Anzac flat — 46 Alexandra Grove, North Finchley. A couple of my rugby team (and work crew) lived there, on and off. I’d partied there, so knew who Little Steph was when she introduced herself. She was the one that wasn’t Big Steph. Big Steph was a tall, rubenesque red-head who another of my rugby team Kiwis quietly lusted after. It seemed that Big Steph was going home and there was going to be a vacancy in the flat … was I interested?

My heart pounded, I didn’t want to appear too keen … but man oh man, this could be an escape from the solitary purgatory that was The Box. I desperately missed the shared meals and the group-fun I was used to as part of London’s itinerant young colonials … the vibrancy, the feeling of belonging! I expressed some reservation, noting that I had to extricate myself from the current situation, but I could be interested. Of course once off the phone I fist-pumped and did a little jig.

And the rest as they say is history. During my notice period I popped around with a friend one week-night for a reconnaissance visit. The flat was a familiar happy throng, some folk I knew well, others not so well. I recall as we left and were getting into the car my mate saying “That Little Steph’s got a nice arse!” This was not something I would have articulated aloud … well not before five or six pints of beer … but he was so accurately observant, even if a little boorish. The raven-haired Little Steph was petite and full of energy. She was also gregarious and thoughtfully welcoming.

46 Alexandra Grove was a two storey semi-detached villa set back a little from the road with off-street parking and a driveway leading to a small garage and a substantial backyard. I was able to relocate the black cab and the motorbikes. The Ural and sidecar was stowed at the rugby club in Hounslow. Alexandra Grove was also only a bicycle ride distance to the double-glazing work … so an old treadlie was bought and put into action.

It wasn’t long before I was completely in thrall of Little Steph, who was now just Steph with the departure of her bigger namesake. She worked as an agency nurse and in her off-hours she barmaided at The Cricketers, the local tavern. It was clear that she was a popular part of the pub’s community. She’d sweep in near closing-time after a nursing shift and greet most of the clientele by name before asking all with half-empty glasses what their tipple was. I couldn’t see how she would ever get