In Search of Adam. Caroline Smailes

he wouldn’t land on his arse. It was an easy job. He just had to turn up and help people spend money. My father liked his job.

      My father was the first person in Disraeli Avenue to have a Philips Betamax video recorder 2020. Could line up five programmes for up to 16 days in advance. He never did. That was too complicated. My father sold electrical items, but he could never work them. He liked to have the latest things. It cost a small fortune. £519.99. My father didn’t pay that. It was ex-display. He had an employee discount and it had a big scratch on the bottom. He made the big scratch on it. He was careful to make it on the bottom. Just enough damage. Mr Johnson’s brother had shown him how. Reet clever bloke. It cost my father three hundred pounds. The neighbours were amazed by it. Everyone must have thought that we were rich. That we were the richest people in Disraeli Avenue. Three hundred pounds. We were the richest people on Disraeli Avenue.

      Wednesday July 29 1981. The Royal Wedding. We had been learning all about it at school. We even sent a card to the Prince and Princess. Mine had a drawing of a yellow-haired princess in a Union Jack-coloured wedding dress. It wasn’t very good. I only had forty minutes to think of the idea and to draw it. It was rushed. Inside I wrote. Dear Prince Charles and Lady Diana. Love Jude Williams. I couldn’t think of anything else to write. I was rush rush rushed. My teacher sent it thirty-seven days before the wedding. But. We didn’t get a letter back. I asked my teacher every day. I wanted to know if Lady Diana liked my card. My teacher said that the princess would be too busy to write to our school. I didn’t believe her. I didn’t want to believe her.

      The Royal celebration. Red, white and blue bunting joined the opposite houses. Unified. Celebrating together. It swung in the gentle breeze. Ladders rested against houses. Front doors were open. Music blasted out of windows. The sun was shining. A day off work. A day to party. Posters of Prince Charles and Lady Diana were taped inside windows. They were free with the Daily Mail. A souvenir. I bought one from Brian’s Newsagents. Used one of the fifty-pence pieces that Aunty Maggie had given me. I didn’t stick it on my window. I kept it. Neat. Perfect. Flat. In an Oor Wullie album. 1978. In between pages 29 and 30. Like the date of the wedding. There were no page numbers though. I had to count from the beginning of the book. I placed the Oor Wullie album containing the special poster into my wardrobe. Carefully carefully.

      I watched from my mother’s front room window. I watched the sea of red, white and blue. Flapping. Waving. Noisy. The party was in full swing. It was nine o’clock in the morning. Tin cans were already lying empty. Cluttering Disraeli Avenue. I stayed in my mother’s front room. I peeped through the window every now and then. I didn’t want to go outside. I wanted to soak up every moment that the BBC was supplying. I was excited. Really excited. A princess. I was going to see a real princess.

      Every one of the neighbours joined in. It had been arranged. Mrs Hodgson (Number 2) had gone around with a list of food. Rita and my father had to bring sausages on sticks. It was all planned. The men had put up bunting. The women were fussing around the still folded tables. Waiting for someone to put them out. Needing someone to put them out. The children. Some children were playing hide and seek. Noisy. Rush rush. Run and hide. I could see Paul Hodgson (Number 2). He was crouched in my mother’s garden. It wasn’t a good hiding place. The street was noisy. Alive. Screaming. Squealing. Over the radios. Over music. Screeching. Over the blaring television screens. Everything was on full volume. Everyone switched on. Open front doors. In and out of each others’ houses. Rita had cleaned my mother’s house. It was polished and vacuumed and spick and span. She was happy to leave my mother’s front door open. In and out. In and out. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the neighbours being in my mother’s house. They were too noisy. I needed to listen. I needed to see. I needed silence. I needed to concentrate.

      My father helped Mr Johnson (Number 19) and Mr Douglas (Number 8) set out the tables. They were wallpapering tables. Different sizes. They didn’t quite join together properly. Paper table cloths were put onto them. Red, white and blue. The tables stretched from Number 5 to Number 19 Disraeli Avenue. No chairs at the table, but there were some deckchairs. Placed along the pavement. The two entrances to the avenue were blocked off. Two chairs and a plank across. Mr Smith (Number 23) was a builder. He made the two blocks. Mrs Scott (Number 25) said that Mr Smith had done a good job. First time he ever did something on time. Bloody waste of space lazy arse. Everything was arranged. Tin cans of beer bobbed around in buckets of cold water. Scattered along the street. The food was foiled. Placed out along the centre of the table. Neatly. Aunty Maggie made rice. Mrs Roberts (Number 21), Mrs Johnson (Number 19) and Mrs Andrews (Number 18) brought plates of sandwiches. Spam, jam, ham and egg. There were other foods. They appeared in between my peeping. Cakes. Crisps. Scones. I wanted to know who brought them. I needed to know how they got there. I wanted to know. But. I was distracted. I was waiting. Watching. Waiting to see the princess.

      Sausage rolls.

      Crispy cakes.

      Jelly.

      Fairy cakes.

      Scones.

      Biscuits.

      Crisps.

      Hard-boiled eggs.

      Crackers.

      Spam sandwiches.

      Ham sandwiches.

      Jam sandwiches.

      Egg sandwiches.

      Rice.

       A reet royal spread.

      At the table, outside my mother’s house, Rita poked sausages onto cocktail sticks. She wore a commemorative apron over a short red skirt and a white shirt. Her white stilettos finished off the look. She looked quite normal from the front, but not from behind. As she bent over the table her fat dimply thighs squelched under the hem of the skirt. No tights because it was the summer. It was hot. The sun was shining. Rita was orange from her sunbed sessions. Like a wrinkled Satsuma. Mrs Lancaster (Number 7) told Rita that the tan made her legs look thinner. I didn’t understand. She had fat thighs. Big fat orange pork sausages. Juicer than the flimsy ones that she was poking onto sticks. I watched them all from my mother’s front room window. I heard everything through the open windows. But I would look only when there was a break or a boring discussion on TV.