Sundays

Sunday, the miserablest, rottenest day of the week. Twydall Green was a thriving shopping centre in the heart of Twydall but on Sundays when all the shops were closed, it was the focal point of a ghost town. 

Sneaking off to Beechings Way to watch football was my preferred start to any Sunday, but there was little chance of that when Dad was at home. I could only daydream of watching the goals flying in as I took a dustpan and brush to the stair carpet, or went out to the coal bunker to fill the scuttle and then build up a fire.

Elsewhere in the house brothers Dave and Mike would be hard at it: hoovering; scrubbing; polishing.

‘Come on; put some more elbow grease into it! I want to see it shining like a shilling up a sweep’s bum!’

Dad’s Sergeant Major act was no laughing matter. My brothers and I were on edge. A clip round the ear was a constant threat in our house and the threat soared on Sunday mornings.

The order to polish our shoes and get ready for church was due shortly after ten. Sometimes it came, and sometimes it didn’t, if Dad hadn’t noticed the time. Or maybe he had, but there was just too much work to do. Either way, we kept out mouths shut. Missing Mass was a small victory that lifted some of the gloom but at eleven o’clock, we were still an hour from freedom. Dad enjoyed his lunchtime pint and he usually made it to the Rainham Mark Social Club for opening time. Till then, we could only keep scrubbing till we heard the front door close.

With Dad out of the way I could relax and read the Sunday paper, starting from the back with the football reports. But where was the paper? I couldn’t find it anywhere. Dad must have hidden it again, like he always did when there were juicy bits in it. The Naked Ape, Desmond Morris’s controversial book, was being serialised. That had to be the reason.

Sunday, what a boring day. Even the telly was rubbish, both sides being littered with religious programmes. Thank God for The Clitheroe Kid on Mam’s wireless.

Mam pushed the boat out on Sundays. Lamb and mint sauce, or roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with all the trimmings. Dinner, as always, was timed for Dad’s homecoming.

Dad had known lean times as a boy and he worked hard to ensure we didn’t experience the same. Whatever his faults, he kept his family fed, but his upbringing left him intolerant of waste and what went on a plate got ate, or else.

‘What about that bit?’

‘It’s gristle. It’s like chewing a pig’s earhole.’

‘I’ll pig’s ‘earhole you in a minute. Get it back in your mouth.’

‘I’ve chewed it for ages, it won’t go down.’

‘Get it back in your mouth. You’re not wasting good food.’

Dad stood over us till every plate was clean. Once satisfied, he’d delegate two of us to wash and dry the pots before going for his Sunday afternoon kip.

On Sunday evenings our bath was like a sheep dip. Mam bathed the little ones. Then Dave, Mike and me took our baths separately.

With the little ones tucked up in bed Mam turned her attention to getting things ready for school in the morning; starting with dinner money left in piles on the mantelpiece, with bus fare added to mine. About then Dad would get up for a wash and shave before going for his nightly pint. And I’d do something I’d been putting off all weekend – my homework.

Then it was time for bed. Sunday, the miserablest, the rottenest day of the week, was over.