Ben and Tillie dwelled unofficially

In the cellar

Of tinned up twenty three

 

I passed on their post occasionally

The stench of boiled cabbage

Tobacco smoke, raw poverty

Leaking through the letterbox

Turned my stomach, gagging me

 

At night

By candlelight,

Tillie tended marigolds in plastic pots.

Bluebells and hollyhocks

Filled window boxes

Belfast sinks

Old gumboots…

Anything would do.

 

Ben

Smoked a lot

Coughed a lot

And very little else.

 

Tillie inadvertently

Entertained the street

Warbling, "I'll Be Seeing You"

“We'll Meet Again”

Songs from the shows

Vibrato

 

Ben syncopated

Her evening recitals

On five string guitar

 

With bass catarrh.

 

They took turns playing

Mean stride pianola

Well worn rolls

Belting out old hits

Wartime favourites,

 

"Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B"

And a Noel Coward

“Cavalcade” medley.

 

And while Ben crooned,

“If you were the only girl in the world”

 “By the light of the silvery moon”

“I'll be your sweetheart “

 

I crept down the steps

Stowing behind Tillie's tubs

Packets of butter, sugar

Bread, cheese, eggs and tea

And rolling baccy

Rough enough

For Ben

To keep his cough in shape.

 

Gloom grey midwinter day

A stately black

Top hat and tails

Solemned the street

A dray with coffin

Pulled by a milk cart horse.

 

With one arthritic mourner close behind.

 

That night,

As Tillie braved falsetto

"...all the old familiar places...."

Solo

 

Written copperplate on

A sheet of pale blue

Basildon Bond

A note,

 

"To whom it may concern,

Thank you,

But no more bacca from now on..."