04-15-2015, 12:58 PM
The rest of my memories of those days as a young boy living in a prefabricated home in Battersea are vague and fragmented at best. They mainly consist of journeys to the Battersea Park Easter parade, rats the size of cats scurrying about in the dump across the street, and the time that James' dog ate the travelling donkey's poo. But my final, and most vivid, memory of that place is of my final days in Battersea. The days in which all of my neighbours' prefabricated homes were, one by one, hoisted up into the air, and driven away on the back of a flatbed truck. I couldn't tell you which day of the week it all started, but I do recall that it was two days before my birthday by the time it was our turn to depart. The Jameses and their caged hounds had gone the week before, and Jack's entire family vanished without so much as a 'how do you do' shortly after the fire investigator signed off their singed and windowless home as unfit for habitation sometime during the previous year.
My mum had already packed our belongings into the delivery truck, and, after a tearful farewell, they were well on their way to new horizons before the time came for the flatbed to eviscerate our previous home from the very ground itself. I had always wondered why the houses on our street looked so much different in comparison to those on other streets, and this was the day I found out why. You see, they weren't ever meant to be permanent homes when the local council representative first commissioned them, just a temporary fix until the borough's endemic housing shortage could be resolved (for the time being atleast, there are still more housing applications directed at the borough than the number of accommodations available in Wandsworth to this very day). Just as they were being taken away now, they were brought here years before, on the back of a flatbed truck. Of course, at the time, I was too young to remember, or even understand, any of this, and my little red bucket was probable still being put together on some, now defunct, factory's assembly line. But now, at my five years and three hundred and fifty one days of age, I could fully grasp the complexities of a pre-made bungalow home.
It was the second time that day we waved goodbye to a truck, the first packed chock full with all our belongings, and the second with our home strapped firmly to its back. But this time was a much more awe inspiring event. When our furniture left it was no different that the day it all arrived from the department store, even the truck bore so many similarities that, to my young eyes, it could have been the same one. But when it came time to watch our house go for a drive, now that is probably one of the most unique memories that I have stored up in my age addled mind. I remember that the truck had a crane (always a good pull for a juvenile crowd) and that a gaggle of work men were busying themselves with massive hooks and huge rusty chains, which they masterfully attached to the domiciles exterior. The chains went effortlessly beneath the house because it was already raised off the ground by a series of deftly placed concrete slabs at each corner. Over the years I had hidden many a treasure beneath our prefab house, not least of which, my champion trolley. I was so upset the day that particular treasure had been stolen away in the night, and had always suspected Jack, he was the only other person to know of my secret spot, But I never said anything to him about it, and why would I. He was, after all is said and done, my best friend.
In more recent years I have returned to our little street in Battersea many times, and I am always pleasantly surprised by the warm feelings of nostalgia which wash over me everytime that I do. Though there is no longer anything near resembling the street that resides in my most distant memories. it has since been bulldozed over and transformed into a arboreal wonderland, but some of the surrounding features will always remain the same. The fire station is still in use, its ancient building, now restored to its former brownstone glory, has since been listed on the protected register. Seeing with adult eyes just how close at hand the fire station actually was, makes me wonder exactly how young Jack's home was allowed to became the unsalvageable inferno that it did.
Last edited by Menelaus; 04-25-2015 at 12:58 PM..
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