Autobiography

Mark opened the car door for Lesley and the
Harrods doorman opened mine and I gave him
a tip. As we drove off, Lesley turned to me and
said, ‘I’m surprised you didn’t thank Albert the
doorman.’ Only Lesley would be kind enough to
remember the doorman’s name.
‘But I did,’ I replied. ‘I gave him a tip.’
I reassured her that I hadn’t reached a point
where I didn’t have to say thank you. I would
hate for that to happen to me, as it has
happened to so many others. That’s why I still
look at those pictures of us at Green Street.
They remind me of where I came from, and I
believe it is what keeps my feet firmly on the
ground.
I have never forgotten the stench of poverty. It
is like no other. It is insidious, creeping and
all-consuming. It hovers so heavy that no ray
of light and no glimmer of hope can pierce it.
We were a family of four, with no breadwinner.
Repairs were left undone. A leak in the roof
would drip until mildew appeared from behind
the wallpaper and the smell permeated the
house. Normally the man of the house would
make the necessary repairs or, if you could
afford it, you brought in a professional. But we
were too poor, and there was no man around
most of the time to do the work.
The war years made life even more difficult,
not just in the house but also in our air-raid
shelter; a dank, damp, corrugated iron
construction in the back yard. There you could
encounter the true odour of poverty, not to be
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