The Moving Times Of Caroline Proudly

55 Peer Road

The frosty effect of the barney lingered in the air. Daddy hadn't been lying when he had said that he would be glad to see the back of me, however he didn't physically throw me out. Not one to go back on his word, the next day I had a mumbled explanation that he was asking me to leave but would show compassion as long as I moved out as quickly as possible. My mother didn't call the police or pack her bags, but according to my brother's account of things, she didn't talk to my father for some time after the row.

I don't remember going to see the house, but I do remember approaching my father and explaining that only with his help could I physically move. A mixture of wanting to get rid of me and wanting it to seem like he was throwing me out created a small logistical contradiction in his mind. He overcame that by helping me move, but by being stubbornly unhelpful in the process. He sat in the car as I loaded everything in. He drove his over-packed car to Fitchester and then sat in the driver's seat pretending to be asleep whilst I hauled full black dustbin liners up the stairs to my new bedroom. When I slammed the boot closed, he started the engine and drove off without a word. I have a lasting memory of being left on the pavement, outside number 55 Peer Road, holding a huge yucca plant and gulping hard at a lump in my throat.

I sat on my bed still clutching the plant like a security blanket until the lump in my throat subsided and the anticipated excitement of feeling finally free filled me. Having gently positioned the yucca in the only suitable place, I ripped open the black bags and unpacked.

To people who didn't know where Peer Road was, I described it as 'Sacville'. To those who might of, I phrased it as 'Near Sacville but on the right side of Rodden.' The second description was nearer the truth. Peer Road fell just beyond the niceness of Sacville and whilst it wasn't officially in Rodden, it may as well have been. The street blew with sweet wrappers and the only feature that distinguished one house from the next was the number and very occasionally a vulgarly coloured front door. Otherwise the grey facades were depressingly identical and characterless.

One of the first afternoons after I had moved in, I heard a huge commotion in the street outside. Terrified, I crept over to the sitting room window and discreetly peeked through the gap between the net curtain and the window frame. To my relief it was nothing more than a rabble of unruly school kids making their way home. As I watched them pass, cross over the main road and finally disappear into Rodden, for the first time I noticed that a large strip of brown parcel tape held the windowpane together. As I mused over the bizarre fact that I hadn't noticed it before I realised that, as a result of the overgrown excuse of a front garden, it wouldn't be visible from the outside. Inside, the smoke-stained net curtain hid it from view. That strip of brown tape caused a general awareness with regards to my new surroundings. The sitting room smelt of an unpleasant mixture of damp and dirty socks. The kitchen had seen better days even before it had suffered from a small fire. The backdoor was charred and clutched only half successfully at the dirty glass. A flap of a Walker's crisps box wedged in between the two, prevented the gales from blowing in but caused an eerie whistling even with a slight breeze. Sitting on the counter, usually there were several plates with the congealed remains of beans on toast.

Although I had been rudely awoken from naivety by the unforeseen damage deposit and advance rent, my mood was kept light by my new-found freedom. My pleasures were limited to the smaller things in life. I revelled in the ability to be able to eat when I was hungry rather than when it was the set time to eat, even if it meant that it was a bowl of pasta with melted butter that I had to cook myself. I savoured openly enjoying a cigarette, even if my budgeted packet of 10 every two days meant that I couldn't actually have one as often as I would have liked to.

The deposit and advanced rent had also reduced my calculated jobless existence from three months down to two. Three months had seemed like ample time to find gainful employment; two months didn't seem very long at all and the weeks seemed to pass with frightening speed. The reoccurring vision of my father driving off without a word, too much pride to allow myself to run back to Mummy even in a crisis and just one month to find a job, caused panic. The days seemed like years as again I waited in desperation for the appropriate day when the Fitchester Echo could help me. Finally, 'Job Day' came around and without any work experience and certainly no intention of entering into the plumbing or electrical trade, I contacted a couple of shops that were advertising for sales consultants. With the interviews under my belt and a job offer, I waited impatiently for the nice shoe shop in Ronsellier, offering the best salary, to call me back. Desperate not to lose out on the other offer I decided to call the shoe shop. With an 'incoming calls only' phone at the house, I went to the nearest phone box with a pound's worth of 10p pieces. Over the deafening noise of the traffic outside, I diplomatically explained my situation and that I would like to establish if I was still being considered for the job at the shoe shop. To my extreme delight, there and then, on the spot as I stood nervously on the end of the phone, they took me on. With the remaining 10p pieces I called the other shop and politely declined their offer. The relief that I had been saved from a potential life on the streets caused me to practically skip back to number 55. On the way, I popped into the corner shop and lavishly bought a 'Happy Shopper' pot of pasta sauce and a packet of 20 Silk Cut.