Southend U3A

Writing for Fun

‘Bit chilly out tonight,’ the first one said. ‘I don’t like the cold very much, do you?’

‘Can’t say I do.’ the second one replied. ‘Still, I always enjoy looking at the comings and goings. Where else could you find entertainment as varied as this?’

‘And night time is the best time to view it,’ the third one mused. ‘Observing human life and all its frailties is one of the most stimulating pastimes I know.’

‘You’re always so posh,’ chided the first. ‘Why can’t you just speak like the rest of us?’

‘Because it’s limiting; that’s why,’ the third replied defensively. ‘I can’t help having a good pedigree.’

‘Hang on, hang on,’ hissed the first. ‘Keep your eyes on number eighteen. It’s him.’

‘Not the boyfriend?’ asked the second.

‘It most certainly looks like it,’ the other two confirmed.

Sure enough, a tall man with wavy hair was advancing down the street and opened the gate of number eighteen, taking a furtive glance around him as he did so. The front door opened immediately as if the inhabitant had been waiting behind it in anticipation.

‘You’re late, my darling,’ they heard a female voice say. ‘I was going out of my mind with worry. You know how much I long for you.’

The last thing they saw was his rapidly disappearing frame as an arm grabbed him and dragged him into the house.

‘They’ll be some action there tonight,’ number one said with amusement.

His better-bred companions gave him a disdainful look.

‘There’s no need for vulgarity,’ snorted the second one. ‘I like Mr. Brown. He always has a friendly word to say whenever he sees you and she treats him very badly. The poor man goes off each night to his job as a security guard and this is how she repays him.’

They settled into a companionable silence. There were always periods when nothing happened, but they had resigned themselves to it over the years. Sometimes it was a long night and the time dragged by and on others, it was more productive and interesting.

Some time elapsed and they heard footsteps coming down the street. They pricked up their ears. Three young men were walking – or more accurately swaying – towards them. Their balance was so haphazard that occasionally one would bump into the other and angry words were exchanged.

‘Watch it.’

‘Who are you telling to watch it?’

‘Who’s asking?’

‘I am.’

‘Well, don’t.’

There was a sound of an almighty burp.

‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

Their observers got ready to move but it turned out not to be necessary and the three drunks continued on their way, weaving unsteadily and occasionally lurching into the gates of the well-kept houses that lined their route. They disappeared out of sight.

‘I hate it when that happens,’ said the first one. ‘Why do people drink so much?’

‘Boredom, I suspect,’ suggested the third.

The unhappy interlude was almost immediately succeeded by the sound of raised voices coming from number fifteen, across the road – one male and the other female.

‘Where do you expect me to go in the middle of the night?’ said the male one.

‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ said the female. ‘You can go to hell for all I care. Go to her: you know you want to.’

‘I don’t want to go to her,’ said the male. ‘It’s all in your head.’

A shrill laugh pierced the air.

‘You were texting her at bloody three o’clock in the morning. I saw you.’

‘How do you know? You were supposed to be asleep. I was not texting her.’

The female shrugged her shoulders in resignation.

‘Whatever. Take your things and get out.’

‘Babe,’ he pleaded.

‘Don’t you “babe” me,’ came the reply. ‘Get out or I’ll call the police.’

A despondent figure staggered out into the street.

‘Well!’ said the third one. ‘Whatever is the neighbourhood coming to?’

They had no real idea of the time other than the sky getting lighter and the birds singing. It was a regular as clockwork as was the sound of the milkman. Not many of the residents had milk delivered but some still did – although the delivery didn’t take place every day.

The milkman was a morose individual and none of them liked him much.

‘I asked him for some milk once and he refused,’ said the first one in a disgruntled fashion.

He pulled up outside number eighteen and almost collided with the tall man with the wavy hair as he sneaked out. Both grunted a reluctant ‘good morning’ at each other.

‘I think I ought to be making my way now,’ said the first one. ‘Same place tomorrow night?’

‘Fine by me,’ said the second. ‘See you.’

The third one sashayed along the street - king of all he surveyed. He leapt over the wall of number twelve and straight through the cat flap, purring contentedly.