On A Sunday 1958 Poem by Terry Collett

Sunday morning
and I walk down
the concrete stairs
to Lydia's flat
on the ground floor
over by the end.

I knock on the door;
her mother answers
and stands there
a cigarette
in the corner
of her mouth
and her hair
in a turban
hiding curlers.

Yes?
She says,
eyeing me.

Is Lydia in?
I say.

Yes she is why?
Her mother says.

Is she allowed out?
I ask.

She went out
yesterday with you
to the cinema
where now?
She asks.

Just out for a walk
to the park maybe,
I say.

Park?
What park?

Jail Park
just over the way,
I say,
indicating
with my thumb.

She looks at me sternly:
she was out
with you yesterday,
I can't have her
going out every day;
last week it was
the train station
looking at steam trains,
now the park,
she moans.

We like steam trains,
I say.

I don't care,
she says.

Lydia creeps
to the door
and appears
by her mother's side.

Hello Benny,
she says.

Her mother
looks down at her:
thought you
were making the bed?

I was going to
but Gloria's
still asleep snoring,
Lydia says.

Her mother
inhales deeply
on the cigarette
and looks past me
at the milkman
delivering milk:
Hey Milkie
three pints today,
she bellows,
making Lydia jump.

Righto Misses,
he replies
with a nod
of his head.

Can she go
to the park?
I ask
her mother again.

The mother blows
out smoke
like a dragon
without a flame:
I suppose so,
she says,
but not late
dinner's at midday
not later understand.

Yes of course,
I say,
and Lydia confirms.

The mother goes
back indoors.

The milkman
puts the pints of milk
on the doorstep.

Lydia and I
walk across the Square
making our way
to the park
for an hour or two
having nothing
much else
on a Sunday
to do.