By Roger Noons
a mug of Camp coffee, from the bottle.
The house was of the kind that knocking on the front door
would prove to be a waste of time, so I walked along the narrow passageway
alongside the gable end, arriving on the back yard just as a woman emerged from
a wash house, with her arms full of bed linen.
‘Mrs.
Cooper?’
She looked me
up and down. ‘I don’t do freebies for coppers.’
‘I’m not a policeman.’
‘What
then?’
‘Public Health Inspector.’
‘Can you get me a council house?’
‘Any
particular estate?’
‘It’s nice on
the Poet’s.’
‘How does
Longfellow Road sound?’
‘Three bedrooms?’
I
nodded.
‘Come on then.’ She opened the door into the rear
living room. ‘Wipe your feet,’ she added over her shoulder, ‘And no rough
stuff.’
About the author
Roger frequently contributes to CafeLit
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