A curtain-twitcher sees perhaps more than she bargains for.

How long have they been out there? I’m sure I saw them last Tuesday in exactly the same spot, pacing the ground, stamping in the mud while looking down at their feet , then looking around the garden furtively. It all looks very suspicious. They made themselve scarce when the policeman passed by. What on earth are they up to?

And what’s that one reading? Looks like some sort of pamphlet. Maybe it’s an instruction manual. Maybe he’s trying to better himself but Lord knows why they wants to just stand there reading out in the rain. Why don’t they do their coats up? And why don’t they have hats?

People don’t wear hats these days. Not like back in my day. Ooh, the milliners did a roaring trade back then. Everyone wore a hat, especially the men. Maybe not so much the ladies, except for Sunday best, of course. And church, naturally.

You could tell a man by his hat. A flat cap for the worker, a nice trilby or homburg for the manager or the man in the city. Maybe a bowler hat for the managers.

Then there were the ladies with their straw hats or little pill box ones,
balanced somehow on their heads. Working women with their headscarves. So many hats. Where did they all go?

Oh, that one HAS got a hat. Oh but it’s one of those baseball things. So common. So very… American. Oh the other one has one of those, what are they called? Hooders? Hoodies? Something like that. Why doesn’t he pull that up? It would at least keep the back of his neck dry. Still, the rain might clean that unkempt hair of his.

Such a pair of scruffs. Whatever happened to pride in your appearance? Where has everyone’s sense of self-respect gone? I remember Mother lining us both up in the morning, Lily and me. Checking our school uniforms, brushing our hair and tying it back into neat ponytails. Father would have buffed our sandals to a military shine every night.

Father wore a hat. He had his cap for Monday to Saturday and his Panama, “Sundays only” hat.

He seems to be marking the ground out. I didn’t notice that tool bag either but it’s so dirty, it’s blended in with the dirt on the ground.

Gosh, that’s a large tape measure. Perhaps they’re builders. Now I look, I see some planks and boards on the pavement. And what’s under that sheet? It looks like a long box or something.

Oh, they’ve laid out some tarpaulin. With that wind and rain, they’ll need something to keep it down. Perhaps they can use the planks. It’s blowing about a lot. Well, that tool bag is at least holding one corner down.

They don’t look very happy. Are they arguing now? The younger one looks very angry. Ooh — lots of arm waving and pointing. I wonder if they can see me? No, not from there. I’m too far back and anyway, the nets should stop them seeing into the room.

Father didn’t interact with us much. That was Mother’s job but he would take us out to the park every Saturday morning to play on the slides and the swings. He always wore a cap and scarf, tucked into his jacket. And a shirt and tie.

Father always wore a shirt and tie, even if he was in the garden or tinkering with the car. And Mother always wore the loveliest dresses, all floral patterns. Indoors, she would have an apron on, all covered with floured hand prints from a day of baking.

The play park was the only place that Father would spend any close time with Lily and me. It changed him from gruff, imposing patriarch to almost a little boy again. But only for an hour on Saturday mornings. Still; we knew to respect him. That’s what you did. That’s what you should still do.

They’ve found some bricks for the tarpaulin. That should keep it down, even in this wind. The younger one is digging now. I didn’t see that spade earlier, either. He must have brought it with him, though.

I must contact the optician. I’m sure my eyesight is getting worse. The older one is reading again. Surely he doesn’t need instructions on digging a hole. No; it must be some dimensions or something.

Mother would get her weekly catch up with Nana and Aunt Florence while Father took us to the park. I often wondered what they would get up to and what they’d talk about. I did ask her once, when Lily and I were being chivvied up but all she said was, “Get your coats on. Your father is waiting. When you leave school and start work, you can join us. Would you like that?”

I said that I’d love it. I could tell her all about my adventures in the week. Mother had patted my head and said that that would be nice.

The turf has been set aside now. They’ve laid it neatly onto the tarpaulin. All nicely rolled up. They’re being very methodical; I’ll give them that. A very neat pile of turfs and a long, rectangle of exposed earth. Perhaps it’s going to be a new flower bed. That would be nice. Something new to see growing.

There’s precious little to pique my interest from here. Nothing but more high rise buildings. That little municipal garden is the one bit of green left around here. All the terrace houses are gone now. Of course, that bloody Adolf put paid to them, didn’t he? I hate these blocks of flats but, after the war, the Government said people needed somewhere to live and, with all the houses gone around here and the men coming back from the war, something more functional was needed.

“Functional” means ugly, in my book. Poor father would be turning in his grave if he knew what the government did to his allotment. They’re all gone now. Just those concrete monstrosities in their place, along with all their awful tenants. I know everyone has to have somewhere to live but the council seems to have dumped all the horrible people in those flats.

Where all that soil going to go? It’s piling up somewhat and the rain is going to make it very heavy to move. Now where’s that one going? I can’t see properly from this window. It’s all right for looking onto the garden but even from up here, I can’t see much beyond the lamp post.

Oh, there he is. He’s crossed over the lawn. It looks like he’s coming this way. And he’s putting on some gloves. It’s a bit late for that, young man. You’ve already dug the hole now. Your hands must already be dirty. How odd. He’s left his mate guarding the hole now.

Ah, the younger man has taken that other sheeting off. Yes, it’s a long crate underneath. I wonder what’s in there? Oh, he’s prising the lid off with that crowbar.

How odd. It’s just a long, empty crate. Maybe the other one has left to get whatever it is they need to put in it.

Of course, by the time I left school and joined the typing pool, dear Nana had left us. Mother didn’t much feel like carrying on with her Saturday chats without her mother but aunt Florence had insisted. She felt it was right that they kept the tradition going and besides, there was young Ivy now who could tell them about this new world of work that she had joined.

Mother had eventually relented, of course. She later confided in me that
“Flo would always be able to get her way because she was always the put-down little sister”. I wonder if Lily thinks like that. I must give her a tinkle. We’ve not spoken for a few days. Maybe she could pop over. I’d get a bus to see her if it wasn’t for the lift being broken again here. It takes so long to get down the stairs these days.

That rain is really coming down now. I hope he’s going to come back to cover that hole. Someone could get hurt if they fell in. Ah, he’s put up some sort of marker at the end with writing on it. I can’t read that, though. I should invest in some binoculars. Lily keeps asking what I want for my birthday. I’ll be ninety next week. Perhaps she could contribute to some binoculars, if they’re not too dear.

I’m trying to gauge how big that hole is now. It must be at least six feet long and it’s really quite deep. Too deep for a flower bed. Ha! It looks like he’s digging a…

Oh, was that the doorbell? I’m not expecting anyone. I wonder who that could be?