At the time I was half way up the outside steps leading up to the road, but still a long way down from the pavement and the top of the wall; in fact, I was painting my side of the wall with the same cheerful magnolia masonry paint that I used for the risers of the newly tiled steps. I had been out there working on the steps and wall on my own for some considerable time, my chief amusement (apart from working in the sunshine) was listening to the brass band music which emanated from either the school across the road or the Leisure Centre a little farther up the road; in either case, the music was loud and stirring, not least because it was interspersed with the hoorahs and cheers of many young male voices. They had started with, “Come to the Cookhouse Door, Boys” and finished the first half of the rehearsals (presumably they were rehearsing for tomorrow – Dawlish Air Show day) with the theme from “The Pink Panther”.
In the interval I found that I could hear the hum of the traffic once again and also the voices of the passers-by who walked on the pavement above me, and who often stopped to peer over the wall at the flowers on our balcony at the end of our footbridge. I was having quite a pleasant time while I painted, half-listening to the laughter and chatter of happy families going on their way to and from the fair or the beach. Some people talked about the nearby Spanish-style house which hasn’t been lived in for several years and needs doing up; most spoke about the lovely view of the sea that we must have from the terrace but which the people on the roadside get only a glimpse of from the gap between the end of our terrace and the Spanish-style dilapidated house.
It was during the interval that I heard the voice of a lad, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old. He had such a strong accent that I couldn’t understand a word he said. Now I don’t know if I should admit to you (but I will) that I had a bit of an “old fogey moment” – I thought to myself, “Why can’t youngsters speak clearly these days?” I wasn’t even sure if he spoke in English. I was still pondering when something surprising happened that made me regret my narky thoughts…
The lad must have stopped directly above me and looked out over our wall because I heard him as clear as bell this time. He said in a Liverpool accent akin to John Lennon:
“Now that is a beautiful house!”
I didn’t look up because I was busy working (and it would have been embarrassing) so I can’t say for definite that he was looking at our house – it isn’t the more beautiful side of the house, although we have a nice arch and flowers all over the balcony – but it is colourful and fresh after all my painting and tiling. It crossed my mind that the boy might have seen me painting away and wanted to give me some encouragement. Who knows? Either he is a connoisseur of houses or just a really nice lad from Liverpool.