BACK TO HOW IT WAS 1957

9 YEAR OLD KIDS IN LONDON IN 1957

Benny waits for you on the balcony
of the flats outside his parents place,
he's looking down at the milkman
in his horse-drawn cart. He turns as
you approach: Hi Enid, he says, just
looking at the milkman and his horse,
wondering what it'd be like to ride him.

You look over the balcony at the horse
attached to the cart. With or without
the milk cart? You ask. Without of
course, he says. The milkman gets
down from the cart, and selects milk
from crates at the back, and walks
with two in each hand to a doorstep
out of view. I quite fancy riding that,
he says, be a proper cowboy then
wouldn't I? You nod, I guess you
would, you say, looking at his quiff
of brown hair, his hazel eyes peering
down. My dad's back to his old ways
again, you say, looking at Benny to
see what he will say. Benny turns
and looks at you: has he hit you again?
He did last night, you say, not going
into too much detail. The big suck,
Benny says, thought he'd changed.

He stares at you: does he mind you
being with me? He didn't say anything
about not seeing you this time, you say.

Benny looks at you, trying to see if
there are any visible bruises, but
there aren't any where he can see.

Benny looks over the balcony again.

The milkman takes four more bottles
to another doorstep out of sight.

Thought he'd be back to his old
ways, thought it was too good to
last, Benny says. You look over
the balcony too. The horses eats
from a nose bag. It's the wrong
colour horse though, Benny says,
needs to be black to be any good
for a cowboy. I suppose it is, you
say, looking as your father walks
from the flats darkly over the way.