Posted: Jul 6, 08 8:34am

How far back can I remember?

I remember a time when I did not hate fish.

Every Friday we would get together with the other families in the small apartment building where we lived. The adults would go out to some mysterious place and return with fish and chips in malt vinegar wrapped in brown paper bags. Such glorious food! I would dream of those days, of that fish, of the sharp sweet smell of the vinegar soaked paper that wrapped it.

I would count down the days until Friday. The kids in the building would get together to play and talk about the things that children talk about. The adults would get together and talk about the things that adults talk about. I remember feeling free. The adults were caught up in their stories and their laughing and paid little attention to us. If we walked by them they may ask us to fetch a beer, but for the most part, they pretty much ignored us.

I could run down the hallway as fast as I wanted and there would be no one to stop me. Once I climbed up to the roof and sat on a small ledge safe in the knowledge that it was my secret. There was no one there to find me. There was a place under the stairwell just big enough for me to slide in and crouch. It was the spot nobody else could find when we played hide and go seek. I wouldn’t use it every time, because that might give it away. But when the game was long and all of the good places were getting used up, I knew I could slip in there and I’d be safe from whoever was trying to find me.

Sometimes I would be crouched there when the adults came back with the fish and chips. I’d know by the smell of the grease wafting up through the stairwells and the sounds of the cheering from the other kids. I had to be careful then, I didn’t want to slip out of my special spot in front of anyone, yet I also didn’t want to miss any of the fish. I’d wait until the crowd of kids ran by the stairwell on their way to the top apartment where we always gathered to eat, and when it was quiet again, I made my escape.

I would run up the stairs and down the hall, following the smell. In the apartment the group of kids were eating big soggy chips and crispy cod from smaller paper bags. A cloudy bottle of vinegar malt sat on the table beside a tin salt shaker. The adults were in the other room and it would be quiet but for the sounds of eating. Soon the music would start up again and the laughing and out the door we’d run, licking the salt from the grease smeared paper bags, as the adults got their second wind and the party started in earnest.

We’d run to the outside in the fair weather or stay inside when it was bad, as long as we were free we didn’t much care. We’d watch as the night came, the games we played made even more fun by the spooky darkness. We were careful not to scream too loud when we scared each other, but eventually we slipped up and one of the adults would holler at us from the hallway. We’d settle down then, at least until the next time someone ran out and startled the rest of us. And so it would go.

After it got dark and the voices from the apartment were louder, I usually would find my way to my secret hiding spot. The other kids used to tease me about going off for a nap but I didn’t care. It just meant my spot would stay a secret. From under the stairwell I could see glimpses of the halls, and hear the sounds as they carried through the building. I could smell the dust tinged with mothballs, the smell of the coal burning in the boiler and the slightly sweet rot of garbage.

Sometimes I would crouch there and sing softly to myself. I would dream about living there, in that tiny dark space, hidden from everyone and everything. I’d be like a little mouse, scurrying out when nobody was looking to get a few crumbs of food and then returning to the safety of my little hole. It would be great and I would be so happy.

Some time after that the sounds would change, growing louder over the music. The games grew quiet and I knew the other kids were finding their own secret spots somewhere. You didn’t want to be caught running around then. Voices that were laughing and singing earlier became hard and angry. The hands that passed you the lovely brown bags smelling of vinegar became the hand that knocked you into the wall.

Sometimes you wouldn’t see it change, but it always did.

Much later I would learn about this change and understand about adults and beer, and learn terms like “high risk socio-economic groups”, but at the time all of this was beyond me. What I knew was the safety of a little spot where I could see yet not be seen. Where the sounds of anger and cries of despair could be blocked by putting hands over your ears and singing softly to yourself. Where smells of dust and coal mixed with smoke and old beer and the once lovely smell of hot grease and vinegar turned stale and rancid in the darkness of the night.