Theresa

She is likely dead now, poor Theresa. Last I heard, she had cancer and was living down the Chingford Hall Estate, surely the last refuge for social class X in Waltham Forest. When I knew her she was living with my wee mate Eddie in a tiny bedsit in Leyton. Eddie was loving towards her but wasn’t above giving her a crack on the nose if he deemed it necessary. In a funny way, she was almost pleased for him to do this; I’d witnessed her goading him into such an action.

She was what I’d call ‘feral’. Her family origins were vague but I imagined them perhaps travellers based in rural Essex. She was cunning in her small way and, if she liked you, she would smile as she was trying to con you out of a few bob. She was certainly no ‘looker’ but this didn’t stop her lustfulness.  When Eddie and I were first drinking buddies she didn’t mind at all Eddie having sex with her while I lay half-asleep next to them in their bed. She looked like you may imagine a cockney flower-seller as cast in Mary Poppins: chubby and rosy-cheeked with a duplicitous grin as she sold you several stalks short.

I know that she couldn’t read as I had to read Eddie’s rather personal prison letters to her when he was away in Pentonville, and I’m pretty certain she couldn’t write either. Such as Theresa live on their wits one day at a time but with the notion of a long-game where they tie you up with babies and a plea to your conscience.

I didn’t even know her second name.