After a dinner of egg and potato curry with roti I was in a content food coma, giggling at an episode of Love Thy Neighbor when Dad leant over and whispered:

“Boy, come for a drive na?”

His eyes gleamed as I clambered into the back seat of his gold Vauxhall Viva to join my brother and sisters. Mum smiled from the front and shushed me. Where could we be going on this after dinner excursion? I gawped wide-eyed, thrilled by the hushed excitement, as the car glided off into a sable night. An enigmatic purr rose from the engine–a lone flugelhorn across a frozen sea. But no sooner had we driven off than we were parked and exiting on our very same street.

“What are we doing?” I asked.

Dad slipped a heavy hand over my mouth and with a nervous smile, whispered:

“Shush boy, now go help you brudder. You gon take some bricks from de flats and bring dem back here for me. Go!”

I watched as the others scampered to a building site, grabbed bright yellow bricks and shuttled them to the car where Mum packed them into the boot. Astonished, but also enthralled by this common thievery, I joined the chain gang until Dad’s boot was laden with enough bricks to tip his bonnet at the ominous church steeple. We piled back into the car and as soon as Dad shut the door, we heard a police siren in the distance.

“Oh rass!” exclaimed Mum.
“Shut up woman!” Dad whispered, before starting the car and slipping it into gear.

Bessie, Dad’s name for every car he owned, lurched forward slowly as she struggled with the extra weight. I slipped around on the red vinyl seat and stared at the shrinking church steeple until a flashing blue light appeared as a police car skidded into our street.

“Oh me Mooma!” Mum cried.

Fear struck us dumb as Dad parked in front of the house. He reached over and tugged me back onto my seat. The whites of his eyes filled the rear-view mirror as the blue light approached. The police car slowed as it got closer but just as it reached our side, the cops hit the siren and we jumped as it sped into the darkness.

“Eh eh!” Dad exclaimed as we burst into a roar of nervous laughter.

The silent chain gang resumed—this time from the car all the way to our backyard, where we stacked the bricks behind the coal bin for Dad to build a new garden wall. I placed the final yellow brick onto the pile and under the moonlight it glinted at me like a gold ingot.

That building site at the end of our road became The Flats, a yellow-bricked labyrinth of modest maisonettes with tiny gardens, wheelchair slopes, nimble staircases, bijou balconies, cobblestones, a perfect square for footy and a dank subterranean garage that offered shade for glue sniffers. It was the perfect playground for a ready-made gang of kids who shared the same joie-de-vivre.

As the only kid at the church youth club who didn’t live or play in The Flats, I listened to the gang’s adventures with envy. I forced smiles, asked for details and, to the recurring question, “Why don’t you come and play out?” told the sad truth, “I have to help my mum.”

Me and Ron slaved over the cushions every afternoon and on Saturdays I was shanghaied to accompany Mum to Ridley Market in Dalston. We’d catch the 236 bus from Finsbury Park to Sainsbury’s on Kingsland High Road, then hustle down to the market, our steps in sync with the pulsing basslines of Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, and Burning Spear.

**Ridley Road - Picture Credit: Alan Denney**

Iconic red, gold and green Rastafari paraphernalia graced every record shop. Inside, dreadlocked youth bounced to dub while searching for the latest imports. I avoided the rotting cabbage, fish heads, onion skins and half-eaten beef patties underfoot as I slipped between the crowds to keep up with Mum. We headed off the main road and weaved a path below the green canopies that extended before us like an infinite Bedouin tent.

Mum approached a tiny lady with soft white hair who wore ornate emerald rings on the middle fingers of both hands. While I inspected her gold tooth, Mum flicked through the fisherman’s lair of hanging net curtains.

“Ello Mavis, how are you my darling?”
“I’m alright Maureen. You have the one wid the swan pattern babe?”
“No darlin, all sold out. Funny, I told Derek not to get em, but people round ere loved em. I got the peacock though sweetheart, look,” she said, grabbing a roll of white fabric and fanning it out expertly across the cutting table
“Oh, this is lovely. How much a yard?”
“For you Mavis, two pound fifty.”
“Ah darlin, thanks, you like it babe?”
“Yeah, it’s nice.”
“Can you do two pound? I’ll take five, I need to swap de curtains upstairs before Christmas.”

Maureen looked at me and smiled.

“He’s a cute one ain’t he?’
“He’s my baby.”
“Ok Mavis. Done” she said, whipping out a yardstick and measuring the fabric before sliding it into a brown paper bag that Mum handed me.
“Come boy, we have to get some chicken!”

Jostling through a savvy crowd of West Indian, African and English shoppers, I listened to fly-pitchers with open suitcases set on rickety folding tables offering genuine Bone China Tea Sets:

Now you’re gonna laugh, but the lorry this fell off was bringing these sets all the way back from India. Yeah, I love a Ruby meself, but this gear is pucker, proper bone china. That’s why it didn’t break falling off the lorry see. Cushtie bone china!

There were giggles from the younger women as the tanned man in a sheepskin coat waffled on.

“Come!” Mum ordered, heading to the chicken stall.

A fat pasty man with a magnificent handlebar mustache and two missing front teeth hacked away at a chicken on a slimy chopping board.

“Hello darlin!” He said as Mum approached.
“Hello John, I need two roasters and one boiling fowl please, not too big.”
“Alright darling. This your boy then?” he said, winking at me, forcing a smile back.
“Yes, dis me baby. Gimme de eggs too nah darlin?” she directed, as he grabbed the liver, heart and tiny yellow eggs, about to discard them.”
“Ok sweetheart,” he said, grinning at Mum while bagging the chicken.

After she paid, Mum asked my favorite question:

“You hungry babe?” I nodded, eyes shining.

We hauled our bags to the corrugated iron cafe at the bottom of Birkbeck Road. Two outdoor benches sat on a wide triangular forecourt where everything was painted bright red. This tiny hole-in-the-wall was run by a roly poly husband and wife who were all flabby arms and red cheeks. Billowing stacks of steam poured from the serving hatch, accompanied by the tantalizing aromas of fried bacon, sausages and black pudding.

“Two bacon rolls and two cups of tea with sugar please mate?”

I ordered, then skipped from toe to toe trying to stay warm until he handed me a delicious smelling white paper bag. As I savored the amazing crusty roll full of hot salty bacon, the bellows of market life echoed around me:

Get yer carrots, fresh lovely carrots, ten pence a pound! Roll up roll up!
I got extra-large brown eggs! Fifty pence a dozen! Come on ladies take a look!
Five pairs for a pound - men’s and ladies socks!
Gold plated watches! I got Seiko watches, twenty pound in the shops, how much you want em for ay? Seven-pound, six-pound, five-pound, these are gold plated! James Bond wears this watch in Goldfinger! How much? I’m giving em away - TWO FOR A FIVER! Only today darlings! Come on who’s first?

After the 236 bus dropped us off at the bottom of our street we stopped outside number 24 and Mum handed me a ten-pound note.

“Go drop me box money for Christine na bai?”

I climbed the stairs and knocked on a shabby black door. Christine, a low-jawed Jamaican woman with sharp eyes and several gold teeth, appeared.

“Hello Christine!” Mum yelled from below.
“Eh eh! Hello Mavis, I nearly didn’t recognize this one. He getting big man!”
“Bai, give she the money nah?”

I frowned at Mum, because I was just about to do that very thing and handed the tenner over. Christine produced a notebook and updated Mum’s account before slipping the cash into a money belt around her waist.

“How Dave?”
“He’s ok Christine. Thanks darlin, me have to get home. God bless you.”
“You too Mavis. And you family.”

Mum rang the doorbell. Ron appeared smiling and grabbed the bags.

“Hello Mum! Dad was worried you got lost.”
“He’s a rass!”

We followed Ron down the hallway, comforted by the aroma of boiling dahl. Whenever Mum went shopping, the rest of the household prepped dinner. The girls busied themselves peeling potatoes and chopping vegetables while Ron cranked our ancient grinder to produce paper-thin dal for the dalpouris. Dad rinsed sinewy pink chunks of mutton, checking their size and fat content before tossing them into the karahi for the curry. We entered the kitchen as the garam masala, cumin, garlic, onions and Boults hot curry powder met with the mutton to send a cloud of delicious curry smell into the house and onto everyone’s clothes for the rest of the day.

“Hello gyal, me tink you get lost. Wha you bring for me?”
“Jen take dis bag,” Mum ordered.
“You get pigtail?”
“Yes! Wait na man? Jen see in the bag, there’s a pattie in there for you dad.”

Dad opened the bag, spooned some pepper sauce on the warm pattie and charged out of the kitchen to the front room.

“Come Ron, me want for see dis race. Curry is on gyal.”

Ron followed Dad into the living room as we unpacked the groceries. Mum opened a packet of Sainsbury’s donuts and handed them out.

“Bai, go give you dad and brudder one each,”

Ron and Dad pored over the racing pages with Ladbrokes betting slips and mini pens at the ready. On the TV World of Sport was covering a meeting at Cheltenham which had tickled their fancy. The 1.30pm race was ten minutes away. Dad scribbled: Comedy of Errors 2 pounds each way and looked up as I held out a donut.

“Here, tek dis and run to the betting shop. Pay de tax too and take the change and go to Unwins and get me a bottle of Bell’s. But make sure you go to the betting shop first. You know where it is?”
“Yes, I've been there loads of times, Dad.”
“Can you put this one on for me too please?” Ron asked and slid 50p to me for the same horse to win.
“Bai, go come back quick ok!” Dad urged.

The Ladbrokes betting shop on Gillespie Road stank of stale booze and cigarettes. It was full of angry men who’d lost their wages on long shots, and alcoholics in need of a place to sleep in the smoky wake of Rothmans and Benson and Hedges.

I slipped inside, trying to remain inconspicuous, but an old black man with bleary eyes slipped on his leather trench coat and blew cigarette smoke into my mouth as he exited. I inhaled half a Rothman’s, along with a sour waft of stale whisky, which sent me into a coughing fit. Two men sat on the floor, leant against each other showing off milky white chests from their half-buttoned shirts. They clutched frothy cans of Guinness and while I fought to catch my breath, one mumbled, You’re a fecking cunt!

I swallowed hard, forcing a wisp of smoke to appear from my nose then joined the line behind a tiny old lady. Two loud TVs sat on either side of the shop. The walls were filled with racing page form guides and signs that read:

Pay out after Weigh in
Bets are not taken after the race is running
Large sums of money are not kept on the premises.

The tall counter was reinforced by iron bars to keep out bad losers and manned by two nervous men wearing cardigans and glasses. A sharp looking young lad sat at a desk checking betting slips. On one of the televisions, I saw the horses in Dad’s race making their way to the start. It was 1.23pm, the race was due off in seven minutes! There was only one counter open and two people in front of me. Finally, the man at the counter moved off. The tiny old woman dressed in black moved forward.

“I don’t know what you’re saying missus! Can you not speak up?” the man behind the counter said, in a strong Northern Irish accent.

There was a mumble from inside the scarf, but it sounded more like a cat trying to sing opera than English. It was 1.25pm. The horses were almost at the starting line.

“I need to get these bets on, please mate!” I said, waving my slips at him.
“Hang on dere son! Missus I can’t read your writing and I don’t understand a ting yer saying!”

The lady turned to me and I recognized Phil’s mum, Anna. She squinted at me through her tiny glasses until suddenly she looked at my betting slip and recognized the name of Dad’s horse, Comedy of Errors. Her eyes lit up.

“Eh! Ne ne! Thees one. Comedia to win! Please!! Two pound to win!” She said, grabbing my hand and sliding the slip under the bars.
“Comedy of Errors? Bote of yous?” Said the man, with a dubious look. “It’s got no chance, but ok. Ere gis dat too, they’ll be off in a minute,” he said, with a knowing grin.
“Efcharistó! Efcharistó!”

Anna said, grabbing her slip. She pulled her scarf tight over her head, shuffled off and took the seat closest to the TV.

I ran next door to the Off-Licence, then headed home with Dad’s bottle of Bell’s Whisky. A couple of minutes later I sat in our warm kitchen eating one of the first dalpouris off the tawa with a cup of hot milky coffee. This was the best moment to enjoy these thin, tender rotis stuffed with ground yellow split peas seasoned garlic, cumin and pepper. Somehow, I preferred biting into this and swigging a mouthful of coffee over wrapping it around a hunk of curried mutton. As I savored the perfect mouthful and heat from the coffee, I heard Dad yelling from the front room:

“Go on bai! Goan! Goan bai! Come on now!”

I jumped up.

“Mum!” Ron yelled, panicked. His head appearing in the hallway.

Mum downed her rolling pin and ran to the front room followed by me and my sisters. We entered to find Dad jumping up and down, laughing and yelling at the race on TV, doing a wild impression of a jockey, as his horse, Comedy of Errors, charged toward the front for the final hurdle. He was neck and neck with another horse called Tree Tangle, according to the exuberant commentator:

Comedy of Errors is making his way on the stand side with a late burst, it’s Tree Tangle and Comedy of Errors, neck and neck as they take the last hurdle and Comedy of Errors, now racing to the last 150 yards it’s Comedy of Errors, Comedy of Errors!

“Gowan you rass! Gowan to rass!”

Dad yelled as Ron bit his nails, dumbstruck, not daring to make a sound. The rest of us bawled with laughter at Dad’s antics but he was oblivious, utterly absorbed in his own jockey takeoff.

“Goan mi boy! Yes rass! Yes, to rass!”

He roared repeatedly, thrusting his hands in and out, galloping to triumph, holding the reins and whipping his short stubby legs with every stride until the commentator finished the race:

Comedy of Errors getting a tremendous reception as he strides away to win back his title…

“Yes bai! Ha! Comedy of Errors to rass!’
“You won?” Mum asked, eyes shining.
“Yes gyal! I know dis rass horse go win!”
“How much you win?”
“Ten pound!”
“That’s great darling,” Mum said, “wha you go buy me?”

Dad kissed his teeth and settled in to watch the replay of the race as we sniggered our way back to the kitchen. Reunited with my dalpouri I paused to spare a thought for Phil’s mum, Anna, who I guessed would be shrieking in Greek at the TV of the betting shop. She deserved a prize for raising seven children on her own, two pounds on Comedy of Errors would be a nice start.

*********************

If you’re brave enough to try making Dalpouri, (I’ve never made them!) Mum’s recipe is below:

Ingredients

For the Peas:

1 cup yellow split peas, soaked overnight and thoroughly rinsed
Salt, to taste

For Filling:

4 cloves garlic, crushed
1x Hot Scotch Bonnet or Wiri Wiri pepper, to taste
2 teaspoons ground cumin

For Dough:

4 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting
3-4 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 tablespoons oil, divided: plus more for greasing
1 1/4 cups lukewarm water, or more as needed

For Cooking:

1/2 cup oil, for brushing

Steps:

Cook the Split Peas

Place the rinsed peas in a pot. Cover with water and bring to a boil over high heat. Once the water is boiling, add salt to taste and cook until the peas still have a slight bite to them.
Once ready, remove from heat, carefully drain, and let dry thoroughly.

Filling

Add the garlic and the preferred peppers to the bowl of a food processor. Pulse to mince, scraping down the sides of the bowl between pulses.
Add cooked peas and pulse until the mixture is very fine.
Transfer the mixture to a bowl and fluff with a fork.
Add the cumin, mix and set aside.

Dough

Add the flour, baking powder, and salt to a large bowl and mix thoroughly.
Add 1 tablespoon of the oil and incorporate it into the mixture.
Add the lukewarm water mixing as you do.
Once the dough comes together, knead for 2 minutes.
Rub the remaining oil all over the dough and place it in a bowl. Rest for at least 30 minutes.

Assemble the Dalpouri

Grease a baking sheet and set aside. Knead the rested dough for 1 to 2 minutes on a floured surface.
Cut the dough into 10 to 12 equal pieces.
Working with 1 piece of dough at a time, pat each piece into a round disk of about 3 inches in width.
Form a cup with the dough and a spoon of filling into the cup without overstuffing it. Pinch the ends of the dough together to seal in the filling.
Place the stuffed dough seam-side down on an oiled baking sheet. Pat each stuffed doughball with a little oil to prevent a skin from forming.
Repeat the process with the remaining pieces of dough and filling.
Cover with plastic wrap and let rest for 30 minutes.

Cooking the Dalpouri

Flour a work surface and rolling pin. Prepare a basket, lining it with a clean tea towel and kitchen paper.
Take 1 of the stuffed doughballs and flatten it with your hand.
Working from the center, start rolling the dough back and forth.
Turn the dough by 90 degrees and keep rolling and turning until you have a round, thin disk of dough. You may need to dust the rolling pin and work surface with extra flour as you handle the dough. Repeat the flattening process until all the doughballs are ready for the griddle.
Heat a tawah, flat iron griddle, or a 10- to 12-inch cast-iron skillet over medium heat. Dust off any excess flour and place a disk of rolled dough on the hot griddle. Let cook until parts of the dough start to puff up with little bubbles.
Immediately flip the puri, brush with oil, let cook for 30 seconds.
Flip again, brush with oil, and cook for another 30 to 45 seconds. Remove from the heat with a flat spatula. Reduce heat if the puri is browning too quickly and not cooking through.
Place the cooked dalpouri in the prepared basket. Repeat the process until all disks are cooked.
Enjoy hot or warm.

Ridley Road, Dalpouri and a Comedy of Errors, 1975

Church and the First Goal

Cricket Comes Home