A Walk with Father

He leads me through East London, docks, pubs, among the stray dogs, the River Thames lapping at low clouds. We find the second-hand player in a street where the shops are dusty holes under the arches of viaducts and railway bridges, Me carrying the portable Dancette record player in its hard Bakelite box, lifting it by its leatherette handle, and I, small for my age but wanting so much to lug it all the way home. The plastic cuts my fingers, sharp corners bark my shins. Father talks of his life here, the blackouts and bombs, rationing, and the bloody Saturday night street fights. He whistles tunes from a songbook of dead crooners. That evening sitting together, with Sinatra - watching the dark blue Capitol label spiral and blur, hearing the unseen belt under the bobbing needle as it chewed vinyl - reliving the clunk-clunk of our boots as we pushed back fog-muted miles. Years later, finding that player again in mother's attic, lifting the machine feeling how light, it is, willing to take another walk with him yet not knowing how to catch up.