NEIGHBOURS.

We live at the beginning of a cul-de-sac in an end-of-terrace house, which means we only have a next-door neighbour on one side of us. They consist of a man in his twenties (whom for the purposes of this I shall call Ruffian), his wife (Mrs Ruffian), her son from a previous relationship (Step-Ruffian) and their new baby (Baby Ruffian).

Ruffian has only been there about a year. Before that the father of Step-Ruffian lived there, then suddenly we didn’t see him for a while, and Ruffian moved in. Shortly afterwards, Mrs Ruffian started to develop a swelling in her stomach area, and it wasn’t from eating too many pies!

Then one Saturday afternoon we were returning from visiting a local National Trust place when their car pulled up outside their house and out clambered Mrs. Ruffian who, it appears, had become Mrs. Ruffian that very day. Out of the car she hauled herself, resplendent in white nylon with baby shouting its imminence from her belly, the vision complete with cigarette in one hand and can of strong lager in the other. As she made her way to the door, Ruffian called after her, “Hang on Babe.”
“What?!” she delicately asked.
“Well I’m gonna carry you over the threshold.”
“No you ain’t.”
“Oh Mrs. Ruffian, why not?!”
“No, f*ck off you stupid b***ard!” and with that post-wedding, pre-partum poetical exchange, they began their married life.

Standing by our open back door I can hear them chatting to one another whilst they sit on their patio. They once had a very earnest conversation about how Coca-Cola used to come in 500ml cans, questioning why these were no longer available. Mrs. Ruffian, being younger than Ruffian, did not believe that this extraordinary idea was possible and at first simply refused to believe him, until he came back at her with the justification that he always used to buy one of these 500ml cans, along with a packet of Wheat Crunchies (crisps) on his way to school every morning. This seemed to her to be convincing anecdotal evidence.

Routinely they swear at Step-Ruffian and will raise their voices as soon as breathing. In the summer months Ruffian walks around without wearing a top of any kind. Step-Ruffian, who is approximately four years old, is allowed out of the house to the local shop by himself. When Baby Ruffian was born they named him after a pop star. Ruffian and Mrs Ruffian are rarely seen without accompanying cigarettes and I have often seen Ruffian holding a baby bottle in Baby Ruffian’s mouth whilst holding his cigarette in the same hand. Many a morning I am awoken by the dulcet tones of Ruffian attempting to extricate enough tar from his lungs to surface the average driveway, and as far as I can gather, they regularly indulge in ‘recreational’ stimulants. Ruffian also has some ‘anger issues’ which, from many an eavesdropped conversation (God, I really do need to get a life!) I think is to do with his father, possibly his absence and the general problem of him being a ‘w**ker’.

One morning I was disturbed in my work by a loud and repetitive clicking sound outside. I realised it was coming from the garden next door, so went upstairs to look out of the window to see what they were doing. Ruffian and Step-Ruffian were chasing each other around the garden, shooting at each other with cap guns, much to their mutual delight. Now, with my namby-pamby, left-wing, Guardian-reading, Bohemian sensibilities, I was of course faintly horrified at the use of mock firearms around a small child, but then I found myself torn, because Step-Ruffian was clearly having so much fun, and there are many fathers who do not spend ‘quality time’ with their children, trying to make them happy, and probably even fewer stepfathers who do so, and it has always been obvious how hard Ruffian tries.

Another day I heard Ruffian and Step-Ruffian having dinner together in their garden. Everything was apparently going swimmingly, until Step-Ruffian remarked “I don’t like these peas.” and quick as a flash - much to my consternation - Ruffian shouted back “Well don’t f***ing eat them then!”

Early evening a few days ago I was lying on my bed reading when I heard through my open window, Ruffian and Baby Ruffian coming out of their house. Ruffian’s mother had been visiting for the afternoon and was now leaving. She said her gooey goodbyes to Baby Ruffian and then, to my utter amazement, said her gooey goodbyes to her son! As she started to drive away he shouted after her “Love you Mum!” which, as a middle-class woman expert in my own repression, I found rather touching. I smiled and thought how nice that was, expecting him to then return inside his house, but I was then further stunned and amazed by the sound of Ruffian - who evidently thought he was unseen and unheard - singing to Baby Ruffian in the gentlest way you could possibly imagine. I was compelled to observe from the window, and watched him cradling his child, periodically kissing his head and smiling at him as he amused him with lyrical strains of “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.” I was transfixed; it was magical. Complicated things, people!