The Bast-ards

The Community of Brougham Street, Kings Cross distanced themselves from the bohemians and beatniks; poets, artists, actors, witches, the transvestites, drug addicts and prostitutes. The likes of Beattie Miles, Rosaleen Norton, Lee Gordon .. "were not from 'ere" .. ''em what's not right in the 'ed", Dad would mutter.

Little did we know that 'e' was not right in the 'ed'! THE EVIL - far worse than these folks LIVED IN OUR OWN HOME!

Brougham Street houses were referred to by their 'family names' or just simply by their numbers. 82 was the most interesting as the house changed occupants frequently, it was then named after its inhabitants, The Kellys, The Smiths (lovely Maltese family with six children Charlie, George, Mary, Alex, Ronnie and Little Richard). I was very pleased when The Smiths moved out and The Beatniks moved in.

1960 THEN there was 70, (we never mentioned 70 without a sneer on our faces). Here lived a rather large 'family', a strange hoard of bedraggled, zombie like people, referred to as The Basts. Old Mrs Bast, who wore the same dress everyday and had bugs crawling over her. Raising nine plus kids on her own during World War 1 and the depression had taken its toll. She never spoke to me. Her children were a frightful lot .. Cecil was openly gay, he would toddle around after Dad with his 'cardie' over his shoulder.

Vera, 4 foot 10 inches short looked like Minnie Mouse in her huge white shoes staggering down from the Picadilly Hotel once a month demanding the family endowment money that her mother was given to support her child, this would result in rows. After her drinking session, the remains of her red lipstick would be smeared across her little rat face, her stockings wrapped around her little skinny legs. She would stand outside our house and use naughty words, directing her insults to my father then proceed on down to 70 muttering "you bastard".

Freda, looked like an old hag, she was only 30, toothless and unwashed ... you see, there was no bathroom or laundry in number 70, Freda couldn't speak, she had been burnt as a child and could only grunt. Elaine never spoke, Renee never spoke, John never spoke.

Most of the other Basts had left 'home', and would trek back and forth over the years. It was the saddest looking house in the street, with bits of cardboard for curtains. Bereft of furniture, newspaper served as a tablecloth.

Naturally, I would sneak down there at every opportunity to play with Peter 'Brown'. Mum caught me coming out of there one day, she burnt my clothes and made me promise never to go there again.

I was, however close to Uncle 'Barwick' and Aunty Glady .. I believe they had not suffered Dad's cruel and blackmailing ways - yet!

Old Mrs Bast, was in fact only 60 years of age and, my paternal grandmother!