We moved to Portchester in August 1969, a few weeks before my seventh birthday and before I started at Castle Lane Junior School.
Mum said we had been waiting for the house. I did not know who had kept it from us or why they had finally changed their mind. Adults spoke about council houses, lists and offers as though a building had to pass through several offices before anybody was allowed to live in it.
The new house had three bedrooms, an indoor bathroom and a garden. These were the facts repeated to relatives. The indoor bathroom received particular attention, even though the Copnor house had acquired one by then. It was still recent enough to count as progress twice.
Dad arranged the move with help from a man he knew at the Dockyard. Furniture went into a van. Boxes went wherever there was room. Mum carried the important bag herself, though nobody told me what was in it. I assumed money. It was probably tea, documents and the key.
Peter tried to establish that, as the eldest child, he should have first choice of bedroom. Mum told him the larger bedroom was theirs and the next one was his. I was given the smallest room. This was presented as good news because I no longer had to share.
I did not argue. A room of my own sounded important, although I had very little to put in it. There was a bed, a small chest of drawers and a few books. Mum said we would sort it out properly later. In family life, properly later could cover anything from Saturday morning to several years.
The house smelled of paint in some places and previous cooking in others. Mum opened cupboards, wiped shelves and inspected the cooker. Dad checked taps, sockets and doors. Peter went upstairs and downstairs without carrying anything until Dad noticed.
I stayed near the front door because I had not yet worked out which parts of the house belonged to us. The answer was all of it, within the limits set by rent, council rules and Mum.
Outside, the street seemed wider than the one in Copnor. There were front gardens, low walls and children who already knew one another. I watched them from the gate. They did not appear interested in the fact that we had moved house, which was disappointing after the amount of work involved.
The move meant leaving Harbour View Infants. I had understood the house part. Beds, boxes and a van made sense. A new school was harder to measure. Mum had told me Castle Lane would be fine. She had not been there as a pupil, so I considered her evidence weak.
I asked whether Peter would be at the same school. He would not. He was older and would travel elsewhere. He treated this as another advantage of age.
By midday, Mum had found the kettle and something to eat. We sat among boxes. Dad said the worst was over. Mum looked towards the stairs and said nothing.
The first night was mainly about finding things. Sheets were in one box, towels in another and Peter’s pyjamas somewhere he insisted he had already checked. Mum found them in the box he had checked. Dad fitted the beds together and discovered one missing screw, which he replaced from a tin he had brought with him. This was why Dad’s tins were allowed to move house without being inspected.
I slept in the small room on my own. I had wanted that. Once the landing light went out, I was less certain. I called for Mum to ask where the toilet was, although I had used it twice already. She showed me again and left the landing light on.
The next morning, Dad went back to work. Mum had to find the nearest shops, register us with a doctor and work out the route to school. Peter had already found boys to talk to. I had found the gate.
The garden had a patch of grass, a path and a shed that Dad opened with care. It contained two shelves and a broken broom left by the previous tenant. Dad said the shelves were useful. Mum said the broom was going. The shed had been assessed.
Peter found boys near the end of the street and disappeared. Mum told me to go outside and see who was about. I said I did not know anybody.
‘That’s how you start,’ she said.
I went as far as the gate.
A girl from two doors down came over. She had short brown hair and a skipping rope looped round one hand. She asked whether I was new.
I said no. We had been there since the morning.
She looked past me at the van, the boxes and Dad carrying a chair through the hall.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Margaret.’
‘I’m Denise. Are you allowed out?’
I went back inside to ask Mum.