WHAT AN ESTATE TO BE IN

​The smell of creosote and freshly cut grass was carried by a warm summer breeze as Scott and I cycled through Brakefield, the new-build housing estate in South Brent made up of white pebble-dash houses and bungalows. It was the first Saturday of the summer holidays in 1985, we were 10 and the days ahead were warm and wonderous.

Scott, my best friend, was on his Raleigh Striker, and I was on my red BMX, freshly washed that very morning and gleaming in the afternoon sun. We drove up onto the pavement but soon had to bunny-hop back onto the road as a section was blocked by traffic cones and a line of plastic tape between them. A deep and warm smell of tar filled the air as we pedaled by.

We spotted Colin and Richard on their Raleigh Burners and immediately headed their way, shouting their names as we approached and pulling hard on our back brakes to see who could leave the longest skid marks. “That was skill”, I said to Scott. “SO skill!”, he replied, as we looked back with pride at the rubber trails behind us.

There was Richard with his yellow and blue Burner and Colin with his gold one, which glistened in the summer sunshine. Wearing nothing but shorts and trainers, the four of us sat on our bikes as the sun dried the beads of sweat on the back of my hair. We gathered around Richard, who showed us his wad of Panini stickers, and as he flicked through them, we spotted the ones we needed to complete our respective albums. “Got…got…swap ya…got…ooh, John Barnes..."

“Beep beep!” shouted a boy of around six as he drove past us erratically on his bright yellow go-kart, weaving left and right along the pavement and then cutting across his lawn and disappearing out of sight down the side of his house.

Earlier in Scott’s back garden, we’d played with Star Wars figures in his shed, then soaked each other with the hose, just after his Dad had cut the lawn. Our legs were itchy and covered in blades of cut grass, which we had thrown at each other in huge clumps. The water in my grass-covered Velcro trainers squelched against my soles as I straddled my BMX and looked up at airline contrails. It made me think of my dad, 4,000 miles away in Oman, and I wondered what he was up to right now and if he was thinking of me.

Across from where we had gathered, a recently washed Sierra dried off as the puddles of water on the driveway gave off a smell akin to that of an approaching rainstorm.

It was still very warm as the removals men hauled open the back of the truck to reveal tea crates, white goods, and a deep wall of boxes, and I thought back to the excitement I had when we arrived. A few days later, this new boy called Jason joined in with cops and robbers, building dens in the nearby fields and constructing bike ramps out of anything we could get our hands on.

A Bedford ice cream truck playing Greensleeves turned into the estate, and with it, the familiar sound of Greensleeves. Some of us had a few coins in our damp pockets, so we took off on our next pursuit after the van, pedaling furiously to be the first in line. As soon as the sliding window was opened, we were hit with the sweet smell of vanilla ice cream. "Right, lads, what can I get you?”

Our lips had turned the shade of our ice pops, and we all stuck out our coloured tongues as juice dribbled down the plastic wrapper and onto our pale, skinny legs. We tilted our heads back to get the last remaining drop. A Flymo lawnmower fell silent as Greensleeves started up once more and the van made its way to the next cul-de-sac. That night, my window was slightly ajar to let in the light evening breeze. It was half-light outside, but dark enough for me to make out the ET and Ghostbusters glow-in-the-dark stickers on my headboard. My Airfix Concorde, hanging from the ceiling with a piece of fishing line, gently swayed from side to side as I listened to the distant and distinctive sound of an Intercity 125 train.

My eyes grew heavy as I held my Harry Heathrow bear, and I wondered what had happened to my tee shirt. Ah yes, I thought – Scott’s garden—it wouldn’t be the first time. The television was on downstairs, and as I turned toward the wall and closed my eyes, I heard a muffled "And it's goodnight from me, and it's goodnight from him."