Prologue
Sonia was taking her daily stroll through the local park to see what was happening in the world. She passed others either out for a walk, or using the park as a short cut across to the high street.
Everybody seemed to know Sonia whether they were young or old. Children greeted her, "'Allo Sonia." Older people said, "Good morning Sonia." Youths yelled out, "How's it going, Sonia." Yes, everybody seemed to know Sonia.
No doubt they all had different reasons for knowing her, but all their reasons were bound together by the one fact that Sonia had been born, bred and still lived in Balaklava Terrace in one of London's older working class suburbs.
She had been born fifty-two years ago, got pregnant at seventeen, married at seventeen and a half, and widowed at forty-two. No further offspring resulted for her marital union, and that might have been her history, except that Sonia had one or two qualities that made her a bit special.
The overarching feature that embraced these qualities might best be described as "compassion," or perhaps "sympathy," or even "empathy." I leave it to the linguists and psychologists to sort that lot out.
Put in practical terms, if someone was hurt or in trouble, Sonia was always the first one on the scene making a cup of tea. If someone was about to be kicked out of his or her house for failing to pay the rent, Sonia somehow managed to find the money to pay up. If a child fell and cut its knee, Sonia was there to wash and bandage. When a pregnancy was going wrong, Sonia seemed to know what to do. In short, whatever the problem someone always said, "Better send for Sonia."
In youth, she had been the prettiest girl in the street, and if life had brought its troubles and lines upon her, she could still present a reasonable face and figure to the world. Her five foot three inches moved with dignity. She was nobody's fool, as anyone who tried to take her for one soon found out. As she would put it, "I sent 'em off with a flea in their ear."
So Sonia was something of an icon in Balaklava Terrace, and that is to use the word in its correct sense. She was the one through whom the other Balaklava residents saw the world. For example, at election times if Sonia was voting Labour, all the Balaklava people voted Labour. If she voted Conservative, they voted Conservative. Wise candidates made sure they cultivated Sonia.
On national and international affairs, she was the acknowledged expert, and Balaklavovians took their views from her. On medicine, law, psychology, theology, and all other notable matters, Sonia had but to pronounce to be followed, at least, in Balaklava Terrace.
But Sonia had one other side to her nature, and this is the one we shall concentrate on now. As she took her morning constitutional, she kept a weather eye out for signs of troubled ones. She was just passing a rather bad statue of Mr.Gladstone when she spotted her first needy case. A young man sitting on a park bench, shoulders bowed, head in hands, presented as a case of abject misery.
Sonia had known this lad since he was but a twinkle in his father's eye (that's another story). She approached the despairing youth and addressed him. "Hello Sid. What's up?" "Nothin," choked the melancholy Sid. "Don't give me that, young Sid. I know when something's up, and you certainly do have something up." "That's just the trouble, I haven't," moaned the boy. Sonia thought she saw light.
Now it was the case before English people became addicted to the poisonous brew they call "coffee," the solace for all woes was tea. Sonia had never veered from this view, so she decided that as a preliminary step, tea was the thing for what ailed this boy. Thus she said firmly, "Come and have a cup of tea."
It might have been the case that this youth had no desire to sup tea with Sonia, but as any Balaklava resident will tell you, no one says "No," to a tea offer from Sonia, unless of course, they desire to spend the rest of their lives ostracized by all. So did the woebegone youth trail after Sonia to her residence, namely, number 24 Balaklava Terrace.
Diagnosis
Entering upon the Terrace's equivalent of the Royal Palace, the youth was directed to the front parlour, which is Sonia's consulting room, and Sonia set about preparing the remedial brew in the kitchen. When all the necessary rituals for this exercise had been performed, and the cups filled, with royal tread she conveyed the steaming liquid into the parlour.
Once settled in her consulting chair, she commenced. "Now no nonsense, young Sid. What's up?" The problem was elucidated in a single word, "Women." "Ah," said Sonia, "and what about women?" "I can't do it," cried our forlorn hero. Sonia "Ah'd" once more, and gave herself time to consider. Realising that further symptomology was required she pressed the point.
"Just exactly why can't you do it, Sid." She dropped the "young" because the presenting problem was clearly one belonging to more mature years. (Sid was eighteen). Sid cleared his throat, wiped some tears from his eyes, and muttered, "It won't stay up."
Sonia refrained from ahing this time and instead said, "Oh." This done, she felt that something more ought to be expressed, so she asked, "Does it stay up when your pulling yourself off in bed?" "Yep," said Sid. Forswearing both "ah" and "oh," Sonia moved into a state of profundity and said, "I see." Many times had this condition presented itself for her ministrations over the years, so she decided to go down the tried and true track that had usually worked in the past.
The remedy she had in mind meant some preliminary preparation on her part. She excused herself to Sid and vacated the parlour. Sid, left alone, whiled away the time looking at yellowing photographs of Sonia's grandfather who was gassed in the First World War, and her grandmother who died of alcohol poisoning.
