nid winced as she reached for the tea caddie. She grasped her hip, were the pain gnawed like a hungry animal. She massaged the spot until the stabbing settled to a manageable agony. That was the trouble with getting old, she mused. You spent the first fifty years of your life as a reasonably healthy specimen, but the minute the half-century was passed, your body began to steadily disintegrate. In her case, thirty years of this degeneration had taken its toll, every morning brought a new ache to her slight frame. Her hip was just one more on the list of casualties.

" Just worn out," Doctor Baker had said almost cheerfully. " We can't expect our joints to go on for ever. What you need is a nice plastic replacement, then we'll have you dancing again." She had laughed at that, her dancing years had been over long before her hip had betrayed her.

" I'll refer you to the orthopaedic clinic at the hospital and they will put you on the waiting list." And what a list it had been.

Almost a year had gone by since her visit to the specialist and she had resigned herself to the thought that her funeral would arrive before the hospital card. Then this morning it had flown boldly through her letterbox, as if daring her to question its tardiness. She had opened it hesitantly. Now that the waiting was over, some of her enthusiasm seemed to have drained away.

"About two weeks," had been the reply when she had rung about the length of her hospital stay. "By that time you should be well and truly back on your feet." However, it wasn't getting back on her feet that worried her, it was the two weeks away from her flat that made the little niggle of concern eat at her stomach.

She reached for the caddie once more, carefully keeping her torso straight, so as not to disturb the demon again. Opening the lid, she peered inside and decided there was just enough left. Once the tea was made she carried it, with her ungainly limp, back into the lounge, placing it carefully onto the coffee table beside the sofa. With practised care she lowered her frame slowly into the upholstery. When she had eased herself into a comfortable position, she reached for the tea, then changed her mind and instead picked up the silver-framed photo next to the cup.

A sad smile played about her lips as she gazed at the couple in the snap. How she missed Tom. Even after two years she still sometimes found herself turning to speak to him. They had been such opposites, Tom easy going, always joking, comfortable in any company, while she had been the reserved one, never at ease with other people. "Stand offish", he had teased her, softening the words with his characteristic wink. Yet despite their differences they had spent fifty-six happy years together.

"Married in haste and never repented a minute." Tom used to tell all and sundry. Enid had always been quick to point out that the haste hadn't been for the usual reason. In the Britain of nineteen forty, call up papers had prompted many hasty nuptials. She had been lucky; Tom had come home to her, lots of other women weren't so fortunate.

Her eyes left the photo and travelled around the shabby flat. When they had first moved in, almost half a century ago, it had seemed like a palace to them. Up until then they had shared her parent's small terrace house. When the children had come along it had been a tight squeeze, so they were overjoyed to be offered one of the new flats on the council estate.

"It's got a bathroom AND an inside toilet," her mother has said with awe.

"Like royalty," Tom had quipped. "We might be to posh to talk to you now," he added with a wink". She smiled at the memory and gently set the photo frame onto the table and turning her attention towards the tea. When she had drained the cup, she raised herself from the sofa and limped over to the window. Relief washed over her as she surveyed the empty courtyard beyond. They had gone at last, now she could get on with her shopping trip. It had been ten days since her last expedition and her cupboards were almost empty. Moving stiffly, she donned her hat and coat and retrieved her purse and shopping bag from the kitchen. At the door she paused, opening it a crack and scanning the courtyard again. Only when she was satisfied that it was completely empty did she venture outside. <

Fear of the gangs of teenagers, like the ones who had been loitering earlier, had made her shopping trips a nightmare. Up until his death Tom had always been the one who bought their supplies. He had had no fear of the gangs, even exchanging quips with some of the boys.

"They're not bad kids," he would tell her when she voiced her fears. " Mind you, some of the hairstyles are a bit alarming, but deep down they are the same as our kids were". But a tight-lipped Enid knew that wasn't true. Newspapers and television had told her how different they were. When her children were young, drug addiction was something that happened a million miles away. In those days people could walk the streets without fear of mugging, or worse. Only yesterday the newspaper had carried a picture of one of the latest victims. She shuddered as the image of the old lady's battered face rose in her mind.

As she crossed the courtyard, she tried not to look at the obscene graffiti that defaced most of the walls. At the corner a large swastika confronted her. It made her want to cry, remembering her brother James, who had given his life to save his country from the hated symbol

An hour later the shopping bag pulled heavily at her arm as she retraced her journey. She knew that she had bought too much for her to carry comfortably, but as always, she had endeavoured to make the space between the shopping trips longer.

As she turned into the courtyard, she caught sight of a familiar leather jacket and her heart gave a stutter of fear. It was him, the new one. He had been around for a couple of months now. He was older than the rest of them and from the way they clustered around him, obviously their leader. Maybe, he was the one who brought in the drugs, he looked the type. His olive skin and dark spiky hair, gave him a foreign appearance. One of the younger ones was with him. A thin pasty-faced boy, his head shaved like a convict, who lived in one of the flats above her.

Fifty yards away she could see her front door. If she could just make it there she would be safe. She urged her legs forward, ignoring the screamed protest from her hip. Out of the corner of her eye she could see them moving towards her and forced herself into a stumbling trot. She was within inches of the door when her hip joint locked, pitching her forward. Her shoulder collided painfully with the wall making her cry out. They were almost upon her, their hands reaching menacingly. A picture of the old woman in the paper flashed into her mind, frightened eyes, in a face marred by livid bruises. The image made her moan in terror. Her purse was still clutched tightly in her hand. She held it out towards them in a gesture of surrender. Willing them to take everything as long as they didn't hurt her, but the hands were already upon her.

"Are you all right Mrs Benson, have you hurt yourself?" Panic turned to confusion as she stared up at him. He smiled. "Come on, let's get you inside."

"My grandfather was an Italian prisoner of war," Mark Santino told her, as she sipped the tea he had made for her. "Fell in love with a local girl and stayed on after the war was over. Opened his own bakery and made a success of it as well. My dad wanted me to go into the business, but all I ever wanted was to join the police force. Been in ten years now."

Two years ago he had volunteered for a youth services programme. It was designed to help kids on inner city estates, like this one.

"There are a couple of bad apples, but on the whole they're not bad kids. They have problems just like anyone else, they just need a bit of direction. The council have given us the use of two of the empty shops and we are trying to set up some kind of centre there." He gestured to the pale boy, who was putting away her shopping, stacking the tins with almost military precision. "Darren's mum and some of the others were a bit worried about you. If you were managing all right since your hubby died, with your hip and all." She found herself telling him about the hospital and her worries about leaving her flat for two weeks.

"No worries there Mrs B," Darren broke in. " Me and the lads will keep an eye on things."

Now, long after they had left, she was still sitting here, her mind tumbling with thoughts and emotions. She recalled how some of the neighbours had tried to approach her after Tom's death and flushed with shame when she thought about her response. She hadn't been nasty, but fear and distrust had made her coldly polite. Stand-offish, as Tom would have said. Picking up the photo again, she stared at his familiar face and another of his sayings popped into her head. She could hear his voice quite clearly, half serious, half joking.

"Life's a two-way street Enid, it's no good hanging about at the corner."