The world, so Manny says, is a large and wonderful place; but standing here, it shrinks. Looking at the boarded and fenced house that stands on the corner of Wood Street and York Avenue makes everything that I’ve become focus down to the history held within a simple end terrace. Nothing special to most; it wouldn’t even merit a second glance to passers by. Yet it has its own gravity. There’s a certain magic here where the reality is thin and I have to try hard not to slip through into the past, or worse, step sideways and become a different me. Manny says there’s no such thing as magic, but it’s real enough. This is where I began, and in all likelihood, where I’ll end.

Waiting at the gate, Michael watched the door for his brother. It was twenty to four and all the other children had long since rushed from the building and disappeared into the surrounding neighbourhood. Some in groups, some in pairs, they’d all rushed off making plans for the weekend. Now, all was quiet around  the Victorian built school adrift in a sea of concrete.

Michael sighed and looked again at the door. Just as he was about to check his old, Timex watch for what seemed like the tenth time, his brother appeared. Head down, shirt untucked and dragging his bag behind him, Charlie walked into the sun towards the gate. With trousers two terms too short and a grey shirt, once white, he shuffled unhurriedly watching the ground in front of him.

‘ ‘Bout time too,’ Michael grunted as Charlie drew level. ‘What’s up?’

Charlie stopped.

‘Nothing. Can we go to the park on the way home?’

‘No, late already. Come on.’

Michael took Charlie’s bag, threw it over his shoulder and set off towards home with Charlie scuffing his feet behind. The streets, now quiet after the earlier explosion of noise and excitement from other children swallowed the boys into miniature, unexplored universes hidden behind closed doors. Having reached the corner they stopped and watched the front door.

‘Quiet,’ Michael said, and pushed Charlie through the gate and down the path.

Michael waits at the gate for his brother to arrive. Three-thirty sees two hundred or so children rush from the building and disappear into the neighbourhood in all directions. Some laughing and shouting, some in pairs and small groups, some making arrangements for meeting later after tea at the ‘rec.’ All though, eagerly homeward bound after a day trapped inside a building constructed in Victorian times, surrounded by concrete and manned by discontented staff.

Michael sighs and guesses the time must be about twenty to four. He spots Charlie slump out of the junior entrance, head down and shuffling towards him. Late afternoon sun lights Charlie from the front showing scuffed shoes, too short trousers and a greying and stained untucked shirt.

‘’Bout time. Come on, we’ll be late,’ says Michael. ‘What’s up?’

Charlie stops by his brother.

‘Nothing. Can we go to the park on the way home?’

‘No. Late already. Come on.’

Michael takes Charlie’s bag, throws it over his shoulder with his own and walks off with Charlie following reluctantly behind him. Streets now quiet, swallow the boys into the miniature universes that exist unknown behind closed doors. They reach the corner and stop at the gate, watching the front door.

‘Quiet,’ Michael says and gently pushes Charlie through towards the front door.