BOARDING HOUSE by ROWLEY HABIB It is a tall square three-storied structure of part brick and part wood. And it stands just off the street amongst several other houses at the foot of a hill. The side of the building facing the street looks out over a high dilapidated fence and unkept front yard. Some of the windows look down on the flat corrugated iron roof of a vacant building which had its window panes and doors smashed in a long time ago. Part of the roughcast surface has been stripped away and the red bricks and mortar show through in a big lopsided shape. Ugly; like some animal baring its teeth. And immediately it brings to mind those war-torn houses in Europe that we see on the films or in magazines, or that some of you may have seen in person. We approach the window at which a dull dirty light is showing. The window is unclean, with stale, long since abandoned cobwebs hanging at the corners. Faded curtains, that look as though they might shatter into pieces at the first touch, hang at the sides of the window. It is a dining room, with two tables, half a dozen chairs and a shiny black coal burner against the wall beneath the mantelpiece. The room is lit by a lone electric light which hangs from the middle of the room and is encased by a dirty opaque glass shade. There are several notices pinned on the wall above the mantelpiece. They are all written by hand, except one, an oblong card with the heavy black print standing out clearly … ‘City Taxis Phone …’ The rest of the wall is devoid of any kind of decoration and the faded yellow wallpaper is cracked and hanging in places. Several men are in the room. They are working men. You can pick this immediately. They wear open-necked shirts; some under jerseys and some under sports coats faded with age and work; some quite grimy with grease and dirt. Some of the men appear to be asleep in their chairs. Others are reading. The radio is going, turned very low. But light soothing orchestral music is coming from it. I suppose I should have waited a little longer before I began to write this. Waited at least till some of the people I am writing about have left the boarding house, or I have left. I have been thinking of leaving here ever since I moved in. From the first day, when I saw the appalling state it was in. The bath had just been used that day, and whoever had used it had not bothered to clean it out after him. It was rimmed with dirt. Not only from the last user, it seemed, but from users weeks before him. Also I found out from one of the other boarders, not long after I moved in, that the landlord and his wife would not permit Maoris to sleep on the same floor as they. I had this confirmed a week or two later. Their children came running up to me one afternoon as I was coming down the path to the house after work. They were flushed with their running and out of breath. The little girl almost ran into me. They gathered around and the boy said, ‘Sing us a song Paul.’ And the rest joined in, fussing around me, ‘Yes, sing us a song Paul,’ they said. We were having our end-of-the-year concert at work and were having lunch time rehearsals. That was why I had my guitar with me. ‘What would you like?’ I said. ‘Sing Tom Dooley,’ came the unanimous request. I shifted the guitar from off my back and steadied it in front of me. We were standing on the slope of the hill leading down to the house and we could look out over part of the city and the other housetops and the street below. I have never found it hard to sing anywhere, especially if I wanted to. And I like singing to children because I know it makes them happy. I sang a couple of verses but it wasn't very good. I was feeling a bit tired and I wasn't really in the mood. When I stopped they all chorused, ‘Aw, come on Paul. That wasn't all. Sing some more. Sing the rest of it.’ I never did like the song much, and I felt