about it. —I've enough to do, 'aven' I? she says. 'oovering out the 'all, polishin' all them brass fings. 'Oo does 'e fink he is, a bloomin' King or somefink? 'E's just dir'y, that's what 'e is, just dir'y! And you know what 'e does while I'm slavin' around in 'is room? 'E just sits there in 'is armchair an' I 'av to move his bloomin' feet to 'oover under 'im. What's 'e got a wife for, I'd like to know. Bofe of 'em are just dir'y an' worse than that, they're mean! Bofe of 'em. This is what my Martha has said to me. But now, she seems to have gone over to the other side! What have I done wrong? Martha is a Cockney or some variation of that remarkable species. She swallows her “h's” with remarkable relish and substitutes a hiccup on almost every “th” sound. But this makes her all the more endearing to me. The Cockney, like the Scot and Welshman, given the dialect changes, knows that only he speaks the true tongue of this island. All in together we are! Anyway, Martha and I got on well from the very start. We hadn't spoken when I had first met her scrubbing the steps, but it didn't take her long to introduce herself to me. One morning she rapped on the door and I opened it to see her standing there—my Martha! —I'm Martha, she said, squinting through her glasses. ‘Oo are you? Stammering, I introduced myself. I told her I was from New Zealand and had been a teacher there. —Teaching's a good lark, int it? she said. That made me bluster a bit more and I had to explain that I wasn't in London to teach. I was here to study music at the Guildhall. Straight away, Martha thought I was famous. —What did you say your name was? she asked. —Campbell, I answered. She digested this for a second and then pursed her lips. —Never 'eard of you, she said. Oh, we had a fine conversation! Martha was very interested in me, I could tell. —'Ow come you're so dark? she asked. —I have Maori blood in me, I answered. —Is that some sor' of disease or somefink? she asked. So I had to explain that Maori people were Polynesian —Just like them West Indians, Martha nobbed. That shocked me a bit, so I asked her: —But do I really look like a West Indian, Martha? —Cor, no! she answered hurriedly. I mean you 'aven' got the curly 'air 'ave you! An' you 'aven' the same kin' of colour 'ave you! An' your name, Campbell, well I mean that's Welsh int it! No. I'd fink you was a Spaniard or one of 'em! I was glad that my Mum wasn't around to hear. However, Martha was more interested in my musical ambitions. She asked me if she could look at my guitar and I told her I wasn't in London to learn to play an instrument but to compose music. She was very doubtful about this, but soon accepted it once I began to bring home manuscripts with musical notations. In no time at all, she began disturbing me on one pretext after another. In the end it became a regular thing for her to drop in for a cuppa before going home. I loved to listen to her and she confided a lot of information to me. I must have been the audience of her dreams. —Cor, Mr Campbell, there's been some proper goings on 'ere, I can tell you! she would say. Then she would look round to make sure nobody else was in the room, beckon me nearer with a finger and tell me all about it. —Three people 'ave died in this 'ouse, Mr Campbell! Three! One of 'em, poor ol' soul she was too, I was just talkin' to 'er like I'm talkin' to you now an' she just went like THAT! An' then there was the boy in the next room before you come, 'e was on drugs. Cor! The fings we found after we kicked him out! 'yperdemic needles, cotton wool, rubber tubes … 'E was an addic' you know. Then there was the woman upstairs. I took one look of 'er when she come 'ere an' I sez to meself: Martha, that one's a trollop an' make no bones about it. An' she was, too, Mr Campbell! We soon got rid of 'er, I can tell you! You'd never believe there was such