Meet the Street

Meet the Street: Mum & Dad

Everyone had a life before.

Dad (Abby) 

People don’t always clock it straight away.

They see an older bloke. Quiet. Keeps his hands busy. Doesn’t say much unless there’s a reason. That suits me fine.

Before everything changed, I was a soldier. Long enough ago that I don’t wear it on my sleeve. You learn early that shouting wastes energy and panic spreads faster than truth. You also learn that the best way to keep people safe is to make them feel like someone’s already thought things through.

The night it all went wrong, I didn’t rush. I checked the doors. The windows. The lines of sight down the street. Habit. You don’t stop doing that once it’s in your bones.

When the bang hit the window, people froze. That’s normal. I didn’t tell anyone what to do. I just started doing it. Adjusted the rope. Moved where I stood. Made space for the kids behind me without making a fuss about it.

Emma noticed. She always does.

I don’t need to lead. I support it. I stand where I’m most useful. If someone else has the plan, I make sure it holds. If someone’s shaking, I give them something solid to lean on.

My job now is the same as it ever was. Watch. Wait. Step in when it matters. Step back when it doesn’t.

The street doesn’t need another voice. It needs calm.

Mum (Georgina) 

My name’s Mum.

Everyone calls me that eventually.

Before all this, I fed people. Family, friends, and anyone who turned up hungry. Food has a way of making things manageable. You can’t fix the world on an empty stomach.

The night everything broke, I noticed how quickly people stopped eating. Plates left half-full. Food going cold. Fear does that. So I kept the kitchen going. Not because it was normal, but because it wasn’t.

Someone has to decide when normal stops being useful.

I don’t shout to take charge. I just do it. I know when to listen and when to move people along. I know when comfort works and when someone needs a firm word and a cup of tea shoved into their hands.

I feed the street now. Not just meals. Routine. Expectation. A sense that there will be something warm later, even if the day’s been hard. Especially then.

Dad pretends he doesn’t notice half of what I do. He does. He just lets me run things my way. That’s how we’ve always worked. He steadies the edges. I hold the middle.

When things get bad, people drift toward the kitchen without quite realising why. That tells me everything I need to know.

Queen’s Road holds because people are fed, watched, and not left to cope on their own.

That’s not softness. That’s survival.