What Happened To Me

A Memory of Splott.

My name was Lynette Evans

I’d just like to say hi to everyone that has shared memories of Splott.
I remember so much, so clearly, I was barely 3 years old when I moved from Llanharran to Portmanmore Road. It was a supermarket directly opposite the fish & chip shop owned by Greeks.

I'd like to pay my respect to a family that can't write their own memories; maybe this will jog somebody’s memory. In 1964, before we moved into the supermarket, another family had lived there. Sadly the family were gassed to death in their sleep. From what I recall, it was a mother, her infant-daughter and son as well as I think the grandmother. The father was working nights when the tragedy occurred. The mother of the children was a twin.
I think it was only two weeks after the tragedy that my family and I moved into the large supermarket; never ending floorboards, and a high wide windowsill. We lived at the backend of the shop. As I opened the door I entered the lounge, a stone fireplace greeted me. Straight ahead, a tiny kitchen; an old white sink, and one cupboard. To my left was the backdoor that lead to a narrow backgarden with a gate at the end.

The stairs was in the lounge on the left-hand side as you came in from the supermarket area. They lead up to a tiny landing and 2 bedrooms side-by-side. There was a street lamp by our frontdoor, and it would shadow on mine and my younger sister's front bedroom. We were all poor in those days, but more family orientated. I remember eating pancakes made from just flour and water; suger was a luxury that created an amzing memory.
My dad was Graham Evans, AKA Mac Evans; or Mac-the-knife; my mother; Linda Evans. We were known as gypsies; dad was well-known for his wheeling and dealing.

My Godfather was black, his name was George, he was married to Ann, my Godmother, she was white with blond hair. Sadly Ann died quite young.
I spent a lot of my time with Fritz who was also black. It was mostly a Catholic area, and yes I'm Catholic, but the rest of my family aren't, I never knew why. It was hard on times because of what we are, the same thing for blacks, that why we jelled so good.

The Taxi depot was directly behind our backgarden. Fritz would clean the old Black London Cabs that were kept there, I use to help him. It was an adventure. I was a scruffy little tomboy; Dad always said I should've been a boy. Nearly all the families in POrtmanmore Road was in poverty; kids raggedy dressed, but most were clean. Beg - steal and borrow for a morsel on a plate. People watched out for each other, stuck together, not like these days where parent's don't have a clue where their children are.
Even at the age of 3 years old I knew what work was.
The bus-stop was outside our frontdoor, and there was a bus-stop across the road outside the Fish-Chip-shop own by Greeks.

My grandmother Maureen Payne, AKA, Pobihem and Polish partner John Pobihem owned a Butcher Shop in Portmanmore Road not far from us. My twin aunts, Sandra and Sonia Pobihem, Janise Pobihem, Peter Payne AKA Pobihem and 3 year old Mark. They all lived above the Butcher-shop. One night I slept there and I recollect cockroaches’ crawling everywhere in their tiny flat.

I recall dad pinching large jars of rhubarb & custard hard boiled sweets; they were always stacked in a line on our backgarden wall.