After several attempts the nervous voice at the end of the phone finally quits with excuses, he sounds like my dad which comforts and alarms me at the same time.
The Dagenham Post could only of been out hours, maybe his call about my appeal for help is more impulsive than thought out on his behalf, whatever, I need to keep him talking seeing his number is withheld and his ID like my family a mystery.
Get Dagenham Days.’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
Like working on a Samaritans hotline I feel I need to let him talk despite having a 1,000 questions running riot in my head. I had hoped someone; anyone would see my bait in the local paper, a few minutes in and my biter is defo one I don’t want to get away.
Within a few minutes I’ve learned more about the elusive Steptoe’s than a lifetime of being part of this mysterious family.
Any morsel of info would satisfy my hunger for facts; this geezer on the end of the phone is giving me a feast.
He starts off with memories obviously prompted by the black and white pics I hoped the Dag rag would print, like a copper I feel a bit smug that my plan might have worked. We exchange small talk, his voice is less nervous, I still resist butting in, instead let him spill the details.
He can remember my mum, this is strange, someone other than family who can paint an unbiased picture of who Dorothy Steptoe was. I am all ears and frantically make notes on an old envelope which is the only paper I can lay my hands on. How I wish it was bigger.
