‘What a lovely story,’ she said. ‘Usually it’s the other way round. I mean, the GIs and so on.’
I grinned at her. ‘I don’t think she was overpaid, though she brought her own nylons with her. And my dad’s from West Africa, so things sort of came full circle.’
Natasha had come back. ‘Alex’s American grandma can tell you stories about slavery,’ she said loudly. ‘She heard them from her grandfather. He was born a slave.’
‘Goodness,’ the lady said again. ‘I do hope she’ll write it all down some day. It’s such a shame when these memories don’t get handed on.’
Higher and higher again, into the thick of the leaves. The branches are thinner here; they move in my hands and under my feet, and everything rustles and shifts about me, almost as if the tree itself is breathing. I can’t see the ground so well now for all the leaves. If I were Robin Hood and wanted to shoot a deer, I’d have to aim carefully. I used to practise and practise so I could be part of Robin Hood’s band. And then Grandpapa gave me the storybook, and I was sitting in the library window because the lamps weren’t lit yet... And when I got to the end of the book it felt like the end of the world – everything – Robin Hood was dead – how could anything be left? Someone came in. Everyone was kind, but it was Grandpapa who really understood.
Sometimes I used to dream I had wings. Not silly baby wings, like the Cupid and Psyche above the library fireplace, but like the angels in my Sunday picture book: long, fierce wings with thick feathers, so that they could fly down from Heaven and sing Gloria in excelsis Deo. Nannie says that people become angels when they die, but I don’t think Miss Barber believes that, because she had a very up-to-date education at a university before she became our governess. Or are they like faeries? The sort she was telling us about when we were reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream? Living for hundreds of years, then withering away like a leaf in winter because they have no souls. Dust to dust, grey dust like a ghost, blowing away in a puff of wind.
Will Grandpapa come back as a ghost? I don’t think I’d mind if he did. I think I’d rather that, than know he’s gone forever.
Not bones under our feet but the kitchen, still being restored but the steps down to it health-and-safety approved for visitors. A wide, black range set into the wall, pots and pans, knives and pudding basins, and gadgets, all black iron and worn wood, for slicing hams and carving loaf sugar. Small, thick arches hinted at cellars, and light was funnelled down from windows high in the vaulted ceiling, to slide like bright water over the copper of the saucepans and lie in stretchy patches on the stone floor. The light flickered and I looked up. The windows above our heads were at ground level for the people going about their business outside; the flicker was their passing shadows.
There wasn’t much more to see, but I felt reluctant to climb back up the kitchen stairs. Up there was the pleasure palace – the show house – a confection of cream and gilt. But down here was solid brick and wood, Windsor chairs, work and food and a fire. Even in the wash of morning light I could imagine it in winter, at night, with the range lit and glowing, lamplight licking into the corners and vaults, the sweet, drunken scent of rising bread, and the crackle of dripping in the pan.
‘I suppose we could even have the party here,’ I said. ‘It would be nice and original. We could carry Grandpa’s chair down between us, me and a couple of the men. Though from the light point of view the library would be the best room – it faces west. Mind you, that little chamber organ – how mad is that to have in your house? It does make it rather like a church. Handy for weddings, I suppose.’
Natasha turned on her heel, ran up the stairs and disappeared through the door at the top.
I caught up with her outside on the gravel as she stormed towards the road. ‘Tash, what’s the matter?’ I said, though I knew what the matter was.
‘Did my mother put you up to this? Are you softening me up? Waiting till it’s all warm and lovely at the party, and everyone’s thinking the same thing. Wouldn’t it make Grandpa and Grandma happy before they finally go – at Grandpa’s age it might be tomorrow. Joining the families – wouldn’t it be romantic? And all that sort of crap, and I’ll be full of champagne and you’ll ask, and I’ll feel all the family pushing me to say Yes! Mum and Granny most of all!’
At least now I knew exactly what she was so angry about, but how dared she think I’d go behind her back like that? ‘Your mother hasn’t said anything of the sort! If she wants you to have – to have what she was denied... She’s never talked about it, and if she did, I wouldn’t insult you by joining in. As for the party, I’ll be far too busy making it happen. Have you any idea how peculiar my family is? And yours isn’t much better, you said so yourself. Full-time management job.’
‘You don’t have to invite my family.’
‘Yes I do – how could we leave them out?’ Too late, I realised that, they’re how we met, was hanging in the air like the worst kind of rom com, the one which ends with confetti in the sky.
She was standing very straight, counsel for the prosecution. ‘So you expect me to believe that my staying with you – organising this party – none of it’s a test?’
‘A test? Dear God, Tash! Why would I want to test you? I love you, and you make me happy. I – I thought I made you happy too.’ I held out a hand, as if to bridge the gap between us but without much hope, and she didn’t respond. ‘I love you, and I want to be with you. That’s all.’
The breeze suddenly whisked through the air between us, brushing my cheek and swirling her hair. It seemed to start a smile inside her that spread to her mouth and eyes, and they were still smiling as we wrapped ourselves together.
‘I love you too… ’ she said happily, and then ages later, ‘Are you serious about using the kitchen for the party?’
‘No. I think we should be as grand as we want. All that gilding, all those gods… Let’s take possession of it, for Grandma and Grandpa.’
Up here, I can still believe in flying. I used to think Grandpapa would live forever, but he didn’t, and when I’m back on the earth I’ll know it. In a moment I’ll climb down and look for that arrow, but not just yet – not for a moment – not till the sun moves on.
BROMLEY
The Penge Missives
Emile West
Thursday, 7 January 2010
Dear Eleanor,
I spent a good couple of months pondering how I would open this letter. I googled, I asked friends, I even went to the Maple Road library to consult books on etiquette and decorum. Alas there is no tome entitled How to Say ‘Hello’ to a Loved One a Decade Later.
A decade later.
I find myself at a loss to understand how ten years have passed so quickly. And what has been gained and lost. After much thought and consultation I came to the conclusion that the best three words to open this letter would indeed be:
I am sorry.
I can clearly see the rise in your eyebrows, your beautiful blonde arches casting a shadow on this very page. But this is the truth. And it has to count for something. And I can’t think of three better words to write to you, and so I begin.
You may be wondering how I found you. Serendipitous perhaps, but I ran into Dan at Beckenham Road Station. Now don’t be angry with him, he put up a good fight, but I managed to squeeze him for your address. I expect he gave it up because he thought I’d be too sheepish to contact you. This was in December. He was there with Jackson, who’s grown into a fine young man (though he didn’t remember me). We tried to make chitchat, ended up sitting in different sections when the train arrived. I’m surprised that you’ve moved north of the river. I never thought that would happen.
I’m still in the two-bed in Penge. Few things have changed. I redecorated the bathroom, the boiler passed. One winter I considered getting a cat, sharing it with the mismatched couple next door. You can forego calls to the RSPCA, it didn’t happen. Henry Porter plus Cat – a recipe for disaster, I know. The biggest change, and in many ways the spur to my contacting y
ou, has been that after nearly twenty years of loyal service, I have been sent to pastures new. The last time I remember scenes like this was in ’91 when that unfortunate chappie met a rough tide on his yacht. I was 35 then, in my prime you could say, and I weathered that storm quite well. This time it was like a giant black veil descended from the ceiling, enveloping the picture desk. Deathly silence, not even the rapping of keyboards or curt telephone calls.
The actual conversation was a blur. I drifted off and found you as my anchor. We were back in Florence, must have been spring ’98, taking a walk after dinner, pausing as we crossed the Arno. Yes, it’s the moment I asked you to marry me. And you said ‘Yes’ almost like you were asking a question. I needed that memory then. The pursuant regrets barbed me. I knew that I had to make amends. Regrets are like children, the more you give them thought the more they grow and beget yet more and more regrets. In this respect, you could say I am a grandfather.
I went home early that day, caught the train from Victoria, got off two stops late and bought a packet of cigarettes. I toyed with the cellophane, considered how my finances would be stretched, eventually threw the packet away much to the delight of a passing teenager. A week later I cleared my desk.
So that’s that. I’ll stop writing now. I hope you’ll forgive this letter and understand that I’m trying to figure quite a few things out. I shan’t ask you for anything, but I will write again soon.
Yours,
Henry
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
Dear Eleanor,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am in better spirits than the last time I wrote to you. Seems rather funny to be writing letters again. There has to be some space left for the written word without facsimile. Well, this should be with you soon enough, if the postal workers don’t keep going on strike.
You may wonder why I am writing to you again, considering you haven’t replied to my first letter. The truth is I found solace in the process. I hope you don’t think it selfish of me to write again. There’s no fool like an old fool. First time I ever thought of myself as old. In some respects I’m nearing maturity. I’m sure that would make you smile.
I spent most of today in a grotty office near Kings Cross. As part of my settlement, I now have a counsellor and a career coach. The career coach is sombre at best. I think persistent contact with the newly unemployed has killed his spirits. He slouched as he read my curriculum vitae, then practiced a few interview questions with me. I asked him if we could swap roles, so that I could be the interviewer. He straightened up then, not quite getting the joke because the joke was him. Time up. I went and sat in the waiting room. It was rather like a doctor’s surgery, fleeting eye contact, terrible magazines, general malaise.
I went to see the counsellor, who asked me how I felt. She sat opposite me, and with a quiet voice said that I should try new things and spend at least thirty minutes exercising each day. For some reason I told her about the letter I wrote to you. She nodded appreciatively then – and here I don’t know why – I told her about how I left you at Down House. I guess you never found out that I drove back and looked for you. You must have caught the bus. Seems rather silly for a relationship to stumble over the theory of evolution. But it really was the beginning of the end. It’s one of those things in a relationship, like which football team you support or which newspaper you prefer to read on a Sunday. When you told me that you had a relationship with God, well I didn’t quite know what to do. And it’s in those situations where we fare the worst.
Suffice it to say, the counsellor was at a loss for words.
I went back to Penge and paced along the High Street. I stopped at a Jamaican cafe and had jerk chicken, black beans and rice. I was the only white man in the establishment, though I didn’t feel unwelcome. I sweated and emerged to the February gloom not quite sure how I would finish the day, which leads me back to you. I’m caught in two minds as to the purpose of retrieving the past. The Americans call it closure. But I’m not wanting to close things up, quite the opposite really.
I’ll stop there Eleanor.
Yours,
Henry
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
Dear Eleanor,
I take it you sent me the pamphlet on Creationism. Very funny. I actually read it from start to finish. My point of view remains unchanged. If you can post me this, why can’t you write me a short letter, just a few lines about how you’ve been? I asked my counsellor if I am stalking you. She answered by asking me if I had applied for any jobs. I think her and the career coach have swapped places.
My news is that I’ve taken to walking around Crystal Palace. Being sans emploi I have gained weight, seems like those twice-daily games of sardines were actually good for something. I walk around the park anti-clockwise, so past the athletics stadium, a brief pause by the dinosaur lake, past the maze and then take a seat by the beheaded statue (poor chap). I make my exit by the bus terminal.
The creak in my knees sounds like a gate in need of oil, and as this blasted winter drags on I’d rather stay in bed, but it has helped me discover a brave new world. It’s funny to see that there is another eco-system of people moving about between the hours of nine to five. Mothers with their prams and growing expectations, young men most likely up to no good, old people, so many old people, and then the unemployed. It’s rather like being in limbo – so many souls caught in the fog-filled park.
I’ve made a new friend, a spritely septuagenarian called Gerald. The first few times I saw him we would nod politely and say ‘Good morning’, then we reached the point where we were either going to ignore each other completely, or start a conversation. Not one to waste any time, Gerald asked me if I was out of work. I filled him in, he mashed his false teeth and shook his head. He’s a retired publisher, quite a fascinating fellow really, he used to publish poetry. So he’s either brave or mad. We talk briefly each time we cross paths. I don’t know how long it will be until I invite him round to the flat for tea.
Perhaps I’d be better placed if I said I met a delightful woman in the park. I haven’t. I couldn’t make it up if I tried. In the past ten years there have been three women in my life, none of them of much consequence. I’m not trying to flatter you in saying that they weren’t a patch on you. Back in December I asked Dan if you were married. He didn’t want to answer, was probably contemplating lying to protect you. It was actually Jackson who said that you weren’t. Kids can’t help telling the truth. So here we are in our fifties, single, footloose and fancy free. Surely it’s worth a try?
I may be holding myself as a hostage to fortune, but I expect you are thinking about the baptism. I was hoping I could apologise without having to mention it. I am sorry. It really was a silly thing to do. Remember that I was there doing it for you, so we could marry. And the priest did say that I wasn’t the first to come dressed as Elvis.
You see my difficulty with faith is that those who possess it have a tendency to believe that those who don’t are faithless. Life is never so simple or reductive. Yet instead of intelligent conversation, I resorted to farce. And I lost you.
Yours,
Henry
Wednesday, 25 May 2010
Dear Eleanor,
Funny how life seems to fold in on itself. Nearly forty years ago I set out from Sydenham to start as a junior at a local newspaper in Wapping; now I have returned to a much bigger newspaper, albeit in a much reduced capacity. I’ve been given a three-month contract to work on the picture desk, not in print, just for their website. I cannot begrudge it.
This huge, devouring city continues to amaze me. I commute on the new East London line, a brief walk to Penge West then twenty minutes to Wapping. Myself and many of my fellow passengers board with a sense of delight and wonder. New places previously forgotten have appeared on the map, even the school kids are happy to sit on the orange and brown seats. In this post-Industrial age, it still is possible to get people excited about trains.
For a picture research
er it’s ironic to say I could do the job with my eyes closed. I try not to let my mind wander too much though. After work I sometimes walk to St Katharine’s Docks, and ride up to Shoreditch. I feel like a much younger man up there. A drink in one of the grungy bars. And then back to Penge to the two-bed flat sans chat. To watch television, eat and sleep.
I have tried Eleanor. I must say that these letters have helped me through a difficult time. And perhaps it has been for the best that you haven’t replied. Even men like myself hold romantic notions about the one that got away. All that remains to say is that I am here, and you are there, and one day we might meet in the middle.
Yours,
Henry
Index of Contributors
ANDREA PISAC
Andrea Pisac was born in Croatia, 1975. Her 2001 collection of short stories Absence won the award for the best debut book from the Croatian Student Union. In 2007 her second book Until Death Do Us Part or I Kill You First was published. She is currently working on a novel, for which she has received a mentoring award from Exiled Writers Ink in London.
strangerstoourselves.blogspot.com
ANGELA CLERKIN
Angela Clerkin is a writer and performer. Her screenplay Head Over Heels is currently under option and she has two plays in development. Angela also regularly freelances for The Green and Westside magazines. TV appearances include: Holby City, EastEnders, Sugar Rush, My Family, Dalziel & Pascoe and The Office. Angela was born and raised in north London.
ARIANA MOUYIARIS
Ariana Mouyiaris is a born and bred New Yorker who has lived in five countries and travelled to countless others in search of the perfect neighborhood to hang her hat. Hopefully hybrid and constantly searching for imaginative narratives, she is always looking for an excuse to keep her camera snapping and a cabbie to tell her how things have changed.
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