I can’t say I regret the decisions I made in life, and my life turned out rather well, but what if I’d just had that little bit of courage to push myself outside my comfort zone and try something I really loved? My job at the firm was great, and I loved working with numbers. Numbers are clean. They are easy to understand. They don’t talk back, and they certainly don’t lie. You could manipulate them to a certain extent, add a twist to the interpretation of statistical results, but numbers are numbers and ultimately, they represent the facts.
I never really had the courage to go after my dreams. I suppose I should have taken that first step towards something small and built up from there. I fancied myself a bit of a writer but each time I tried to put pen to paper there would be that familiar voice telling me I was a nobody and what did I have to write about? What life experiences could I draw upon and what great tragedy had befallen me that would lend itself to the drama and suspense that is needed for a good book? I wrote a few poems in my younger years but I never shared them with anybody. I eventually burned them for fear that someone would find them and expose me. I was at a vulnerable stage of my life back then and writing seemed to help me find my voice.
But who would want to read what I had written? Someone once said that we all have one good book inside us, and I’m certain that’s true, but I could never quite get over the feeling that I was an imposter. I had no right to think I could possibly write a book.
Writing wasn’t encouraged in my day. It wasn’t seen in our family as a sustainable profession and I suppose my family were right. We have to take responsibility for our lives, get a good job, earn a good living. Well that’s what I used to think. I wonder now whether this was the right path to take. Why can’t we play out our dreams while being paid for it? What would it be like to wake up each morning and bounce out of bed knowing you were going to make a difference that day? Surely true happiness is found in the pursuit of our dreams? Someone once said that we create our own reality and I have never really understood that until now. I simply let life happen to me a lot of the time and I now realise what a mistake that was. I see now that we have a choice, but a lot of us live on automatic pilot, never questioning and just doing. Never reflecting but just going about our day in a half daze, physically doing one activity while mentally thinking about another.
What if we stopped once in a while and just dreamed? Let our minds wander where they wanted while being an observer. Listening to our inner guidance, our intuition. It feels strange to talk about this now as this is not how I lived my life, and certainly not what I believed in when I was alive, but I see now that I could have lived a richer life if I had opened my heart and mind to what I was supposed to hear.
It was intuition that led Einstein to his theory of relativity. It was his ability to suspend belief that allowed him to see beyond the current and to the possible, sometimes taking him years to find ways to help others catch up to him. Taking complex ideas such as quantum mechanics and sharing them with the masses was never going to be easy but he followed his inner voice and was never afraid to believe.
Now I don’t want to compare myself to Albert Einstein but there is a lesson in there for all of us. If we could suspend our scepticism and disbelief for just a moment, what doors would we open, what ideas would come to us?
I’m getting a bit philosophical which was not my intention, but I am realizing now that life is not all we see. It’s how we get from what we see to what we want to see, but don’t yet see, that adds another dimension to the everyday, another layer of colour. It’s the belief in the unknown and the possible that can transform us, that can lead us in a new and better direction if we only dare.
I sit back down next to George who is leaning forward again watching as the next person scrambles over a rotating barrel while trying to collect £100 bills in a bucket. I look at the lines on his face that appear and disappear only to reappear again when he laughs. His teeth I notice are slightly stained and yet I see no sign of tobacco. Perhaps he smoked in his younger years? Who is this man I sit next to? What dreams did he not fulfil? What fantasies was he too afraid to go after? Did fear of failure hold him back? Fear of disapproval? Disappointment? A lack of self-belief?
And I wonder why I didn’t take the time to discover a shared passion? I imagine the kind of friendship we could have had, the commonalities we shared, and I think about the fact that I never took the time to say more than a few niceties to him as I rushed about my life seemingly content to remain within my own four walls. What did I miss out on?
It’s funny how you can live next door to someone for forty years and never really know them.
George yawns suddenly, he stretches his arms above his head and then places his hands on his stomach. ‘It’s time to feed you,’ he says as he stands up and walks down the hall towards the kitchen. He opens the fridge door and stands in front of the half-empty shelves, staring for a few seconds as if faced with too much choice.
I look over his shoulder and I can see a small pile of ready-meals for one and a few cans of diet lemonade. But there’s nothing comforting in there. No soul food as they call it these days. Why didn’t I bring him a meal from time to time? Or better yet, invite him around on the odd occasion? It must have been terribly lonely since his wife died. My wife’s an excellent cook and she could have whipped something up for him without much effort. My wife volunteered for Meals on Wheels once the children left home. She would bake a hot dish once a week and deliver single portions to the elderly people living in our neighbourhood. I don’t know why I didn’t think to slip one next door once in a while. We worry about those we don’t know while forgetting to take care of our own backyard. We read about people who died in their apartments but aren’t discovered for weeks as no-one ever visited them. I’m feeling a bit morbid now and I don’t mean to lower the mood, but it’s food for thought.
George carefully chooses a meal, closes the fridge and takes it over to the kitchen bench. He peels back the plastic cover and places the box in the microwave, pressing the instant start button three times. He grabs a glass from the cupboard, returns to the fridge and takes a can of lemonade out. As he pours the contents into his glass, I appreciate another thing about my neighbour; no drinking straight from the can for him! The microwave beeps, he removes his steaming hot dish, and together with his lemonade returns to the TV. As he sits down with a sigh and places a tray on his lap, I decide to remain with him while he eats his meal. At least tonight he will not eat alone.
He finishes his meal, wipes his mouth and places the tray down next to him on the sofa. He continues to stare at the screen as a way to get through the lonely evening before going to bed. It is my time to leave now and as I stand up in front of him, I wish him a happy life. I ask that he is not lonely, that he lives out the rest of his years pursuing the dreams he was always too afraid to go after. I wish for him a life filled with good companionship and connection to others and perhaps another dig or two before his knees give out and arthritis moulds around his fingers.
He suddenly yawns, stretches and pushes himself to standing. He turns off the television and slowly shuffles out of the room. I accompany him as far as the hall and we part ways as George heads towards the kitchen again. I turn and walk out of the house, throwing one last glance towards the photos on the wall. The sun has set and the day has come to a close.
As I head back out through the front gate, I think about who I want to see next, and as I need time to think I turn back towards my house, head down the side path and into the backyard.
I sit down on one of the swings that we installed in our garden when the children were young and then decided to keep in the hope that we would one day become grandparents. I think back over all the fond memories I have of pushing one or the other in the swing, to their squeals of delight and to ‘go higher’. The frame would wobble precariously as their little bodies were pushed high up into the air, bottoms bouncing in seats as they reached the peak. What simple yet wonderful memories
!
I have a great view of the backs of nearly all the houses in my part of the street from the swing set. Our house is in the middle of a long row of terraced houses, built in the 1920s and all at least two storey. A few people have extended up into the roof over the years, and several have added conservatories at the back but there is still a conformity to the houses that I find reassuring. I watch as one by one the neighbours turn their bedroom lights off, ready to rest and recuperate as they head slowly into the next day.
Having lived on this street for so many years, I feel I know the history of it probably better than anyone! We have seen such changes on this street as young families would come and go, or people would grow old and have to move out of what was often the only home they had ever known, to move into a one-room suite in an old-age facility. I told my wife that I never wanted to do that, never wanted to leave our home and that if necessary, I would move our bedroom downstairs so that we could live a one-level existence while not having to battle the stairs. I always wanted to be surrounded by comfort and the familiar as I got older, but now I don’t need to make that decision.
When we first moved into this street it was filled with what I would call like-minded people. We were all from a similar walk of life with similar beliefs and ways of living. We were a tight-knit community and one in which we were able to always lean on each other. But as the London property prices started to rise, and didn’t seem to be slowing down, people gradually started expanding out our way, bringing with them a different way of life. I remember when an Indian family moved into the street, and how suspicious everyone was of them. Looking back, I don’t know why we felt that way, but after years of living one way it is not always easy to change. Concerns were raised over the smells that would come from their kitchen as they cooked their foreign food, or over the kind of influence their children may have on ours. Those concerns that come out of nothing but racism and a fear of something different.
There was a knock on the door one day and my wife opened it to a smiling woman dressed in a layering of incredible material, covered in sequins and really rather beautiful. The woman introduced herself as Geetha and said she had brought some homemade Indian desserts as a special treat for our family. As my wife took the foil-wrapped package and offered a warm thank you and welcome, I was struck by how brave I thought this woman was. Surely she had picked up on the animosity towards her and her family, the fact that her neighbours didn’t want them to be here. Surely she had seen the curtains be quickly and not-so-discreetly pulled aside as her neighbours stared at her as she walked down the street past their houses. And yet here she was offering us a glimpse of her generosity and openness and capacity for acceptance and forgiveness that one could not help but admire.
As we shared the treats with our children that night after dinner, I remarked to my wife on the ability for food to bring people together, how it can be used as an introduction to another world, as a key to open a door into a different realm. How the offering of a home-cooked meal can mean so much to someone. It’s a true sign of love and of a big heart.
I look up suddenly as I see the light in a nearby house turn on and see a young mother with a babe in arms stand at the window looking out. I don’t know this young lady very well, as they only moved into the house a few months ago just before their baby was born, and I feel her loneliness reach out and grab me as she looks for any signs of life other than her baby’s.
It was a very rare occasion that I would be up during the night with one of our kids when they were very young, but the odd time when my wife needed to rest, and a baby called out, I always found it an extremely lonely experience. I would long to be back in my bed, warm and safe, and I would feel quite vulnerable being up in the middle of the night with only a young and completely helpless baby for company. I used to look out the window to see if anyone was also up at this time, and I took great comfort on the odd occasion when I would see a neighbour’s light on. I wouldn’t feel so alone then.
As I look back at the young mother’s house, I see another light turn on out of the corner of my eye. I turn my head towards the other end of the street and see the light in old Mrs Morcombe’s kitchen go on, as she most likely was up during the night making herself a warm cup of milk to help her go back to sleep. Two people at very different stages of life but both up during the night wishing they could be back in bed asleep.
Our street has seen its own share of heartaches too. We were all affected by the situation with the family in number 56. A nasty divorce led to a very stressed-out single mother, who was not able to cope with the hand she had been dealt. My wife used to see her on the school run, and while they got on well, and my wife said she was a very nice lady who was really very kind, gradually my wife started to pull away from her, not knowing how to cope with her negativity.
Our daughter went to play at her house one day, as she was friends with one of her daughters from school, but when she came home she begged not to go back there. She said the house was a mess and the four animals that lived inside left a terrible smell. She seemed really affected by her visit and so my wife said that she didn’t have to go back. We would invite the little girl to our house from time to time to give her mother a break, and to give the little girl a break from her older sister, who also was not coping very well with their change in circumstance.
One day we noticed flashing blue lights reflecting in our living room and when we looked out, we saw two police officers heading into the house. They remained inside for a good half an hour or so, and then headed outside again, turned off the blue flashing lights and left. After much hesitation my wife decided to go down and knock on the door and see if everything was alright.
She came back an hour later, absolutely drained and quite upset. She said that the ex-husband had apparently called the police claiming the mother was mistreating the girls, in what the mother believed was a pure act of vengeance. To mess with the lives of children like that was truly disgusting! I admit the house was unclean, and the mother had lost the ability to manage the older girl’s aggression towards herself and the younger sister, but that surely didn’t require a visit from the police. Worse, she was to be closely followed by the Department of Child Protective Services to ensure that the claims of mistreatment were untrue.
As I was listening to my wife re-telling the story, I could not imagine what it must be like to have someone in your house judging your every move and your every interaction with your child. I do understand the need for this interception at times, but having it happen to our neighbour really brought the situation home to us. Parents are judged enough as it is but to be judged with the objective of perhaps having one’s children taken away from them, I cannot even relate to.
The situation deteriorated even further between this poor woman and her ex-husband, so much so that my wife offered to take the girls for the afternoon several times per week to give the overwhelmed mother a break. But soon this offer started to be abused, with my wife coming home one day after an outing with our children to find the neighbour’s two girls sitting on our doorstep. They said they had been there since mid-afternoon and it was now close to five, and that they were there because their mother said she needed a break. My wife was horrified and called up the mother asking for an explanation. She didn’t answer the phone and when my wife took the girls back to their house, there was no-one to answer the door.
The girls had dinner with us that night and as they were heading into Alice’s bedroom to play we heard a knock at the door. It was the girls’ mother. My wife took her into the living room and closed the door so that the children wouldn’t hear them talking. When they emerged, the mother looked a bit shaken, but as she waited for the girls to answer her call to go home, she thanked my wife again for all she had been doing. She said that things were very hard for her and that she desperately needed a break. She said the ex-husband was supposed to have the girls the following week and that she was really looking forward to the time alone. She said she
was sick of dealing with all the hassles that the girls created and just wanted time to herself.
All this was said in front of her two young daughters as they came down the stairs to say their goodbyes.
I do not want to judge this woman, and she certainly had been having a very tough time, with an equally difficult ex-husband to deal with, but children are innocent of adult situations, and should be kept that way. The fact that this mother didn’t seem concerned that her daughters had heard this conversation was what bothered my wife and me the most.
A few weeks later, my wife received a very tearful and panicked call. It was the neighbour again, and she said she had just been to see her lawyer who had announced to her that the girls were to be temporarily taken away by the Department of Child Protective Services. My wife was asked if she would be a character witness, to which she begrudgingly agreed. The case was to be heard the following month, and my wife was to comment truthfully on what she had observed with the mother and her children. My wife didn’t sleep in the nights leading up to the case. She was so concerned about what would happen to the girls and couldn’t imagine children being taken away from their mother. In those days, children were not normally sent to live with the father, and so their fate lay somewhere between a distant relative in another town or a foster home.
We discussed the situation many times together and finally agreed that the best thing she could do was tell the truth, which was that the mother was always physically there for the girls but not emotionally. While she never missed a school concert or sports day, she had lost the ability to speak kindly to her children and treated them like a pain in her side. She either didn’t realise, or chose to ignore, the fact that children build their self-belief systems on what they hear from those they love and admire, and a mother’s words were sacred to a child. All these girls seemed to hear from their own mother was that they only caused trouble for her and that her life was much better when they weren’t around.
A Lifetime of Goodbyes Page 2
