Fish and chips on a Friday

Fish and chips on a Friday. Feeling grown up as you leave the house, clasping the money and trying to remember what everyone wants. Climbing over the brick wall to cut across the green, staying away from the busy main road. Following the scuffed-grass path, but slowing down to peer through the iron railings into the small back gardens of the ground-floor flats. Waiting for a moment by the pink plastic windmill, watching it spin wildly in the slightest breeze, then carrying on along the pavement, with its faded markings from the last game of hopscotch. Up the hill to Rosendale Road, past the huge metal gate that was always shut, knowing it was there to keep the cars out but let the fire engines in. Waiting to cross the busy road, peering out between the parked cars and then dashing across to the chip shop. Staring through the glass front of the counter, past the pieces of fish lined up in a row and down into the bubbling churning cooking oil, where the dancing chips were trapped in a deep wire basket. 

Fish and chips on a Friday. Always eaten straight from the paper, but with the paper set down on a plate, so you could balance it on your lap as you watched the tv in the corner. Too many chips, always too many chips, soaked in vinegar and too much salt. Small fingers picking between the sharp thin edges to grasp the softer thicker ones. Breaking off the tail of the cod first, with all its crunchy batter, then biting into the thicker part, realising too late it was still piping hot. Sucking in cold air, trying to cool the fish down. Holding your hand over your open mouth so nobody else could see as you moved it from side to side, hoping it wouldn't burn.

Fish and chips on a Friday. Forty years later and a different part of town. A five minute trip in the car, to bring back the Styrofoam packages and tip them out on a plate. We sit at the big wooden table, the tv screen high on the wall. I still eat the crunchy tail end of the cod first, but the brightly-coloured plate next to mine has a sausage neatly sliced and there's no salt or vinegar on the chips. Too many chips, always too many chips. Small fingers pick between the sharp thin edges to grasp at the softer thicker ones. Eddie looks up at me as we both blow gently to cool them down, “I like chips Nana.” 

The 13.07 from London Victoria

I hadn’t noticed the suitcase at all when I sat down. I’d been so pleased that the train had arrived early, that I could take my choice of seats in the empty carriage and sit reading my book in peace until it was time to leave.

“Erm… Excuse me, is that yours?”

I turned round, not sure if the question was meant for me, and saw a short balding man, pointing to a battered leather case on the luggage rack.

“No, no…” mumbled an elderly gentleman, who’d taken the seat just behind me. He sounded embarrassed, apologetic, as though the case really should have been his, or as though, at the very least, he should have been able to explain why it was there.

“Is it yours?” the short balding man turned to me.

I looked up again at the faded blue suitcase, with its brass locks, and the sort of thick handle you could just imagine clasping comfortably. I hadn’t seen luggage like that for a very long time; all angles and corners, no wheels and pull-handle, no hard plastic, or zip-pockets. This was a suitcase made for the days of long slow journeys, for a time of uniformed porters and heavily laden luggage trolleys. A suitcase made for a luggage rack on a very different sort of train.

“No, not mine” I answered with a twinge of regret.

“Oh dear, oh dear” he began to bluster, looking back to the still open train doors, then up to the rack, then around the carriage. “oh dear, oh dear, oh dear”

He looked around again, uncertainty etched into his frown.

“I’ll have to report it… you can’t just leave a case…there’ll be a delay…  it’ll cause all sorts of problems…”

He looked like a man who’d been brought up to do his duty, the sort of boy who always snitched on his class-mates, the sort of man who’d never leave work early on a Friday afternoon. He leaned forward, peering out of the door, searching for someone in authority. If he’d had a whistle in his pocket, he’d have blown it, shrill and hard.

Then a young, bearded, wild-haired man jumped on. Shoving past the short balding man, without a glance at the elderly gentleman and oblivious of me, he headed straight for a seat by the window. The seat just under the luggage rack.

Blustering, balding man turned back into the carriage, “is it….” He started to ask, just as the young bearded man reached up towards the suitcase.

And as the words died on his lips, as the elderly gentleman watched silently from his seat, as I looked on from across the aisle, the young, bearded, wild-haired man reached up and flicked open the lock.

Ascent of friendship

"You smell nice" he says, taking his usual place in the passenger seat, as I turn the key to start the car. I don't say much in return, a small "thank you", a smile and nod, but he knows I appreciate what he means. And I know that it means we're ok to set off.

It's a worrying world when you've no sense of smell. From the scary realisation of a gas ring left on in the next room to the small irritation of only noticing there's something wrong with the milk when the lumps start surfacing in your tea. It's the embarrassing discomfort, when visitors arrive, of not knowing whether the house smells of cat, or the drains are blocked. It's the worry on a summer's day for the dampness under your arms; the hesitation before you pull off your boots at the end of a long walk. It's the aching frustration of a garden full of roses, whose scent you'll never know, the warmth of new-born baby, you'll never quite recall.

I've been like this for a long time, and after a failed attempt at a surgical solution last year, I've sort of learned to live with it. I thought I knew all the difficulties and had worked round the constraints.

But then we went to Paris.

And for some unknown reason in that capital of fragrance, with a parfumerie on almost every corner, and friends who know, really know, all about scents, I decided I wanted some new perfume.

As we walked through the door of the Parfumerie Nicolai, my confidence sank through the floor.  Ahead of me the walls were lined with shelves, each of the shelves holding a line of clear glass bottles.  I hung back while the others strode in purposefully, while they read the labels and looked for the scents they already knew.  As I watched Kelly and Nathan spraying small strips of white card and waving them gently under each others noses, talking all the time about the different elements of each perfume, I realised that French was not the only language I'd struggle to understand that day.

I tried to look around nonchalantly as they assessed and compared, ranked their favourites and turned down the no-hopers. I looked at Philip as he took his own journey of discovery, testing and pronouncing on the good, bad and indifferent. The terribly polite shop assistant stepped forward to offer his help. He knew he was among connoisseurs, that his careful explanations of the elements would be understood and evaluated. I listened as they exchanged views. I prayed silently that he wouldn't notice me, but of course he did. "What do you like?" He asked, fully expecting that, like my friends I'd have a clear range of preferences. How was he to know, that in the centre of all those scents I could smell nothing. Absolutely nothing. "I'm sorry" I mumbled, "my nose - it is broken..."

I tried to sense something, I really did. Breathing deeply, I licked my lips and inhaled, hoping that I might taste what I couldn't smell; but nothing. I wanted to leave, but the others were still engrossed. I thought about stepping outside, pretending I was too hot. Then I heard them all talking,
"I like this one, what do you think?"
"Yes, that's good, I think that might suit her"
"I agree, and that's the first one we've all liked."
"That must be the one"
In a few more minutes it was done. And the terribly polite shop assistant handed me my very own bottle of perfume in a small white bag.

I wore it for the rest of the holiday and each time I did, one of them said "you smell nice." I've worn it every day since, I've even looked it up on the internet and apparently it smells of orange, cinnamon and vanilla. Perhaps it does, though the truth is, I'll never know. To me, my small bottle of perfume will always smell of Paris and friendship.

Seeing the light

In the sudden switch from sleep to wakefulness, I can't work out what's woken me or why. It's as though someone has come into the room and thoughtlessly turned on the light. Philip is still there beside me, and there's no sign of recent movement, but across his face and pillow there is indeed a light; a clear bright beam, falling on him like a spotlight from the sky.

A strange and unexpected alignment of cloudless sky, leaf-bared trees and the lunar cycle, has brought the full moon through our open curtains and into the bedroom. Drawn to it, I stand at the window looking out, thinking of all the clichés that have ever been penned about moonlight, my sleep-dulled brain unable to come up with any new words to describe the silver glow lighting up our room, shining magically outside.

It's bright enough to see along the row of gardens that back the houses of our street; to pick out the sheds and greenhouses, washing lines and compost bins. It's the same garden furniture I see every time I look out, but tonight it's lost some of its ugly practicality, swept by a glistening shimmer. For a moment I wonder if this is what it would be like if giant slugs had crept across the land while we slept.

I stand and gaze, and as I do, the view in front of me is replaced by a series of other gardens, looked at from other windows. I'm back leaning on the tiled window-sill of my childhood bedroom in Croxted Road, peering through the net curtains and the steel-framed windows that were covered in condensation every morning of the year. I remember the story that I used to tell my friends to explain the small scar on my forehead; the story where I fell out of the window and somehow miraculously survived, not the real one where I climbed up to watch my Dad in the garden, slipped and caught my head on the corner of a cupboard. Or at least that's the story I think is real.

Then I'm looking out over the flat pitched roof of the dining room extension in Manor Way, past the spot in the flower bed where Megan would sit chatting to Ruth next door, as they swapped mud pies through  holes in the fence; past the hedges and the shrubs that I clipped and pruned year after year, down to the bottom of the garden, where the green swing sits, just as it should for every child.

I'm whisked forward in time to the bedroom window in Crown Road, to see Martin, our overweight cat, teetering along the top of the garden fence, making his way to our neighbours' bird table to sit hunched up like a fat furry turkey on a plate. Beyond the fence is the old orchard, where the overgrown grass and ancient trees strain to face another year, hoping once again to defy the latest in a long list of planning applications to fill their space with a row of houses.

I stand remembering, until I realise that the light is getting brighter, no longer from the moon but the start of a new day. I think about the hours I've spent staring out of bedroom windows at a series of gardens and neighbourhoods and I realise I've almost always slept at the back of the house. Hardly ever has my view been of street lights and front doors, of passing cars, or concrete paths. My first glimpse and last look at the outside world each day has been the world of grass and trees, of home and family.

I take one last look at the sky before going to make my first cup of tea of the day. Sometimes we try so hard to reach the moon, when all we really need to do is stop and see.

The address book

It's just a small address book, and I have to rifle through a pile of old bills, used train-tickets and Indian take-away menus before I find it, tucked away behind some tissue-paper at the back of the green wooden cupboard. On the outside it still looks new, the smooth red leather is barely scratched and the band of black elastic holds it tightly closed.

I hardly ever use it now.  New contacts are so much easier to store in the phone that's always with me, and a number for texting serves better than the full address and post code for a letter that never quite gets written. But once a year, after I've lined up the cards on the table, set out the different designs in separate piles, with the right-sized envelopes stacked beside them, I search for a pen that's nice to hold and has smooth-flowing ink, and then I reach for the old address book.

I write the cards in alphabetical order, filling in the names as I go through the book, and as I do, I find myself slowing down, pausing to think about the people who sit behind these names on a page. The aunt in Bristol, who's lived at the same address as long as I can remember, and who I've always called Auntie Tupp, although her name is Beryl. My ex mother-in-law, who used to play such a large part in my life, but who now lives in a flat I've never seen.

There are the friends I used to work with, whose company I valued so much "it would be great to see you in the New Year" I scribble in the corner of their cards; all the people I used to see every day, but never quite found time to see last year. I hesitate as I turn the page to a work-colleague from many years ago. Her husband is very much older than her, and for the last few years I've waited to receive her card, and the long round-robin letter that always comes with it, dreading the year when it will be just her name at the bottom.

As I leaf through the book, I see names crossed out; a sad reminder of relationships and marriages that didn't last. Other names remain, the friends and family I couldn't delete, the ones I thought would always be around.

On several pages there are old addresses scribbled through, with new ones added underneath. I remember all the excitement of friends and family as they moved to new homes and I think about the places I once visited, the houses that felt so familiar then, but that I'll never set foot in again. Suddenly I picture another address book from long ago, where Claire had added our own address and the bold claim "The Longworths - that's us!" with each of our names listed separately. Today, I still can't quite get over the feeling of surprise when I find my children's names next to houses that aren't mine.

The very last entry in the book is my Mum's, her surname for more than thirty-odd years is that of my step-father Albert, who'll be eighty years old this week. I'll see them both on Christmas day, at my daughter's house, with two of my other children and my two delightful grandchildren. No doubt when I see them all, I'll stop to reflect on how some things have changed and moved on, how others have stayed just the same, I'll smile at the people who are there, and think for a moment of those who are not.

It's odd that I hadn't realised until today, how much of all that change is caught in the pages of my small red address book.

Caught*

Through wind-bared trees, I stare across the valley

Tangled branches frame the distant view

Here, the darkness gathers strength to hold me

There, the lights shine bright, of home, and you.

I stay here, on the wrong side of the valley,

Where sharp-thorned scraping bushes hold me in.

No reaching out across the hill to softness

Of fingertip on lip, of skin on skin.

The path beside that leads to other stories

Is littered now, with leaves that didn't tell,

Relinquishing the grip that held and nourished,

Knowing they were dying as they fell.

A misty silence seeps along the valley

The muffled, dampened hillside makes no sound

I stand and gaze out from the growing greyness

Crying out, but rooted to the ground.

*the title for this poem and the beautiful photo above it of the Darenth Valley, were both taken from The Domesticated Bohemian. If you haven't already done so, please go and read the poem that inspired mine.

Small things

And so, the days move on. A week, then a month, passes without words. Finally, I return to the blank page, with a compulsion, much like being called before the Headteacher, to account for my behaviour.

How have I spent the last four weeks? Can I describe what I've achieved, justify the hours gone by, explain the difference I have made?

I stare at the page and a white blankness stares back.

There are so many things I want to be able to say, so many things I know I can't write here.

How do you describe an almost overwhelming sadness,  how do you portray an immense sense of disappointment, without upsetting everyone you know and care about? How do you grasp a life that's slipping by too quickly and turn a list of not-quites into a catalogue of success?

How do you come to terms with all the things you'll never be, all the things you'll never do, all the things you'll never see?

-------

I stare at the page. Slowly, gradually, there's something more than a blank whiteness in front of me. It's not the novel I always thought I'd write, nor yet a sonnet for my love. It's just some marks on a page; some letters in a sort of order, reaching out, trying to make a claim.

So this is me, playing with letters, dabbling in words. Hoping, one day there might be more.