Tuesday, 7 April, 2020
I’m losing track of numbers but seems like 29 days of #shelteringinplace for me now. At least this is the 29th day. and it’s just beginning.
I’ve started thinking about neighbours. Each day I spend some time looking out of the kitchen but mostly living room windows. I’m trying not to be annoyed at how many people I see in their cars, walking, running…the buses are mostly empty, with one or two passengers…there are trains passing in the back of the house but I can’t see how many are riding.
I don’t know any of the people but I do see the same faces sometimes. Krish spends more time looking out from the kitchen and he knows some of them by sight and he likes to tell me when ‘umbrella man’ shows up each day. There’s a man who shepherds his three children across the road every day, and they’ve been on bikes before, but are on foot now.
One day, as I stood at the living room window, I saw someone stop to look at my sign, and then at me, then wave. I waved back. Suddenly, I felt connected. Later Krish told me that it was ‘Nick,’ one of the community garden planters who we’d chatted to on that day. He lives some doors away and yet we don’t really know him or his wife, Nicola. I always liked that – Nick and Nicola.
This house is quiet. Neil downstairs may be away but he’s as silent or absent as ever. I’ve never spoken more than a few words to him – good morning, how are you doing, what great weather… The ground floor was being renovated for weeks before all this started but there are still no tenants. There are housemates in the lower level place but they don’t talk. The other day, as I sat on the ledge to get some air, they came out with rubbish but they didn’t acknowledge me.
This morning I was thinking about how different this all is from my childhood days. We always knew our neighbours. Their faces and attempted names came to me this morning. No names from my early childhood but snippets of memories of playing hopscotch and kiss-chase. My grandmother – nana – knew some neighbours. One Friday she took me to a prefab where friends were lighting candles. We’d never done that and I was fascinated.
I remember no one from our days after leaving the east end for Essex, except my ‘boyfriend,’ Steven, whose dad danced with me the way my dad did – where I stood on his shoes and he moved his feet.
I remember much more from our time in Dulwich, where I had actual neighour friends – Brenda Miller, who was chubby and who had her period at age 9, rendering her not such friend material – they called us Bread and Jam. Margaret whose mother Peggy was from Scotland – and with whom I went on holiday to Langholm in Dumfriesshiere. There were the Butcher boys who were strapping and ate raw Spanish onions instead of apples. Christine who helped me steal school supplies. Jackie, my best friend, until she started dating the boy I had a crush on – she had six brothers and sisters, a crazy full household of black-haired light-eyed Irish kids.
And my cousins, not quite neighbours until my cousins, Terry and Netta, and later Tina, moved to where we lived in Dulwich. All my cousins were my constant companions when they were around, staying overnight with them, and they with us, and always knowing we could pick up again any time.
Growing up in the East End, you were likely to be known, even by those who you didn’t know. When I returned to London from Toronto for a holiday and my grandmother, nan, and cousins still lived at Mile End, I ventured into a neighbourhood shop. The man behind the counter looked at me and said ‘You’re one of Lottie’s, aren’t you?’ He meant my nan, Charlotte or Lottie. I asked how he knew, and he tapped his nose. He knew who I was by looking at me. Could that happen today?
In Canada, my parents always had friends as neighours. Jean and Jock from Scotland, Bob and Mary, Ellie and Fred – all from Liverpool. Another Jean, Gunn, whose husband was a filmmaker until he died suddenly. Marilyn, a ballsy blonde, who fed her dog sweets but forbade them to her children. Many more.
When Robin was growing up, I had neighbours in Toronto. My closest friend, Denise, who in turn had a great collection of neighbours who practically lived in each other’s houses, and who I could borrow as my neighbours whenever I wanted. And another neighbour, Jan, who lived in the next street over. She had a huge back garden and three girls. I was there when the fourth child, a boy, was born. I never had to be alone.
Times really changed. No more knowing your neighbours. There are quick exchanges of words from time to time. No one has sparked my interest enough to invite in for tea or hope they might do the same. Well not no one. And yet that’s my dream. Watching the Dick Van Dyke show when I was young, my eyes would light up when Mary’s neighbour, Milly, would pop in unannounced to the kitchen door and make herself immediately at home. Where was my Milly? Where is my Milly? Continue reading “Sheltering in Place – Won’t you be my neighbour?”