Open Writing

It was a white house, a square box that looked more like a station waiting room. It stood on its own plot of land at the top of our road, and many years ago it had some connection to the builder’s yard that had long been demolished, and replaced by detached houses. Perhaps the foreman had used it as a base, for just before it was demolished many years later, the neighbours looked in and around and probably went inside. There was only one small bedroom and space for an office, and the word went round that it couldn’t have been intended as a family home.

Mr Ward had lived there for quite a while before I learnt about him. He was a musician of some repute: a composer, a concert pianist, with a full-size grand piano just beyond the bay window. His father had refused to countenance any suggestion that he should follow his heart and go to the Royal College of Music: he insisted his son qualify as an architect, and so he did. The day after he graduated, he enrolled as a music student.

I came to live in the road long after this happened, but I had a splendid neighbour with a Doctorate in the Art of Dispensing Information. Note that I did not say Gossip. She and her husband had known Mr Ward for some time, and he would call in on them from time to time, before disaster struck. It was his habit, every few months, to pack up his little car with a suitcase or two, and head off to France. It was always France. Perhaps there were concerts there, perhaps his Muse was there. Was there a lady friend, perchance? No-one knew. He went and came back several times a year, and I heard he wrote music for films. Anyway, there must have been enough money to pay the bills and keep a large ginger cat for company.

Then one summer everything changed. He went, and he returned, but he came back with neither car nor luggage nor music, a strange and silent man. He became a hermit. He rarely left the house, and the once sweet, melodic harmonies from his piano were replaced by discords and disharmony. His cat strayed down to the main road and was killed, and there was no-one left to comfort him. There was no-one who knew him well enough to comfort him, and he answered the door to nobody. There was nothing anyone could do.

As the years passed we would see him walking the roads. Three miles was nothing, three miles to town and three miles back. Then six miles on to Guildford, and six miles back, come rain or shine, summer or winter. He rarely replied to ‘Good morning’, and although his distress was plain to see, he was still in control of his life, however lonely and pointless it might appear. By this time he was well past the age when he could collect his pension, and although the authorities cut off his gas and electricity for non-payment of bills, he lived on, with some defiant Guardian Angel for company.

Mr Ward is only part of my story. Whatever happened to him in France no-one ever knew; some things improved - a determined and compassionate local councillor forced her way through his self-imposed barriers and made sure that he could have his pension. After that, he sometimes travelled by bus, and the Public Baths in town were a much needed port of call. He gradually slipped into a cloak of madness, walking the roads with his elegant, aesthetically beautiful head sunk onto his chest, talking to himself and hurling abuse at the hedgerows. One cold autumn evening he slid down to his knees on a footpath back to his house, and died a few days later in a warm hospital bed.

As you might expect, the white house stood for a long time, neglected, dishevelled, while developers and estate agents discussed and haggled over what to do. First we thought it would be refurbished: then someone put it up for auction, and a developer announced that it would be demolished to make way for five small houses. “Five!” we all exclaimed, not believing that five houses could be squeezed onto Mr Wood’s plot of land.

They could, of course. There are two pairs of cottages and one detached one, and it seems to be a somewhat twisted version of Parkinson’s Law: “The land available will stretch to accommodate the number of houses you wish to build on it.”

You might think, on a still summer’s evening, that Mr Ward has returned to play his grand piano, and that the sounds of the Blues drifting out over the lawns are coming from him. Not true. Perhaps his spirit is there somewhere. But the old lady who lives there now is a musician too, a composer and a concert pianist. I call them ’the old people’, and they too float off to France as often as they can find a reason to go.

A few weeks ago she rang me to tell me the news: “Guess what!” she said, with a voice full of girlish excitement. “Tell me,” I replied, having a good idea of what was coming. “We’re going to France again! We’re going to Menton. Isn’t that wonderful!”

And I enthuse and agree and say all the right things. A birthday, an anniversary, even Bastille Day, there doesn’t have to be a reason, for they lived there for many years, and they are true Francophiles. Just like Mr Ward, she has played and composed there, and going back must be like going home.

So the internet was consulted, a hotel chosen and a booking made: a hotel on the seafront with a view and a balcony. They had to have a balcony, somewhere to sit in the morning sun to have coffee and croissants, somewhere to feel secure, part of the scene, and watch the world go by. Down on the promenade these days it’s busy, it’s noisy sometimes, and the cars are much faster than they were thirty years ago. Then Eurostar has to be booked: it’s always Eurostar and then the French rail network. I suppose Mr Ward had to use the ferry when he went across.

In all this, whether they are going to Paris or the South of France, I will be rung up and kept up to date with what has been decided. Part of the adventure seems to be that they will decide to upgrade their train seats to first class, and then I will hear that they are going to treat themselves to a champagne lunch! (I’m afraid I am beyond the pale. I would prefer a double espresso any day.)

So it goes on and on, whatever their destination. The planning, the packing, booking the taxi, everything is a whirl of excitement and anticipation: as they disappeared this time, floating up and away on clouds of happiness, I hoped, as I always do, that their child-like enthusiasm would not be disappointed. You never want to see a child rebuffed: the old couple are 83 and 92, and although they have a kind of magic glue that holds their relationship together, I never want to see either of them cast down.

They always send me a card, even if it is only a short break in Paris. And of course, like one does, they always say they are having a wonderful time. I did receive my card, a bit subdued though, with a hint of disappointment, though nothing definite. When they returned it was a few days before the phone rang.

“Come for a cup of tea” she said. “We’ll tell you all about it.”

Oh dear. She had been really ill, the French patisseries had no attraction, and even the bistros they had planned to visit had lost their Gallic charm. Then the old man had trapped his hand in a lift at Galleries Lafayette and had had to go to the hospital to have it dressed. The blue skies of the Riviera had been almost hidden by the grey mists of disappointment.

A week or so after this less than perfect holiday the old couple had recovered from their misfortunes. Whatever happens in fair weather or foul, they always pull each other up again. The Slough of Despond is not for them. Now they are planning the next trip. It will be Menton again in the autumn, the Elysian Fields of their dreams, the place where they loved each other long ago.

And what of you, Mr Ward? Could you not find the river Oceanus and the fields full of flowers on the banks? If the Gods favour you, eternal happiness is yours and you may live there for ever. Did the Gods not favour you?