Open Writing

It’s been quite a day today.

Roger said, “Isn’t it strange when you have to step into other people’s lives.”

My sister lived, until three weeks ago, in a beautiful mansion by the Thames, and Roger has the flat above hers. Walk from Richmond Green down to the river and stand on the towpath for a moment. Don’t leave your car there, for if it’s a particularly high tide you will need thigh boots to retrieve it. Now look across the river, over the gentle rocking of the houseboats, and you will see the upper part of the house, elegant, Italianate, with tall windows and stone balconies. Climb the steps and walk across Twickenham bridge, and you won’t see much more. If you choose a window seat on the train, look quickly as it crosses the railway bridge, and then you will see this lovely, architectural set-piece: the sculptured lawn, fretworked into flowerbeds, the rose bushes heavy with flowers in June, and the wrought-iron gates that swing in to a gravel drive that encircles the lawn. There are four floors, with the bottom one almost hidden by a raised terrace, and a sweep of marble steps carries you up, and up again to the great front door.

My husband and I lived there fifty years ago, in Roger’s flat. It was our first home, and all our top floor windows looked out across the garden and the life of the river. The houseboats rose and fell with the tide, and sometimes they looked as if they might float across the towpath and the hedge and onto the lawn, if the river was very high. And yes, there were occasions when the river did come in, and then we realised why the house had been built at a higher level: almost like a doll’s house on a plinth.

The owner of the house was an old lady, an aristocrat, I’m sure, and she lived on the ground floor and came and went through the front door and down the marble steps. The tenants used a side door, the entrance to a dark cave of an entrance hall, with our letters laid out on a side table, and handwritten reminders about the fire extinguishers and where to put our rubbish. We didn’t have junk mail in those days - can you believe it? The back stairs to the old lady came down there too, and sometimes if she heard us come in, she would say ‘hello’ over the balustrade. When we’d been there a while, she used to ask me to go and play her piano - to ‘keep it in tune’ she said, but perhaps it was to have a bit of company. I wouldn’t say she was lonely - alone, yes, but with many things to do: there were instructions for the gardener, a tennis court at the back was available for hire, and most important of all, her beloved pet goat, that had to be talked to and looked after and taken for walks, whatever the weather. She would chug away in her old Austin to shop in Richmond, and without fail it would bring her safely back again.

You must be wondering where my sister comes in.

We lived there for four years, staying slim and trim going up and down all those stairs. There was a proper fireplace in the flat, but you can guess where the coal cellar was: in the darkest corner of the entrance hall. My husband would take an empty hod and fill it from our allotted partition, then go up the stairs and tip the coal into the scuttle: gleaming brass that twinkled in the firelight. We found an easier way of dealing with the milkman - our bedroom window was right above the back door, so a basket on a stout rope would hurtle downwards and return slowly and carefully with the milk
.
Just after we moved away, my sister and her friend came to live in the flat below ours. The old lady was pleased that we could recommend someone, and because she liked us and she liked my sister, the rent stayed the same for years and years. What a lovely way to run a business! Even though she died many years ago, she stipulated that her existing tenants should not have to suffer a rise in their rents.

My sister loved being there, I know that, but we led very different lives and didn’t meet often. When our children came along we took them to visit: they played with her cat and ran away from the goat, ate sandwiches and crisps and scampered about.

“Come on,” we’d say, “ let’s go the rec. and give auntie a break.” And we’d rush downstairs to the crunchy gravel, dash to the gates to see who was first. Over the bridge and down the steps, along the towpath and into the rec. “Who’s first, who’s first to get the swings, the horse and the roundabout. Oh look, there’s a boy and he’s bigger than us, he won’t get off to give us a turn. Yes he will, now he’s bored, he can see we are three, so we are on and swinging away, higher and higher, what a lovely day!”

And so we would play for an hour or so, then back to the house for milk and cakes, tea for us and coffee for my sister.

She would wave us goodbye as we drove away, opening the window and leaning out over the balcony. Was she happy or sad, I used to wonder. Was it a strain or a time of delight? How could I know? She never did say. I expect it was both.

**

Time passed and the old lady died, mourning her goat, already in Heaven. Tennis court, lawns, trees and flowerbeds, all were removed at the back of the house to make way for tiny bungalows, the project of a Housing Trust that had taken on the place. Everything looked the same outside, but hidden away in the Alice-in-Wonderland labyrinth, partitions were built, doors removed and doors added: rooms were extended and bathrooms put in, so that more tenants could be squeezed in to swell the coffers.

My sister would call from time to time, visits would happen both to and fro. Her friend had married, her cat had died, another one came, another friend too. The merry-go-round of daily life spins on and on for everyone; our kids were grown. Where has time gone?

And so I come to the present day. What was it Roger needed to say?

“Isn’t it strange when you have to step into other people’s lives?”

Have to, he said. Not choose. We all call on neighbours or visit the sick: say “how are you?” to someone we know, or knock on a door to shake a new hand. We stand in a crowd while a wedding goes by, then stand in a crowd while a hearse goes by. So what did he mean - “when you have to step in”.

She’s gone, you see. My sister has gone. She suddenly left with a smile and a joke: “I’m not popping my clogs yet, you know” - for Roger was there and Shirley, her friend, and they both shook their heads to say “we agree”. But she didn’t come back. She couldn’t, you see, so now we are clearing and moving and sharing her things; her treasures and keepsakes, her new little cat, and neighbours come in to say, “could I have that, to remember her by?”

“Of course,” I say,” please take it away,” and “thank you for coming, good-bye, goodbye.”
I’ve had to step into my sister’s life. Someone will step into mine one day. “What shall we do with this?” they’ll say. Just like me - there’s no other way.

How long will it be, how long must we stay in a life that already has floated away? I really don’t like to intrude like this, it isn’t the way she would want it to be - grubbing about in cupboards and drawers. I’m sure I can hear her say, “it’s not yours.” I’m sorry my dear, that’s enough for one day. I don’t mean to upset you, just look the other way.

We’ll come back later - step out for a while and leave you alone. We’ll have to come back. There’s no other way.

**

There’s a train on the bridge, and the river is high. The tide’s coming in and it looks like rain. I’ll open the gates and you can drive through, - don’t look, don’t look at the house again, it’s not ours any more, that was fifty years ago.

Does it still look the same?

Come on, let’s go, it’s beginning to rain.