3 People I Haven't Thought of in Years

Or, a welcome distraction from the election

Vintage Snakes and Ladders Game Board

It’s a mystery to me - these random memories that present out of nowhere at a certain time of one’s life. Perhaps it’s just because there’s room for them now.

I know much has already been written about this phenomena but I truly believe that something a bit mystical happens later in life, when suddenly one’s brain is not packed tightly with Other Things and specifically, Other People’s Things: the day-to-day wants and demands of family; schedules that involved highlighter pens and wipe boards and dinners that were often designed to please others. I enjoy these mind snippets very much.

I also enjoy the gentle puzzle of wondering why-I-am-remembering-this-now and marvelling at the exact replication of feelings I experience from a time long past.

I

1967

Occasionally, when my parents were planning a special night out that would be predictably late (New Year’s Eve, for example) they would arrange for me to spend the night at our neighbours’, a lovely older couple called Mr. and Mrs. West. I liked Mrs. West particularly as she was endlessly fun and up for anything and looking back, put a lot of effort into my stays there. I had a reputation - then and now - for homesickness but since I could see my own house whilst sitting on the loo at Mrs. West’s, I was generally okay with it.

My visits had a certain predictable rhythm - which I also liked - and always included a game of Snakes and Ladders, something which, to this day, I have never played anywhere else. The West’s set was extremely old and the shaker canister for the tiny yellowed dice was a curious hollow wooden cylinder with a little lid. I loved the game board as it reminded me of those ancient decorative maps where the wind is blowing with puffy cheeks at the corners and there’s generally a few curly sea serpents amongst the waves. Mrs. West provided a small bowl of Bugles or Bits ‘n Bites for me and my own ridgy glass of Lime Rickey with a scoop of ice cream in it. I felt this was incredibly chic.

Mr. West poured himself into an overstuffed chair to watch black and white television turned up loud and never entered into any of our activities. To me he was quite foreboding and I felt he had the potential to be short-tempered. Even as a child I could see that he might be hampering his wife’s sense of fun.

When it was time to turn in, I climbed into the giant, sinking bed in their spare room. The room, like the house, smelled old; not in an unpleasant way, but familiar and comforting and the sheets were cool and satiny soft. As per my usual bedtime ritual at home, I invited Mrs. West to listen to my prayers, which she did, sitting on the edge of the bed with folded hands. I diplomatically threw in a few casual supplications for her and Mr. West as I felt it would be rude not to do so. This still makes me laugh when I think of it and I suspect Mrs. West would have shared this with my mother later who would've been equally amused. When she left and I was alone, there was a special night light left on for me in the hall and the chance to peruse a selection of beautiful books with golden spines housed within the headboard and familiar to me over the course of my stays. I re-read them over and over and looked forward to the children’s poetry especially as well as the dreamy, wishy-washy drawings of Arthur Rackham.

By Arthur Rackham

I generally got up at some point during the night and went to the bathroom to make sure my parent’s car was in the driveway. As the soft violet light was beginning to show in the sky, my heart was put at ease and I returned to that soft bed till it was truly morning and I knew that Mrs. West would be making me a frothy cup of old fashioned cocoa. (She also knew how to braid my hair just right).

II

1975

My first job was working as a waitress and general Dog’s Body at a busy seaside café in the UK. I was fifteen. As well as waiting on tables, pouring endless cups of tea from a giant urn behind the counter and disinfecting floors with a fraying string mop at the end of the day, I also scooped ice cream, dressed the front window with plastic souvenirs and crouched in the back of my boss’ ancient Saab so that I could leap out at a designated stop on the way home and present an overflowing bucket of much coveted slop to the farmer’s pigs.

Yes, these were glamorous times but I loved every minute.

One of our regular customers was a gentleman named Commander Green. He was a bit of a local eccentric but well liked and easily recognized by his Baden-Powellesque sense of style. He was often spotted in his personal dinghy, spine rigid, paddling close to the breakwater and in winter, he smeared himself liberally with lard before plunging into the frigid Irish Sea.

(And did I mention he was nearly eighty?)

Baden-Powell seen here in relaxed evening wear

Every Sunday at noon he came to the café and ordered exactly the same meal: a cold ham salad, one cup of tea and a slice of cherry pie to finish off with. He was exceptionally sweet to me as I shakily wrote down his order on my first day, smiling his encouragement, nodding his thanks with a courteous touch of his hat when I brought the tea. I liked him very much and looked forward to fetching that ham salad for him each week from then on.

I feel certain that Commander Green would have had no idea how much this simple act of kindness impacted me and how astonished he would be (as I am, frankly!) that I’d be writing about it fifty years later.

III

1976

I see myself slowly approaching a bleak, pointy house, shoes crunching on the gravel. The wrought iron gate is cold under my grip and creaks stiffly as I push it open. Paint is peeling off in loose nobbly flakes that mimic the gate’s curves. My knees are pink and chapped from a stinging wind and there’s the usual dread in my stomach.

Not Mr.Johnson’s actual gate but a reasonable facsimile

Every Saturday morning for three hours and once during the week I must come here to be tutored in Latin, French and Algebra. I hate this but due to a trans-Atlantic school change, I am two years behind my fellow classmates and must catch up.

My tutor - Mr. Johnson - is a pompous, condescending man who seems unable or unwilling to smile or even react to my successes. He is definitely a advocate for what my brother, (also an academic) scathingly refers to as an “educate the best and shoot the rest” sensibility. Mr. Johnson requires me to recite the Latin conjugations orally (it’s more intimidating this way plus a wider margin for error) and sometimes, I purposefully substitute the correct French conjugation instead of the Latin he has asked for. I find this clever and it does produce a slight smirk.

But it really isn’t worth it.

He has a handlebar moustache which he actually waxes the ends of and I like to imagine him riding a Penny Farthing. (By which I mean, falling off …)

My teenage self finds this whole moustache thing both ludicrous and disgusting and I enjoy providing withering side-eye glances that he does not notice.

(I feel sure that he imagines himself to be part of a superior, Brideshead Revisited kind of world and deeply resents having to deal with the great unwashed like myself).

At half time, his long suffering wife (I am presuming this, of course) ferries in a small tray with two cups of coffee made with hot milk and two biscuits. She always gives me a sympathetic smile, almost wincing. I look forward to the coffee tremendously so that I can warm my hands around the mug and stave off the unbearable chill of the room where neither heat nor fire is ever provided.

When it is time to leave - after grudging red check marks are scratched across my notebook - I feel as though I’m shrugging off a chain mail vest.

I will definitely treat myself to a bar of chocolate on the long walk home.

Postscript: Despite - or because of - Mr. Johnson’s efforts I did go on to study and enjoy Latin at university level. Semper ubi sub ubi!

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