Yesterday I mentioned a psychedelic tree, now strangled by ivy, on the corner of Rectory Avenue. I haven’t finished telling about that road.
One day at Christmastime when my younger children were little, I took them out of the warm house to breathe the crisp fresh air. We used to live nearby and went up Pretoria Road, then Rectory Avenue, making a game of looking in at Christmas lights in the windows of the big houses. They were mostly set far back from the road, so it wasn’t an impertinence to peep in during the long-drawn-out dusk of winter afternoons in these latitudes when the curtains were not yet drawn. In my new house I make a point of never closing curtains completely, so as to glimpse passers-by and in return offer them sight of the warmth within, especially our Christmas tree.
The children were of an age for fairy tales and I wove one into our stroll: Hans Andersen’s The Little Match Girl. That urchin’s entertainment was to look into the windows of restaurants and rich people’s houses, imagining their warmth and feasts, whilst igniting her own matches one by one to try and keep frostbite at bay. We pretended to be ragged children envying the rich who lived in those big houses, with their neat gardens and fancy gates.
As it happened, I passed a man yesterday who was installing a new pair of gates. The wood was pale, freshly planed and sanded, with the aroma of pine. It was yet to be painted with preservative, and looked good enough to eat. He was stretching over to nail up some final piece of trim, and I could see he found it hard with only two hands. I nearly offered to help, or he nearly asked for help, I am not sure which. But when our eyes made contact, the moment had passed already, and he became a distant stranger like someone glimpsed from a train. Passing him again on the way back, I felt even more distant. I wasn’t with the little match-girl, or my children, or the Christmas lights of twenty years ago: nothing so specific. I was merely knowing my place, being an ageless tramp, like Hesse’s Steppenwolf, or myself as a child near my grandparents’ house: someone who gazes like a fascinated tourist at the manicured prosperity of the bourgeoisie.
In a moment, my attitude changed from respectful to lawless. My bladder was needing relief, and I was far from home. Might there be an empty house with secluded garden? It’s easy enough for a man, just needs a little cover; but the act implies scorn for property and requires discretion. If there’s to be a delay, mental control is needed. I could have waited with some discomfort till I got home, yet I was confident of finding somewhere, and this very confidence made the need more pressing.
At the end of Rectory Avenue there’s a little park on the hillside, with winding paths and children’s swings. It overlooks the valley and a hill on the other side: pretty exposed. But one of the paths takes you into a wood, and the very imagining made me hasten my step. As if from nowhere, a tall teenage girl appeared with a dog on a lead, going in the same direction. I overtook her in long strides, and dared not look round to see if she were following. I must get to the woodland path first, then she might be dissuaded from going the same way. I didn’t want her to think I was interested in which direction she took, and be thought a pervert. We had made momentary eye-contact when she had first appeared and—it’s not my fault, dear reader—-she did look attractive. Fortunately, she lagged behind, allowing my mission to be completed in tranquil privacy.
Half a century earlier, I’d have slowed till she caught up, then addressed some friendly remarks to her dog, to see where things might lead.
Try pulling off to the side of the road between Nairobi & Mombasa and trucking into the bush to relieve yourself … not knowing what animal may or may not be watching or stalking. :o)
Isn't it funny how a moment where we can meet someone new passes in a blink of an eye … a thought … and inclination of introduction … and then it is gone. Astounding!
I am finding beauty and inspiration in reading your art. In fact, it's better than anything I've read lately. I was moved by your description of the black cat, in your last post. It is just these subtle and insightful glimpses that give me a glimmer of hope. And it is my hope that I can find my voice, as eloquently as you have found yours. Lucky, lucky girl in the woods, and your truth is eye-opening.
I don't know about the roadside in Kenya, but an old lady told me how she had observed women managing by the roadside in Kashmir. This was in the nineteen-forties. There being no natural cover, they would simply squat to do their business. If a vehicle came past, instinctual modesty demanded they hide their faces by lifting their skirts—exposing their nether parts to full view.
Malcontent, you have given me inspiration when I was almost losing hope myself! Another post is on the way and the latest two have been significantly improved by further editing. And I have glimpsed at your own blog, which I recommend to all!
Yes, well, I haven't been home in over 13 years, but I assume they still squat without cover … I preferred to find a bush regardless of what mammal may have been lurking.
I must echo malcontent's sentiments on your writing. You can not lose hope … as I am drawn here day after day to see what you have written next.
Riveting Vincent, a great pleasure to sit and read, and wonder. And, as usual, our subjects seem slightly synchronized, here and in the next one forward. I have always loved your writing, subjects and style.