My feet aching in my fashionable shoes, I plod along this grey London street for the last time. For the last time I descend into the purgatory that is the Cannon street Tube Station, before facing the hell that is the District Line at five o-clock on a Friday. The train comes barrelling out of the tunnel like a rampaging monster. Brakes hiss, doors whoosh, people push and shove. An elbow digs me in the ribs (nasty skinny cow did that on purpose). I end up strap-hanging. A large, whisky- breathing man leans over me, deliberately using the train’s momentum to invade my personal space. I can see the wrinkles in his neck above the too tight collar and the hairs in his nostrils. I accidentally tread on his foot as the carriage leans the other way. He treats me to an example of his vocabulary and turns his back. Last time, last time the rails sing as people gradually leave the carriage and at last there is a seat. At Victoria the train fills up again but I’m in possession of a seat now (Queen of the Tube) and gradually they begin to leave: Ravenscourt Park; Stamford Brook and at last Turnham Green. Taken out of context these all sound enticingly rural destinations but all are endless suburbs with parks, brooks and greens long swallowed by the urban sprawl. Never mind. Soon I’ll be gone from here, away from the noise and aggression and the stifling murky soup that passes for air.
I’ve been in my new home now for two months, though it feels like longer. I thought people in the country were supposed to be more friendly? In my flat in Turnham Green I knew my neighbours, Ali in the corner shop, Jimmy in the petrol station, Hannah at the dry cleaners. Here they look at me like an alien. Sometimes I get a short- lived smile from people like Daniel, the landlord in the Lobster Pot Inn, but that soon disappears when I speak. You can see the gears grinding “Not a local then. Not somebody’s daughter or cousin just come to stay for the weekend. Probably not a rep. Or someone from the brewery – no laptop case.”
Then the three lemons fall into line and the machine lights up!
‘Grockles’, that is anyone of less than at least 25 years residence, are welcome as visitors but; move in?
No, no that won’t do at all. You’re bound to want to change things. You’ll be personally responsible for putting house prices beyond the reach of the locals. You’ll want the ‘Lobster’ to turn into a cocktail bar, Mrs Jacob’s shop to stock all kind of exotic things, ( like more than one kind of cheese?)
I walk slowly down to the quay where small boats are drawn up onto the shingle and larger ones bob about on the turning tide. Can I walk to Gwenny’s Cove before the tide turns?
As kids we used to regularly play chicken with the incoming tide. Then; if we were caught, we could scramble up the rocks and come out along the coast and wander back along the deep lanes, picking wild flowers or blackberries according to season. Not sure I could tackle the climb now and adult common sense tells me what a risk we took but I’m tempted.
I set off along the sands but I’m stopped by a holler from a boat just coming in.
“Don’t go round there lass. Tide’s turning. You’ll get stuck.”
Tom? He was old when I was a kid. Must be ninety if he’s a day! I stop, distracted from my intention, and wait while he reaches the sand and hauls the boat above the tide line.
No, not old Tom then. He stomps across the sand with Tom’s familiar rolling gait.
“Sara? It can’t be! Sara Kinver?” I hesitate and then the penny drops – not Tom, Tom’s son Mark. My heart thumps painfully, teenage crush remembered all too clearly. I thought Mark Trevithick had left home for the big city even before I did. What was he doing here? Had he come back as well? He certainly didn’t look like it from the pale skin, a little sunburned on the nose and chin. Definitely a city dweller.
“You remember Sara, Sara Kinver, Sam’s daughter from Tregennis Farm.” Mark insists.
In the ‘Lobster’ Old Daniel peers at me across the bar in disbelief.
“God girl, why din’ you tell us who you were?” he asks accusingly. “Didn’t expect to see you back here with your Dad gone and your Mum in New Zealand. Thought you was a grockle.”
“Didn’t think you remembered me,” I shrug.
Local ale downed and home- made pasties eaten, I know that Mark has come back for a holiday and he knows that I’ve come back to stay, bought a cottage overlooking the harbour and intend to run my graphic art business from here; less income but also less expenses.
A week of reminiscences, long walks and trips in his little boat later and Mark is also making plans to move back here permanently, and the locals have decided that Sam Kinver’s daughter (you remember her –little devil with pigtails) is definitely not a grockle and have started to talk to me at last.
Mrs Jacob even asked me if I thought the visitors might buy ‘cross ants’ if she ordered those ready to bake ones from the cash and carry.