The mail delivery lying on my doormat had the usual mix of unsolicited advertising for chair lifts, recliners, tilting beds, and baths with doors. The delights of being old. But then I spotted a rarity, a handwritten envelope on crisp cream paper. The hand was not very firm, but well-formed, so I concluded that it was from someone at least my own age. This is a warning sign, because it's the way that news of the death of a friend or relative can arrive.
I took the envelope in to the living room where I was halfway through a mug of coffee and sat down to open it. There were several pages, quite close written, and an address at the top that I didn't recognise. I started to read:
"Dear James
I wonder if you remember 50 years ago when we shared 5 weeks in the summer of 1969?
I think you might.
I know that those weeks are lodged in a recess of my mind where I store my most precious moments.
Mine has been a long life, and you will have worked out that I have now reached 90.
We were close.
I was surprised -- almost shocked -- that we grew together so quickly and completely.
As my life draws to a close, I wanted to find out if you were still living, and if so to say some things which I felt I needed to share. I asked my step-nephew if he could find you, and it seems that he didn't have much difficulty. James Vesey is not a common name, and evidently you have had an active life. It's difficult to believe that you are now in your mid-seventies.
I need to go back to the end of that last week and......"
After the first two sentences I knew the author: Martha Jameson had drawn me into a life-changing period of my young life.
I'm going back now to the summer she mentions, and to a gaggle of people -- I think that there were nine of us -- walking through the Soho district of London. It was early afternoon, and we'd been to an Italian restaurant for our regular Friday pizza and red wine lunch.
We were a development group of architects, engineers, quantity surveyors and the like, and I was with them for the year out that we architectural students spent after three years of our five-year course. I'm at the back of this group, talking to a mature woman who walked with style, and not the over-casual fast amble of us students.
"I'm really sorry that I haven't got to talk to you before on one of these jaunts -- I feel I've been missing out," she said
"It felt as if perhaps you were too grand -- a bit remote," I replied, "I'm sure I was mistaken".
"Oh dear. I don't feel a bit grand or remote, but that's no excuse."
We'd had an animated half hour of conversation in the restaurant, largely about the value of good old buildings in preserving some of the character of our environment. I hadn't thought as much about it as I should, but she was passionately committed to conservation of all that had value in keeping.
There was a short moment of silence, then "If you haven't got plans for tomorrow afternoon I wonder if you would give me a hand moving a load of books? I've had them stored in my spare bedroom, but I like to have books around me, and I've built shelves in the living room which are now ready to be filled. I'd be happy to pay you because it will take a few hours, and it's quite heavy work."
"O.K., I'd be pleased to do that, particularly if you give me some supper!" I said, a bit cheekily.
"It's a deal. I live in Kentish Town. I'll write down the address and instructions when we get to the office. It's easy to find, only 5 minutes' walk from Kentish Town station on the Northern Line."
We had reached the office. She gave me the details, but did it discreetly, pinned to a piece of office admin. I wasn't sure if it was to avoid embarrassing me or herself. But she was so self-confident that it was probably my blushes that she was saving.
On Saturday morning I was busy. I was never a late riser, so by 9am I was in the Safeway supermarket in Edgware Road buying our supplies for the week ahead. I shared a flat with 5 others, and 2 of us did mutual shopping and cooking. It was my turn this week as Bob had gone to visit his folks out of town. I had other things to do as I would soon be moving to another flat up the river, but I set off after a quick lunch of ham roll and a glass of milk.
I walked up to Euston underground station, ducking back into the southern edge of Regents Park, which I loved, rather than walk along the Euston Road. That took about half an hour and then I had to catch the Northern Line to Kentish Town, where I arrived with about 10 minutes to spare: I had been instructed to arrive at 2pm.
London in 1969 was a quite different place to the wealthy and exciting capital city it has become, some of it on the back of a lot of dodgy money. There were bombsites still evident, most of them used as car parks. The trolleybuses had only disappeared 7 years earlier and the buses still had open platforms and conductors, or 'clippies' as they were known. Parking meters were a new sight. Supermarkets were uncommon, and where they existed, they were still on the high streets.
There was dust, dirt and rubbish to go with the grey buildings that had accumulated years of grime from the soot and sulphur laden atmosphere. There were signs of regeneration, and some areas had survived the war with their charms intact; but mostly it still had the air of a city still struggling to get back on its feet.
Behind the recently opened Sainsbury's in Kentish Town Road, which is where I was heading to find Martha's house, the tightly packed terraced houses were still largely rented or owned by people who did not have the financial resources to 'improve' them. 'Gentrification' had only just begun and Martha's house was one of only two or three which had clearly had money spent on them.
By the time I'd taken all this in and worked out where I was, I'd arrived at Martha's. When she let me in it felt immediately as if I was in a quiet sanctuary. Everything was clean and bright; walls had been removed so that, beyond the area immediately inside the front door, you could see through from living area to eating area and on to the galley kitchen and yard with lots of planting.
"Hi James, thanks for coming, and for arriving on time. It's a relief to see you because I would have struggled to manage these books by myself."
"It's good to come and see you in your natural micro-environment. It's as pleasing from the outside as it is in here, so I see you haven't adopted a camouflage!"
"No, us middle class trendy pioneers like to run our flag up the masthead. I've only been here a year, but I wanted to get everything done quickly, not drag on. Anyway, come inside and sit down for a moment."
That's what I did, on a sofa facing the wall which had the evidence of two fireplaces that had once been in separate rooms until the dividing wall was removed. There was a series of alcove recesses between the chimney breasts, which were fitted with book-shelves but still waiting for the books.
"You can see the shelves to be filled, and the books are upstairs. I was going to make the room that they are in a study, with books being a natural part of that. But I've changed my mind, and quite like the idea of having a spare room. Your job is to bring the books down, and my job is to arrange them. O.K.?"
