London Curtain-call

London will always be number 9 Markham street. London will always be Granny Begg. The grey house halfway along the street, just off King’s Road in Chelsea. That was the first stop of our yearly family holiday, thick white clouds and mild English summer weather signalling a month of excitement ahead. That was also our last stop, heading back to Barcelona with fond memories of the Kent countryside and contrasting big city lights while menacing clouds threatened another early autumn in August.

On arrival to number 9, my sister and I would rush up to ring the bell and peep through the beautiful bay window expecting to detect that familiar voice. “Uh-oo”. The moment we heard that recognizable cuckooing tone with its ensuing regal hug, we knew we had arrived.

Entering that home, with its wooden smell and creaky carpeted stairs, was like entering a different time period. As kids, it felt like discovering Narnia except the magic world was the actual house, wardrobe and all. Rows of books, decaying furniture and old pictures on the walls. My grandfather’s portrait looking over us above the ever-sinking sofa. A house full of memories, a building full of character. My dad would make a point of using the little garden loo, cleverly decorated with a photo collage my grandfather had put together with pictures of girls and grapes.

There were plenty of stairs, something my dad constantly moaned about and that would eventually become a hindrance for my aging grandma. As a kid, the stairs were my playground and I would slide up and down them creating stair climbing and descending competitions in my mind. I remember the intimidating grandfather clock which would strike and scare the hell out of us. Granny put my sister’s worries to sleep by confronting the clock and showing her there was nothing to be frightened of. When it eventually made its final trip to Spain, it never chimed again. More fun was provided by the telephones, one in the top-floor bedroom, one in the hall and one in the kitchen below. My sister and I would enjoy listening in on conversations and pretending we’d already hung up. We could’ve done a good spying job for the Stasi!

Markham street was the gathering place for the Begg family and friends for decades. It was a very exciting place to be around. I loved to hear the bell and open the door to some of the regular visitors like uncle J, uncle Ian Douglas or uncle Ean Begg with his thundering voice. It was a fixture in the calendar, with plenty of wine to accompany smoked salmon tartines and my dad’s renowned Spanish tortilla, cooked with the olive oil expressly brought over from Spain. I loved those occasions where the house was inundated with loud chatter, fascinating stories and generous servings of food and drink. When it had all died down, including the quarrels, the emptiness felt stronger than ever and I thought of poor old Granny who had to sit in that empty house of memories throughout the long sunless winter.

My grandmother would make a point of not being around the house while we were there. Even in her eighties, she would sneak off to the library or she would keep herself busy volunteering at the V&A or Westminster Abbey. When I was in my early twenties, she showed me around “the abbey”, moving with care and, quietly but proudly, introducing her “grandson from Spain”.

Like her contemporary, the Queen, she felt at home in these grand settings, and no more so than in the theatre. Young Anne Owen was an up-and-coming actress who shared a scholarship for the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art with none other than Roger Moore. Theatre had been her refuge from her mean mother, and bright little Anne embraced Shakespeare as a language in itself. During the war, now a blooming actress, she toured around Europe performing plays for the troops. The tour continued in England, where one charming, witty and determined officer, Major L.G. Begg, followed her from town to town on his motorbike and, eventually, wooed her away from the stage. Why did she give up acting? “That’s what you did in those days” is usually the common answer. She would accept this and never expressed any regrets, showing loving loyalty to her ‘Gordie’.

She might have left the theatre to start a family but the theatre never left her. Years later, Granny’s intelligent blue eyes sparkled whenever she took her two grandchildren to the West End. She would chaperone us through all the protocols and etiquette that any respectful theatre-goer should follow. She would point out the “gods” -the cheap seats in the highest part of the theatre- and she would gracefully allow us to have ice-cream during the interval, not before time. We felt honoured to go to the theatre with her, whether it was modern musicals like Starlight Express or long-running plays such as The Mousetrap. Going to the theatre has remained a tradition ever since and I still sense the same magic to this day.

Anne Begg died at the end of March as she was approaching her 95^th birthday. Her house goes with her but the memories remain. London will not be the same without Granny or the house at number 9. I’m just grateful for being part of that for all these years and, thanks to my sister, my nephew Liam and niece Lola also got a glimpse of our London.

Fade Away

As you get older, time flies by dramatically. Seasons come and go in a flash and you start counting years instead of months or weeks. Friends move on, kids are born, bodies age, faces wrinkle and people pass away. That is when the past catches up on you, memories randomly float in your mind and nostalgia kicks in.

This week, my grandmother Barbara died, putting an end to an existence that marked part of my childhood. Once a wartime nurse, she was a kind and generous woman who always looked out for us and wasn’t afraid to speak her mind in public, even if we sometimes felt embarrassed by her ticking someone off.

The last few years of slow decay should not mar the memory of a decent person whose common sense and generosity live on in my mother and my uncle. The same goes for her husband, steady old Jim Douglas, who almost made it to 100 with a weekly dose of golf, a daily drop of Scotch whisky and the constant devotion of his wife.

When we were children, my sister and I used to spend our summers in England. During one month, we would catch up with the eccentric characters in our family –especially on my father’s side- and discover the pleasures of city and country life.

The holidays usually started and ended in London, where we experienced first-hand the excitement of a big bustling city: jumping on double-decker buses, visiting all the museums and landmarks in town, walking around ageless parks, observing the tide-changes of the Thames from our Great Uncle’s houseboat, venturing into the West End for a musical or simply playing up and down the staircase in Granny’s old house in Chelsea.

After the furore of London, where excitement and hassle often become one, there was nothing more welcoming and relaxing than a trip to Kent. The Channel winds that sculpt the magnificent White Cliffs of Dover would wipe away any remnants of city stress. That is where the Douglas family came into the picture. Jim and Barbara never failed to pick us up at Dover or, to my Dad’s delight, Martin Mill, a picturesque little station caught in a time between Constable and The Railway Children. That is where the summer really began.

I remember the ticking sound of the turn indicator as my grandfather’s car approached a crossroad. I remember the plastic box of toys my grandmother had collected from car boot-sales and second-hand shops. I remember the smell of polished carpets in a bland flat that overlooked a much more inviting garden. I remember my first bike ride on the sloping village green at St Margaret’s at Cliffe. I remember throwing pebbles from the Deal prom and picking blackberries in the country with my dad. I remember the fresh smell of rain after a morning at the Tides waterpark. I remember playing on the Mitchells’ farm from dawn till dusk. I remember admiring acres of wheat fields, which would turn into Weetabix and Shreddies for breakfast. I remember tucking into fresh lemon sole bought from the local fishmonger and buying bangers from old Mr. Hubbard…

My grandparents will always be a part of these memories and I am eternally grateful to have had a taste of this idyllic and innocent world which, I am afraid, doesn’t exist anymore. At least not in modern England.

Jim and Barbara were a consistent presence in my early life and they were the image of good old-fashioned decency and serenity, even in their last fragile years. But it is precisely this human fragility which worries me most about the future. We are creatures of experience and I am fully aware that life is all about savouring those magical moments that merely occur. One dreaded day, however, memories will slowly fade away. Until then, let us continue this epic journey without forgetting those we leave behind but also without being bogged down in the slippery sands of nostalgia.