We’ll be staying with you for a while, because we can’t afford a flat of our own! my friend declared.
I am a restless soul, even at sixtyfive. I still wander from Brighton to the Lake District, popping into theatres and cafés, meeting the odd character who seems to have walked out of a Dickens novel. I look back on my youth with a smile and a sigh; back then holidays could be taken wherever the heart desired. One could hitch a ride to the seaside, pitch a tent in the Yorkshire Dales, or drift downstream on a modest river barge, all for a few pounds.
Those carefree days belong to the past now.
I have always loved discovering peoplestrangers on the sand at Brighton, actors behind the curtains at the Old Vic. Many of those acquaintances lingered in my life for years.
One mistladen afternoon I met a woman called Margaret Blythe. We were both staying in the same seaside guesthouse on a summer break. We partied, we talked, and we left as friends. Years slipped by, and occasionally we sent each other handwritten notes for Christmas and birthdays. Then, out of the blue, a unsigned telegram arrived on my mantel: At three oclock in the morning a train will arrive. Meet me at the station!
I could not fathom who might have sent it. Of course, my husband George and I had no plans to travel. Yet at four in the morning a knock sounded on our front door. I opened it and was stunned into silence. There stood Margaret, flanked by two teenage girlsPoppy and Ivyan elderly lady with a knitted shawl, and a tall man with a weatherbeaten hat. They carried a bewildering heap of trunks and parcels. George and I stood there, mouths gaping, before we finally ushered the unexpected guests inside. Margaret’s voice cut through the fog:
Why didnt you leave after my telegram? I told you a cab would cost a few pounds! Im sorry, I didnt know who sent it! Well, I had your address. Here I am.
I thought we would only write letters, that was all!
Margaret went on to explain that one of the girls had just finished school and was heading to university, and the rest of the family had travelled to support her.
Well stay here! We have no money for a rent, and your home is near the centre! she announced.
I was shocked. We were not kin, yet we were expected to house them, feed them three times a day. They contributed a few slices of bread but never lifted a pot; the whole household fell to my shoulders.
After three days of this surreal coexistence, I asked Margaret and her kin to leave, caring not where they went. A scandal erupted. Margaret began smashing china, shrieking as if the walls themselves were humming. I was aghast at her hysteria. They fled, pilfering my robe, a handful of towels, andby some trick of the nightmy large brass pot of cabbage, which vanished as if swallowed by the darkness.
Thus ended our friendship, thank heavens. I never heard Margarets name again, nor saw her face. Now I tread more carefully when I meet strangers, for the world of dreams can turn a simple invitation into a nightmarish tableau.
