June 12, 2025
Today I still hear Megans voice in my head: Well crash on your sofa for a while, because we cant afford our own flat! The words still sting, even after all these years.
Im a surprisingly spry septuagenarian. At 65 I still love to wander, to pop into a theatre in London, to stroll along the Brighton seafront, to set up a tent in the Lake District with old mates, or to take a leisurely cruise down the Thames. Back in my younger days those little adventures were cheap enough that a few quid would cover a nights stay, a bus ticket, or a modest meal. Those carefree summers feel like a different lifetime now.
People have always been my favourite thing to meetstrangers on the sand, fellow dramagoers in the West End, longtime pals who turned into lifelong friends. One of those acquaintances was Sara Whitaker. We both booked rooms at the same seaside guesthouse in Whitby during a summer break and ended up sharing cups of tea and stories. When we left, we promised to stay in touch, sending each other cards for birthdays and Christmas. Then, out of the blue, a plain telegram arrived at my doorstep, unsigned, with only the line: The 3a.m. train will arrive. Meet me at the station.
I couldnt fathom who might have sent it. Of course, my husband and I never traveled together at that hour. Yet, exactly at four in the morning, there was a knock on our front door. I opened it, halfasleep, and froze. On the step stood Sara, two teenage girls, an elderly lady, and a man, all lugging an enormous pile of luggage. My husband and I stared in disbelief, then, after a moment of hesitation, we let them inside.
Sara blurted out, Why didnt you move out after I sent that telegram? A taxi isnt cheap, you know! I stammered, I had no idea it came from you. She shrugged, I had your address. Here I am. I tried to explain that Id imagined wed only correspond by post, nothing more.
She went on to tell me that one of the girls, Lily, had just finished school and was heading off to university. The rest of the family had travelled to support her. Before I could process anything, Sara announced, Well stay with you! We cant afford a place of our own, and yours is right near the centre! The shock hit me hard. We werent even related, yet I felt compelled to open my home, feed them three times a day, and watch as they contributed a few biscuits but never cooked a thing themselves. It became my fulltime job to look after them.
After three exhausting days I asked Sara and her relatives to find somewhere else to live. I didnt care where they went. Their reaction was a scene straight out of a soap opera: plates smashed, angry shrieks, an almost hysterical Sara. I was taken aback by the sheer drama. When they finally left, theyd somehow managed to pilfer my favourite bathrobe, a couple of towels, andmiraculouslya large pot of cabbage that had been simmering on the stove. I still cant work out how they got it out the back door; it simply vanished.
That was the end of our friendship, and I thank my lucky stars it ended that way. I havent heard a word from Sara since, nor have I seen her. Now Im far more cautious when I let strangers into my lifeor my living room. The experience has taught me that kindness must be tempered with a healthy dose of common sense.
