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smokingbootOur neighbour is dead.
His son told two of us on the street today, and took our numbers for details of the funeral. We will attend.
Jay was from Sri Lanka; he always told us we should go there. He was a jolly man of well connected family, maybe even aristocracy in the old country. He loved his whisky and his jaguar, he was erudite and twinkling and very hospitable, a proud freemason who took us with him to a masonic 'Ladies Night.' He and his wife were proud of their family working hard, studying, doing well. He was patient as well as witty and a very gentle gentleman.
What do I remember of him? The ever reasonable tone in his voice. A particularly rasping lady on the street took him to task for his family parking all along the kerb. Her own were a two car bunch, so quite what their problem was I never knew. Most of the houses - not Jay's - have a garage, often a double one. She intimated as closely as she dared some not-quite hint about folk from elsewhere not understanding how things are done here. His response was utterly measured, no raised voice but a hint of a smile; 'I understand this street very well,' he said, 'I have lived here for 44 years.' She had no answer to this, and he never pressed too hard. They avoided each other after that.
Jay and Pearl's garden was completely overgrown. Right at the back is a huge ash tree that some other neighbours have wanted rid of; but that's where the owl sits when it comes calling, that ash tree brings us birdsong and squirrels and life. We talked about the eagerness of people around here to destroy the things that make the area special.
'Some say we should get rid of it,' he told me once.
'You'll never hear that from me,' I replied, 'I love trees.'
'So do I,' he nodded, 'I can't bear to chop them down.'
I don't know what will happen to that tree now. His wife has dementia, and children often have a ghastly habit of renovation. Suddenly, leaving feels a little easier.
Goodbye Jay x
His son told two of us on the street today, and took our numbers for details of the funeral. We will attend.
Jay was from Sri Lanka; he always told us we should go there. He was a jolly man of well connected family, maybe even aristocracy in the old country. He loved his whisky and his jaguar, he was erudite and twinkling and very hospitable, a proud freemason who took us with him to a masonic 'Ladies Night.' He and his wife were proud of their family working hard, studying, doing well. He was patient as well as witty and a very gentle gentleman.
What do I remember of him? The ever reasonable tone in his voice. A particularly rasping lady on the street took him to task for his family parking all along the kerb. Her own were a two car bunch, so quite what their problem was I never knew. Most of the houses - not Jay's - have a garage, often a double one. She intimated as closely as she dared some not-quite hint about folk from elsewhere not understanding how things are done here. His response was utterly measured, no raised voice but a hint of a smile; 'I understand this street very well,' he said, 'I have lived here for 44 years.' She had no answer to this, and he never pressed too hard. They avoided each other after that.
Jay and Pearl's garden was completely overgrown. Right at the back is a huge ash tree that some other neighbours have wanted rid of; but that's where the owl sits when it comes calling, that ash tree brings us birdsong and squirrels and life. We talked about the eagerness of people around here to destroy the things that make the area special.
'Some say we should get rid of it,' he told me once.
'You'll never hear that from me,' I replied, 'I love trees.'
'So do I,' he nodded, 'I can't bear to chop them down.'
I don't know what will happen to that tree now. His wife has dementia, and children often have a ghastly habit of renovation. Suddenly, leaving feels a little easier.
Goodbye Jay x
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