This begins the first of the lasts for us in London. We will leave London next Tuesday, our 25th wedding anniversary–and what a festive way to spend it, cramming the last bits and bobs into our suitcases, struggling through security where all the metal bolts and pulleys in my back will necessitate yet a another officer-escorted visit to the “cubby of revelation,” another display of much scar-age and X-rays. Why, I can’t think of a more fitting way to depart. Yes, I can but apparently the Concorde has been retired and Prince Charles has not yet recovered from our last meeting so he’ll skip the send off.
William graduated on Friday. Grandparents, godmothers and fathers, favorite teachers and siblings whooped as the boy who was never supposed to learn how to read picked up his diploma to the sound of an entire class cheering him. Then, at lunch–in a la-di-da restaurant we managed to practically clear in under ten minutes with our boisterous-ness–Will’s older brother stood to toast him. Not a caring and sharing kind of guy, at all, James managed to get out a few beautiful sentences about his brother before he burst into tears. I, who never cry, as you may recall, had already been transformed into a Palestinian widow ululating as at an open grave, my face buried in my napkin, my garments begging to be rent.
Yesterday afternoon David and I met a few friends (let’s face it, I only have a few friends) in a pub garden for Pims and pints. The afternoon had turned unexpectedly summery, the sun was warm where it slanted through the trees. It was goodbye for us and I looked at the faces around me with undisguised affection. We’ve known one couple on both sides of the Atlantic so this is our second goodbye to them. My oldest friend had come from America to see her godson graduate, my newer friends had taken a break in their packing to see us (they’re going to Jordan, lucky!), and my newest friends looked as cheated as I felt by our short time together.
They asked us what we’d miss most about London. David said (among more moving and meaningful things) that he’d miss being able to park on either side of the street, no matter which direction you were going. I can’t remember what I said. Maybe I said I’d miss the light in London, the way it lingers late, the sun that rises early, 3:45 am in the summer, the stormy purple cast the sky gets in the late afternoon. Maybe I’ll miss getting stuck behind the Queen’s horse guards–miles of them–as they clip-clop from the barracks to the Palace along every main road I need (clip-clop, plop, plop, squish, squash–at least they’re not elephants), or pulling my plaid trolley along Portobello Road in the early hours to pick up fruit, veg, bread and the world’s best roses. Maybe I’ll miss falling over that piece of Roman wall I’ve sprawled across at least once a year. Maybe it’s just everything that I’ve known for sixteen years, even my piddly little pool, my piddly little fridge.
I just got interrupted by the postman who came to the door with a padded envelope to say, “Madame, your packet won’t fit through the slot.” Packet, so promising in its very sound. I’ll miss that, too. Oh, and the fact that the other day I had a private tour of Westminster Abbey and the Westminster School, founded by Elizabeth I. There is a small wooden staircase that leads to one of the dining halls (move over Hogwarts). It dates back to the 15th century. It is older than my home country! I am missing it already. And the tea here, it is awfully good. The coffee? Not so much. The cold cuts? Rubbery discs. The pork belly (Old Spot piggies from the north), I would sleep with it if it didn’t get the sheets all deliciously greasy. The peonies, their blossoms so heavy they bow down until they nearly touch the table, I will have to write them a farewell love letter. I may have to send a change of address card (if only I knew where we were going to live) to the butcher who still wears the traditional straw boater and sleeve garters as he butterflies a leg of lamb for me, calling me darling. And, maybe a note to the flower-seller who just the other day commented on the cheery, bright pink bougainvillea I bought saying, “Them’s groovy, ain’t they? You can’t be down looking at ’em.” I worry about the tourists (Spanish, Italian, Indian, Swedish) who somehow always manage to find me and ask “The blue door, where is it?” They’re all looking for the house in the film Notting Hill. Who will tell them that it is just ’round the corner, only now, it is painted black and you have to know that if you’re to take a picture of your girlfriend in front of it?
Will Emma ever make friends as special as the ones who gave her a surprise going away party that included stops at all the London landmarks she loved (the lions in Trafalgar Square, Parliament, the Tate Modern)? Can she find a girl as thoughtful and loving as the one who painted her portrait, the one who took her away for a last day in the countryside? Will she meet anyone like the tall, willowy Emma Hatheway who gave tiny springy Emma Herrick a tee shirt with Ee on the front and a promise to let her live with her family if my Emma wanted to come back to London for her senior year? Well, of course she will make friends, fine and good they will be but, still…
Then, I wonder if William can ever top his best friend Jon. They have made wonderful short films together and acted in several productions. But, I’ll always remember them like this, on a ski trip together in ridiculous sweaters. And, what about the two boys from the English school, the ones who, without instruction or even awareness always tied Will’s sneakers as they dressed for games, one on his left, the other on his right. Can there be any more boys as kind as these?
James, though, has already moved on. He has wonderful friends in college, boys who are as gracious as any English gentleman and as robust as they are American. But I know James will miss the days on the rugby pitch, even the sleety, snowy, muddy ones. He’ll miss staring into space for hours in the outfield during a cricket match, waiting for someone to hit the ball hard enough to reach him. Cricket, a game we none of us ever mastered, but we do enjoy the picturesque silver bowl of red leather balls we have on our coffee table (now there’s a visual). We have bowls of baseballs and polo balls, too. Must be some kind of decorating tic we’ve acquired.
Ah me, so many completely inconsequential things to miss about this city and this country. But, really, those are absolutely the things that round out our lives. The almost unnoticed everdays that limn the contours of who we have become, what we will carry back with us. And, each of them will be as precious as anything in our great sea shipment that even now is steaming its way toward the new world, our new world.
I think I’ll just pop down for one more coffee at my cafe. You never know, Sr. Frangible just might be posed in the sunshine, tapping his cup with his long elegant fingers, waiting for me to say goodbye.