the funds ran out before the course began, and as for the studio. with less than a fortnight to go i was still at snow’s hotel, spending my time in the bar listening to the horror’s the male prostitute would have to endure by his rich clients, watching the saudi men attempting to pick up the blond aussie bar keep while buying me free beers.
i was out and about every day trying to find a place but it seemed that i was baffling all the people i had to talk to. when i asked one agent for a place south of the river - this is 1980 remember - there was this blank stare as if all she could think of was brighton.
one agent became angry when i insisted on living alone.
after seeing a place that i liked a great deal in streatham, a flat that opened out onto a garden with my own kitchen and bath - but apparently wasn’t suitable as the person renting it sighed and said she was looking for a doctor, i was in the offices of the college confessing to my dilemma when a retired tutor who lived in peckham, said that she knew someone who had a place to went in her house along grove lane, she would ring her and i could go over to-morrow.
it wasn’t streatham, a good thing as i was within walking distance of the college - goldsmiths’ then was in cormont road, camberwell was - to my mind - the best place to be south of the thames as it was close to victoria, charing cross and the city. i could walk to the oval.
the following day i knocked on the door, a lady answered, invited me in showed me the flat - kitchen bedroom shower up the stairs - shared but in truth she used the bath on the other landing. she showed me how to use the reinforced locks, handed me the keys and said that she was off to switzerland the next day for a month she would see me when i got back.
that’s how i met alison, a vegetarian - like me - well not really. she told me that she was on a retreat once and the soup had meat in it, as i was commiserating she told me that she asked them to take the meat out. i was invited to come upstairs and watch the television whenever i wanted - only did so during the world cup as television wasn’t needed. i had radio 4.
while doing improvements to her part of the house she put in a sink in an alcove for me so that i could not only wash up without heading upstairs but also rinse my film -at night my kitchen turned into a darkroom.
i helped her wallpaper the top floor.
she loaded the ford cortina with two women from the states and me and took us around southern england - corfe castle, swanage, studland bay
on the the fourth of july after i had come back from america - actually the america, which is which is outside ely in sutton in the isle. told friends that i had walked to america between boston and cambridge - she had sparklers that we lit in the back garden.
we traded food, i met her friends, penny and alec, daisy and her mum, bruce who would always corner me to talk about his leica m3 with the sumMIcron lens and wondered if he should have bought the sumMIux instead.
when it was finally time to leave britain she helped me move by taking all my books to the post office - i moved back to the states by royal mail. when i showed up in december for the external show - which the tutors thinking that i wouldn’t return, “forgot” to hang my work - i went back to my flat.
i stayed there again when i went back to teach at richmond college the next summer.
i appalled her when once she arrived back from switzerland early only to find my largish prints washing in her tub. she confessed that she didn’t use the bath for a month after that. i promised that i would never do it again.
i sent post cards constantly she would reply with letters. at christmas there would be a calendar or something arriving.
she moved out to essex - manningtree - to be close to her friends. she said the place was small but there would be space if i chose to visit. never quite got around to it. oddly enough what blair did to britain didn’t much have me want to visit - this coming from someone who had to endure the thatcher years.
when she moved to oxford, i continued to send my usual postings to her until one day, a relative wrote saying that alison’s place was small and there wasn’t any room for my mailings could i please stop.
i didn’t alison was a friend writing her kept her alive for me. stopping would be casting her off. in the end, however, i feared seeming a typical overbearing yank in ignoring the wishes of her family and i stopped.
earlier this year matthew wrote. matthew whom i met when he was about three. he said that alison was in hospital for a bit but was back at her room alert but weak. he was going up to see her in a few weeks.
i had realised that in stopping my part of the correspondence had in essence consigned her to those of my friends who had passed away. hearing this from matthew, had the effect of making me feel ashamed that i had listened to her relatives and that i thought she had died.
sent a post card feebly starting off since i last wrote… with the intent of crowding her room again.
not soon after matthew wrote that she had passed away.
so now it does stop. but i found this snap that i made of her when i did finally leave for the states for good. her on the front stairs seeing us off as we made our way up denmark hill for the train, seeming to make it seem more like one of my many awaydays half expecting us back.
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