I was living in England when I really learned
what ‘torrents of rain’ meant. On the one hand, this was extremely appropriate.
On the other, I was climbing uphill cobblestones in ballet flats at the time,
and despite my masochistic inner satisfaction at having what I was sure was a ‘terribly
English’ experience, I was also the kind of miserable that comes with a head
cold, a lack of funds, and the utter certainty that absolutely everyone at your
new school would much rather talk about you than to you, and even that not much
at all, because you are not very interesting.
I think it was around this time that I first
started spying on other peoples’ lives. I wasn't spying on individual people, please understand. That would
have been creepy and weird. No, I was just looking in their windows when I
passed every day, putting together the clues of their routines and the smells
and noises around breakfast and dinnertime and the faces that I occasionally
spotted in their windows or cars, and trying to piece together what their lives
were like.
Much less creepy and weird. Obviously.
There was one house in particular that I found fascinating. It was part of a long row of houses on my walk to
school, in one of those suddenly quiet and tree-hung bits of street right
before you rounded another corner and were surrounded by pubs and minimarts and
charity shops again. It was two stories tall, a ramshackle, rounded sort of
place, with porthole windows and an arched front doorway that was so close to
being the entrance to a hobbit-hole that they had to have planned it that way. It was built from a pinkish-brown,
porous rock, unusual for the neighborhood even if you managed to forget that
you were in the London suburbs. The front yard was all overgrown by two crab apple trees and a thicket of big flower bushes. At least one of them was a
rosebush, and it had a small car growing out of it. (I say this because the car
was much the same color as the rosebush, and, as far as I could tell,
permanently parked in it or possibly in front of it. At any rate, they were
close. Much closer than I had seen cars and rosebushes get before. I say this
with no judgment whatever, you understand. I’m sure they were very happy
together.)
There was a low wall surrounding the house and
garden, like there was around most of the other houses, only this one was sort
of haphazard and multicolored and always had a child’s toy or a half-finished
project of some kind lying on top of it, right alongside the postbox like an
unexpected cheery greeting. “Hello! Lovely day. Wouldn't you like to stop in
for a chat?” Once, it was a tie-dyed beanie baby that had clearly seen better
(and less damp) days. Another time, there was a row of hand-painted flower
pots, balanced perilously along the rounded stones. I remember pausing for
longer than usual, awfully tempted to move them onto the ground, because honestly,
it was a neighborhood full of kids, someone was bound to tip them over and
their bright terra-cotta sides were sure to get smashed. I didn't, though, and
the next day they were replaced by a child’s beach bucket of broken sidewalk
chalk. The front walk was all done in powdery flowers and sea creatures with
big teeth, that day. There was a very impressive angler fish, I distinctly
remember, detailed just inside the gate, wearing a terrifyingly cheerful
expression.
I wish I could say that I plucked up the
courage, one day, to walk up to that front door with some excuse to talk to the
inhabitants – compliment them on their flowers, maybe, or pretend I’d found one
of the toys fallen in the lane, and wanted to return it? But I never did. I
never even saw any of them, which was certainly passing strange, since I
usually walked past at the right time in the morning for any children to be
running out to school. Or grown people to be getting off to work. But I never
actually saw a single person there.
It’s a curious thing to realize now, but just
the existence of that house - with its cheerful quirks, bright colors and gobs
of personality spilling out into the street - just seeing it there every day
made me feel a tiny bit less lonely. Depressing, huh? ‘I’m in a foreign country,
vaguely terrified most of the time but too stubborn to admit it, with someone
who is ostensibly my best friend but who I have already begun to resent, and I’m
far too unhappy to even realize how unhappy I am, but there’s this house...’
In time, I got familiar with a
few people at school, and they were friendly acquaintances, kind enough to let
me join their lunch circles and even invite me out once or twice, my desperate
shy unhappiness notwithstanding. I tried. They tried. And eventually, I was managing, on average, enough friendly human interaction to get by in a more or less healthy manner. But I was never quite as
interested in them – or they in me – as I was in that pink hobbit-house that I
passed every day on the way to school.
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