Experiences: 2

I disliked Doreen even before I met her. She was one of the many English neighbours who lived in our street, but she was different from the others. A kind of ‘different’ that could not be explained but yet forced me to be curious about her from a distance. I was born in Tottenham and my parents came from the West Indies in 1951. Although we had lived in other properties in the area from when I was toddler, we had lived in this particular street since I was a teenager. Doreen who was in her mid-fifties, was also born here but rumour had it that at the beginning of the previous century, her mother was a domestic servant to a middle class family who lived in one of the nearby streets. When Doreen was in her 30s, she spent her time in Rhodesia as part of a song and dance troupe which took her all over the country. Growing tired of something that she found monotonous plus hating the political climate she returned to England; met and married a computer programmer and they lived in her mother’s house, which happened to be opposite where we lived.

Back in the late 70s, the street was not only made up of English people but West Indians, Turkish Cypriots and Africans and other ethnic groups, who all steadfastly remained close to their own racial groups and minded their own business. For the Black community in particular, who felt targeted by the notorious SUS law (where the Police were empowered to ‘stop and search’ people they felt were suspicious), I remember my parents ranting on and on about not getting in the way of the Law. I guess what I’m saying is that in my mind, due to a lot of negative experiences I encountered, my relationships with the English were impersonal. But what was odd about Doreen, was her refusal to be depersonalized by me or anyone else.

Doreen and I began speaking to each other just after the time she came to our house. She needed signatures for a local campaign group that she said she’d managed. The aim was to complain about the accumulating rubbish in the alleyways. I can remember her smiling with a lot of effort but I, being typical of most people in their early 20s, was irritable and had an attitude. The following week she came again. This time it was about her concern of the growing number of road accidents that were taking place on our road, especially with children. She wanted to approach the council to campaign for ‘bumps’ to be put in the road. My father had opened the door and with his usual warmth and good manners, invited her in and introduced her to the rest of his family. Again, she met my stiffness with this unusual friendliness and dogged smile which I found to be grating. But it spelt out her determination to win us over. She had succeeded with our parents but my brothers and I were more of a challenge. About two days later, my father sent me over to her house to collect a book on Zimbabwe.
‘Hello Darling, yes I promised your father - a lovely man - a book on Rhodesia. I must stop saying that. Its Zimbabwe now isn’t it. Christ! I should know I lived there for some years. I must be careful otherwise people will take offence. Hope you didn’t take offence?’

I shrugged my shoulders and followed her to the kitchen. The house was identical to our own except she had taken a lot of trouble to make sure that it didn’t look like a typical home you’d expect in a terraced property. Bare wooden floors with furniture purchased from Heals (she told my father that was where she had normally shopped); unused plastic shopping bags with the logo Waitrose, stuffed in a transparent box in one of the opened cupboards. Clearly she didn’t do her shopping in West Green Road. She asked if I wanted a drink. I declined as it wouldn’t be long before I had my evening meal. She said she hadn’t been too long in doors as she had taken the dog, Scottie, for a walk and how he had enjoyed himself. Thinking of something to say, I mentioned how the local park, Lordship ‘Rec’ (Recreation Park) was looking better these days – not that I had been there in a while! She turned and looked at me as if she had swallowed something bitter.

‘No! I don’t mean the ‘Rec’, I mean Trent Park, up near Southgate. Lordship Rec, goodness, I haven’t been there in years! Anyway let me go upstairs and get you that book.’ I sat at the table and noticed the pile of Country Life magazines neatly placed on the shelf; and tilted against the kitchen door, were her green, muddy Wellington boots. Must have used them when she took the dog out for a walk, I thought.

As time progressed, if I saw Doreen on the road, we would stop and chat. She loved talking and I started to enjoy listening to her many experiences. But what was interesting there would never be a time when you have a conversation with her on the road and not be interrupted. People would stop to greet her, invite her to lunch in their home or offer to take her to a restaurant; if they were having a party or some function they would insist on her coming, or if there was a day trip somewhere, she was invited. Likewise if she held Tea in her home, it would be brimming with people. But more intriguing the offers and invites were from people from a variety of different nationalities. I was amazed at how she was so popular and amazed that I could witness this in so-called unfriendly London! Added to that was her appearance: she wore hats with feathers, caps, suits, Burberry coats, and jackets; long boots, ankle boots, and she happily boasted that she bought her clothes from popular charity shops which were always located in the West End.

I don’t know if this was something she had cultivated knowingly but she had developed a relationship with a set of people who were considered ‘outsiders’. ‘Outsiders’ who all along, remained where they were, but longed to be included and accepted by the indigenous people of this country. To be invited to her house for tea or dinner, for them, was the ultimate. People treated her as if she were gentry or Lady of the Manor and in return, she gave them what they desired – approval and acceptance. She admitted once that if she were to enlist one of her own people for help or support, that she would be far more effective if they perceived her as ‘superior’ as opposed to being just the ‘same’ as them. But it was not just effective with White people but proved to be effective with the very people who wanted to stop and talk to her.

Although this tactic did not work all the time. She couldn’t understand for the life of her, why people were so stubbornly Labour voters, and would lecture on how the Liberal Party was a much better alternative. ‘Can’t people see that the Labour Party rely on people not getting along and thrive when there is conflict?’ She’d say. I told her I understood but it was difficult for an area that had a long historical relationship with the party, to suddenly do away with it in favour for something that is seen as an X factor. She would continue about how the current MP for the area (who happened to be Black) wasn’t doing anything for his people. I responded that he wasn’t doing anything for anyone! She looked around her and let out a deep sigh as if her frustrations were greater than her solutions for the area.