Hanover Street
Noise from the road drifts up and into my open window. At one end of the street is a Sri Lankan restaurant, at the other is the entrance to a park. Now that lockdown is easing and the Sri Lankans have built outdoor seating on the church lawn, sounds of laughter and alcohol find their way over the sill where they land, a little quieter for the journey, on my desk.
It’s a poor neighbourhood in a wealthy city. Terrace houses huddle in the shadow of Regency architecture. Even our entrance to the park is poor—no trees, just broken pavement stones and spent gum and dog shit and bad boys sat atop the stile.
But we’re here, in this room. A spy lived here for nearly a year. My daughter lived here, recovering from grief. Later, an Indonesian couple with their prayers and chants and sun-up-to-sundown fasting. Now it’s mine, my space to write in, to work from home permanently. I no longer need to hold my breath until I go back to campus, the old teacher training school just down the road. No, I have a new job and I get to stay home and talk to colleagues through my screen, type them letters via the Internet. It’s lonely at times, but it’s quiet here, and I like it. I can dream of Polperro and the Blue Peter Inn, sit and write in my journal, roll around on my exercise ball or stare out the window. There’s a buddleia bush sprouting from the chimney across the way. There are bricks to count, conversations to eavesdrop. If it’s chilly, there’s the shawl my poet friend from France gave me. If I miss my family, there’s the Denny’s mug from that day I took my son out for breakfast.
I’ve sold her though, this house, this room. I’ll be moving soon. The wardrobe, the botanical-print curtain that reminds me of the Hopkins, the family I first lodged with when I moved to the UK—I’ll bring those things with me when I go up north on my next adventure. But for now, for today, I’ll sit a moment and listen to the seagulls, the rain lashing the window, the tapping of my partner at the closed door inviting me down to dinner.
Lania Knight writes fiction and essays and lives in the UK where she teaches creative writing at the Open University.
Website: www.laniaknight.com
Twitter: @laniaknight
Instagram: @theallotmentbook