Distant shores

My brother and I had to catch the bus that brought us to school at 7:20 a.m. It was often fairly foggy, just like in the Sherlock Holmes movies set in London. The bus stop consisted of a little wooden hut. Adjacent to the hut, chickens would want to be fed, which I gladly adhered to.

Our neighbors were farmers. They cultivated the land for growing asparagus. Many of the women from our and neighboring villages would venture to the asparagus fields in order to harvest the costly good.

Mum was a teacher. She taught English at the secondary school in the village a mile and a half away. She taught Martin, my brother, English. He was her favorite – and still is.

Our house was huge. It had served as a primary school, and we had refurbished it. It was something out of the mansion described in ‘Arturo’s Island’, by Elsa Morante. We even had stables. A real paradise for children, as it was surrounded by a lovely garden and a hedge.

I had a room overlooking the country road. I liked horses, and even cycled to the village where Mum taught in order to join a group that did acrobatics on horseback. As I was the smallest girl, I was given some difficult exercises; having said that, I never managed the summersault.

We even took part in championships and didn’t do too badly. In fact, on one occasion we came first against Behrenbostel and carried away the golden ribbon for a prize. The lady who ran the group was called Mrs Holly. Just like holly in the garden, the shrub with the red berries.

I’d often stay outside for hours, look at our neighbour’s horses graze from the little tree hut which my brother had built.

The London years

I didn’t know that I was going to leave London at some point. I thought I was going to stay forever. I had hopped over from the continent on a little hovercraft. It was raining when I arrived.

I was to live in the South of London. I had found a room in Tooting Bec and went to the local dance school, called Academy of Live and Recorded Arts, ALRA. My room was small. It barely contained a bed and a cupboard.

I soon moved to 74 Bromfelde Rd, where I was going to live for the next seven years or so. It was a shared house in Stockwell, the district next to Brixton. I moved into the turret room just above the bathroom. It was a charming little place.

The shared house was in fact a Christian community called the Wesley Community. There was enough space for six of us. Caia, Ruth, Sean, Meg, David, Kate, Adam, Susanne, Becky, Mike, Anastasia and Allan all lived at 74 at some point. We were young, and we got on. Every morning at about 6 o’clock, we would venture to morning prayer in the prayer room downstairs in order to say morning prayer together. We either worked, or studied, or both. I had completed vocational training as a secretary in Norwood, Lambeth College and started working as a typist at Rendel Palmer and Tritton, an engineering company.

I wouldn’t say I liked going to work. Everyday life seemed so gray. I went to the tube station, took the tube, took the lift at the tube station when I arrived, headed for work, and typed like a madwoman. I left after six months in order to work for the London stock market as a bilingual secretary.

I got accepted at the University College of London. I was over the moon to get a place as well as funding. I opted for the BA course in Italian Literature. As I was a complete beginner, I found Dante’s ‘Inferno’ hard work. My fellow students were brilliant.

However, after my studies were completed, things seemed to grind to a halt. A friend of mine from the Wesley Community got married. – I decided to return to Germany. 12 lovely years of living in London lay behind me.
 
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