Legends

At twenty past twelve last night I left Simone and Eilish's house. Southsea was silent, like the silence before snow, but this was midweek Southsea asleep.
As I turned left onto Albert Road, I glanced right and saw a queue outside the Wedgewood Rooms. I have no idea why at that hour. Perhaps they'd just seen a band play and were still caught in the gravity well. The Wedgewood Rooms is just a mosh pit really, about the size of a very big living room, and yet a couple of years back, before the babies arrived, Austen, Sue and I saw the Pixies' Frank Black play there. The man is truly a legend and yet he was an arm's length away from us on a small stage in Southsea. That's the kind of place it is, it gives opportunities to new talent and draws in legends. If Kurt Cobain were going to reincarnate, it would be in the Wedgewood rooms.

On Albert Road the pubs had long since closed their eyes. The Bombay balti House had customers, but the Eastern Eye, the Monsoon Tandoori house and the Goa were all closing up, dark-skinned waiters were wiping down tables, locking doors. Two fire engines rushed past, lights blinking madly, but sirens silenced. Albert Road is barely wide enough to accomodate them, but their drivers are skilful. I have never felt in danger walking in Southsea at night, there are usually police cars circling, freed from the task of peace-keeping at football matches. Nonetheless I am listening for accents as a group of youths walk towards me, and am relieved to hear a northern irish voice, students then.

I had walked in the opposite direction when the town was still alive, noise and light spilling out onto the pavement from every doorway, a man sitting by the ATM rolling a joint. Another standing outside a front door drinking from a can of lager, hears the chink of bottles from my bag, asks if I'll stop and share a drink with him.

The name seems to have disappeared from the end of Simmi and Eilie's road. Their door opens and light, warmth, cooking smells, hugs, all pour out, pull me in. Simone's appearance has changed a little, she's been growing her hair as an experiment. She has been cycling to work, her bike is named in honour of me - the all-weather cyclist. Changes in the kitchen too, the wooden window frames have been replaced by double glazing, the table seems not so long, unextended. But the welcome is as ever, wine, food, warmth, love, conversation, new and old interests shared. We sit in the front room by the open fire, drinking wine, talking, looking at pictures, at books, listening to music. It is ever thus.
Last night there were just the three of us and a cat. But if only this house could write there would be such a book to be penned. It would tell tales of all the people who had shared this hearth, sat round the kitchen table, cried and laughed, listened and recounted, discovered new ideas, learned from others, been supported through crises, through summer, winter, spring and autumn.

As I close the front gate and the cold night air hits me, I remember that next time I open it, Kevin will be with me, and the trees will have blossomed filling the warmer, lighter evenings with a hint of approaching summer.