Wordsley, Stourbridge, England: 7 degrees, cold, cloudy, and rainy.
I have been in England for a little over two weeks now, and I am visiting places that are stuck in my memories from childhood and adolescence.
Yesterday, I went to Mary Stevens Park and the house I shared when I was beginning my professional life and living alone.
Today, I have gone even deeper into my past. I took the canal towards Wollaston and walked along until the bridge and path near where I used to go fishing. The path leads indirectly to the street where my parents had a semi-detached house for 15 years or more.
These 15 years were the most influential and life-forming part of my life, and maybe anybody else’s. Until now, it has been a deep reference, while at the same time, I only have vague and distant memories of when I lived there.
I don’t remember the cold of winter we are experiencing now, while I am in England. I remember the snow and how, at that time, I didn’t have the right shoes or gloves to go out in the snow, so many times, I would feel the stinging sensation of frostbite in my toes and fingers.
Although I don’t remember the cold, I remember the summer with the long days that would last until 9:00 p.m. I remember climbing trees or playing football with friends from the street, but I still don’t remember the cold.
I walked up the path from the canal to the street where we lived, turning onto York Crescent. Our street is a crescent, which means it begins and ends in the same place, forming a U or C shape. On the corner, a house is situated on an elevated position; you either drive or walk uphill to reach it.
My brother and I called their parents “Uncle” and “Aunt.” The family had four children: a son, twin daughters, and the eldest daughter, all of whom were our friends. We lived close to each other and often visited one another’s houses, just like all the other families on the street.
Over the last 30 years, while living in Brazil and sometimes having to visit England, I had visited the family various times, but this time, I thought it would be better not to go up to the house and present myself. Life’s tragedies have torn the family apart, and the family, which was once extremely close, has gone through bad times and suffered a lot. One of the twin daughters committed suicide due to an amorous deception, and one of my best friends from that time, the son of the family, suddenly fell down and died about 10 years ago from liver failure.
Shortly after their son died, the father, whom I called Uncle Joe, passed away. I considered him a very special family man. Due to her many losses, my aunt, the wife of Uncle Joe, whom I always affectionately called Auntie Beryl, has not come downstairs or left her house in a long time. She has effectively imprisoned herself on the second floor of her own home because of the difficulties life has thrown at her and the resulting losses in her family.
What was once a happy, positive, united family in my childhood was broken and destroyed by fate. Life is hard, and sadly, time never stops, which also demands that we go on!
Walking around the Crescent, I remembered other houses and families that my brother and I would frequent. Some, but few, families still live in the Crescent. I stood outside one such house, where I have contact with the family through Facebook, I waited a minute to see if anybody would appear, but nobody did. Going up the street, I eventually arrived at my old house. With today’s residents, it has now been mischaracterised from my memories and the jagged reality of the past.
So now, the day’s objective is to resolve a pending doubt.
I had an uncle, I think I have already mentioned him in the blog, who died about two or three years ago. Before he died, he insisted on putting me in his will, and after a time of doubt, I did not know whether I wanted to be included, I sent him my contact details through his stepdaughter, who was the middle person at the time. It has now been three years since his death, and there is still no indication of whether he had put me in this will, or if so, when I would receive this small inheritance.
If I am not included, then OK, no problem; he didn’t get round to doing it, but if he had, then I, my family, and my daughters have the right to that, fulfilling his wishes and desires.
When my uncle Mick died, he was living in a bungalow (a one-floor house) on the next street from my old house, which I am standing in front of at this exact moment. I have also discovered that my uncle Mick’s stepson, Alan, is the executor of his will and lives at my uncle’s house.
Alan is autistic, and many members of my uncle Mick’s late wife’s family are, like my nephew, my brother’s son, and now, thinking about it, there seem to be many cases of autism in England, seemingly more than in Brazil.
I know Alan, and I have great respect for him. We had many lunches and dinners together 35 years ago, before I left England to go to Brazil. So, I decided to walk around to my late uncle’s house, where he lived. I quickly found the bungalow, relying on my memories, but I was not going to knock on the door just to know and confirm where it was.
At that moment, I thought, why not? I am here, do it, Richard!
I knocked on the door, and after almost a minute’s wait, Alan opened the door and appeared. A man roughly my age, in his late 50s, early 60s, but looking much older than me. In terms of his features with his hair the same from 40 years ago, a fringe that is as if someone had put a pot on his head and cut an exact line around it and his mannerisms of being fidgety whilst also too polite to an annoying degree confirmed that even though we had not met for such a long time it was him.
At first, he seemed to have forgotten or not recognised me, but after I presented myself, he jumped into a certain, seemingly sincere joyfulness and seemed happy to see me.
I explained why I was standing in front of his front door, and as he had not invited me in, there it would be. I explained that I would be in England for a couple of months and would like to know if I was included in my uncle’s will and, if so, what exactly the situation was.
He voluntarily answered and confirmed that I was included, but without giving a value. I also didn’t ask, and as it was still in probate, he told me nothing was finalised. I pressed him a little to ask how we would resolve this, and he replied, asking me for payment details. I replied, telling him I would write a letter and deliver it to him with all the necessary contact details, which he should have already had. We talked for a little while, just small talk, and we said our goodbyes.
I left the driveway of my late uncle’s house feeling that a weight of anticipation had been lifted from my shoulders. Yes, I had been included, and maybe, hopefully, with minimumstress, I would receive what my uncle wanted me to have.
If I do eventually receive something, no matter how small it is, I will split it with my two ex-wives, the mothers of my daughters, and my daughters. I don’t believe it. Well, I know that it won’t be a large amount. My uncle told me it would be a small, insignificant amount, but anything helps nowadays, especially when living in Brazil. I hope that it will be done correctly with the least stress.
I also felt extremely thankful again for what I’m living now and how the universe has been conspiring in my favour. We have to live today, the present, but at the same time, know what we want for the future.
When I got home, I had to change to go out for a Sunday lunch with my mother. My mother, twice a month, goes to a kind of club, an old people’s centre, for Sunday lunch, where one of the main attractions of having Sunday lunch out for old people is not having to do the washing up if they were at home.
It was enjoyable, and the roast beef was very English with vegetables, Yorkshire pudding, and gravy; you can get more English for a Sunday lunch than that, but it was very nice.
When we got home, I called Yasmin and Nalva. I worked a little, and at 10:00 p.m. I was in bed.
Thank you.
Thanks for reading this blog post. Please explore my other posts and share your thoughts in the comments section.
Richard
