We all need rescuing sometimes, from a clear and present danger or an embarrassing situation; seldom both and seldom involving ladders. In the course of my nomadic life I’ve needed rescuing twice, both times while in London and both in the nick of time.
My very young husband and I were staying in Yeoman’s Row, still today a charming cul de sac hidden away in the bustle that is Knightsbridge. We had been lent a flat by a rich playboy friend whose only Jaguar-driven pursuit was the odd mini-skirted bird, not the feathered kind.
I was playing house and falling in love with London.
Two doors down in a basement there was an architect’s firm. I passed them every day in my Mary Quant kilt and got the wolf whistles it deserved. This was -oh nostalgia!-before the woke brigade erased all the fun of strutting your stuff. One morning my husband kisses me goodbye and says he’ll meet me for lunch. I decide to take out the trash, called rubbish in England.
As I am lugging a heavy trash can –dustbin here- in a transparent Lolita-baby doll (the preferred nightie of the Swinging Sixties) and watch my husband turn the corner on Brompton Road the front door slams shut. Instant assessment of situation: no keys, no husband, no neighbors, no one will miss me until lunchtime, all this pre mobile days.
It’s starting to fell bloody cold and my nipples are reacting.
I hide behind some bushes and wait. Eventually a Meter Maid (“Lovely Rita, Meter Maid”*) walks down the street writing tickets right and left. “Psst, psst”. She follows the sound and finds me crouching barefoot and barely dressed behind the shrubbery. The severe look she gives me says it all. “This is what comes from letting all these foreigners in; they end up naked in the bushes”. I explain my conundrum, she doesn’t look too convinced. I plead with her to go to the architects and get help. She relents and comes back with a merry band of men, happy with the distraction and the chance for some ogling.
Acting very manly they immediately take charge, bring back a huge ladder, climb over the spiky iron fence and find an open back window. They enter the house with much clattering of pots and pans and victory cries; I buy everyone a round at The Bunch of Grapes (still standing). “Rita” declines and the rest of us become fast friends.
A week ago I took my dog for a walk at the nearby park, conveniently located but watched over by a warden we call The Nazi. A couple of times I’ve let my darling obedient Lulu off her lead, or leash –she has perfect recall and is a sweetheart- just to be firmly put in my place.“No dogs off lead”, he barks.
I now obey to the letter but much as we try to ingratiate ourselves, with smiles, hellos and much tail waggin’ the guy still gives us dirty looks; I am terrified of him. Winter arrives very quickly and that day I am in the park for a short walk. Cutting through the paths I find he has closed the gate on the other side. Ok. No problem. There are four gates. Well, it turns out they are all padlocked. How did he manage that?? I never saw the guy, but he surely saw me and my white dog. Did he fly over me? Passerby strollers on the street side of the fence suggest I call 999. I do. Not much help there. Night has completly fallen, it is getting cold and Lulu looks increasingly worried.
Finally two girls approach me through the fence and offer to get the Fire Brigade. “They are right around the corner”. Good idea.
Ten minutes later they come back with good news “They are on their way” and a cup of tea. Say what you may but a country where people understand that a cuppa is not only the proper drink for a shivering body but also for the worried soul, is a country that’s got its priorities straight.
As I am sipping a lovely cup of Earl Grey I can see the blue lights and hear the sirens of the fire engine approaching.
Three stupendous firemen and one very capable firewoman set up a clever system of ladders and Lulu gets recued first passing from firefighter to firefighter much to her delight. Then it is my turn. They are very careful and thoughtful and when the handsome black firefighter asks me if I feel it’s OK to climb, I answer with a smile “But I thought you were supposed to carry me on your back”.
Oh London, my city of kind strangers, gallant rescuers and great tea.
("Lovely Rita", The Beatles 1967)
Comments