Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

'This is not my idea of a good time', I told Sandy during a phone call a few days into the house hunt. 'Especially as the city's so damn big. I mean, there's no such thing as a simple trip across town. Everything's an expedition here - and I forgot to pack my pith helmet'.

'That would make you stand out in the crowd'.

'Hardly. This is the melting pot to end all melting pots - which means that no one stands out here. Unlike Boston...'

'Oh, listen to the big city girl. I bet Boston's friendlier'.

'Of course. Because it's small. Whereas London doesn't need to be friendly...'

'Because it's so damn big?'

'Yeah - and also because it's London'.

That was the most intriguing thing about London - its aloofness. Perhaps it had something to do with the reticent temperament of the natives. Perhaps it was the fact that the city was so vast, so heterogeneous, so contradictory. Whatever the reason, during my first few weeks in London, I found myself thinking: this town's like one of those massive Victorian novels, in which high life and low life endlessly intermingle, and where the narrative always sprawls to such an extent that you never really get to grips with the plot.

'That about gets it right', Margaret said when I articulated this theory to her a few days later. 'Nobody's really important here. Because London dwarfs even the biggest egos. Cuts everyone right down to size. Especially since all Brits despise self-importance'.

That was another curious contradiction to London life - the way you could mistake English diffidence for arrogance. Every time I opened a newspaper - and read a lurid account of some local minor celebrity enmeshed in some cocaine-and-jail-bait scandal - it was very clear to me that this was a society that stamped down very hard on anyone who committed the sin of bumptiousness. At the same time, however, so many of the estate agents I dealt with deported themselves with a pomposity that belied their generally middle-class origins... especially when you questioned the absurd prices they were demanding for inferior properties.

'That's what the market is asking, madam' was the usual disdainful response - a certain haughty emphasis placed on the word madam, to make you feel his condescending respect.

'Condescending respect', Margaret said, repeating my phrase out loud as we drove south from her house. 'I like it - even though it is a complete oxymoron. Then again, until I lived in London, I'd never been able to discern two contrasting emotions lurking behind one seemingly innocent sentence. The English have a real talent when it comes to saying one thing and meaning the' -

She didn't get to finish that sentence, as a white transit van pulled out of nowhere and nearly sideswiped us. The van screeched to a halt. The driver - a guy in his twenties with close-cropped hair and bad teeth - came storming out towards us. He radiated aggression.

'The fuck you think you was doing?' he said.

Margaret didn't seem the least bit flustered by his belligerency, let alone his bad grammar.

'Don't you talk that way to me', she said, her voice cool and completely collected.

'Talk how I want to talk, cunt'.

'Asshole', she shot back, and pulled the car back out into traffic, leaving the guy standing on the road, gesticulating angrily at her.

'Charming', I said.

'That was an example of a lowly species known as White Van Man', she said. 'Indigenous to London - and always spoiling for a fight. Especially if you drive a decent car'.

'Your sangfroid was impressive'.

'Here's another little piece of advice about living in this town. Never try to fit in, never try to appease!

'I'll keep that in mind', I said, then added, 'But I really don't think that jerk was saying one thing and meaning another'.

We crossed Putney Bridge and turned down the Lower Richmond Road, heading back to Sefton Street - our first port-of-call on this house hunting marathon. I'd received a call from the estate agent who'd shown us that first house, informing me that another similar property had just come on the market.

'It's not in the most pleasing decorative order', he admitted on the phone.

'By which you mean tired?' I said. He cleared his throat.

'A bit tired, yes. But structurally speaking, it has been considerably modernized. And though the asking price is four-thirty-five, I'm certain they will take an offer'.

Without question, the estate agent was telling the truth about the shabby interior decor. And yes, the house was distinctly cottagey - with two small reception rooms downstairs. But a kitchen extension had been built on to the back - and though all the cabinets and appliances were outdated, I was pretty certain that a ready-made kitchen from somewhere like IKEA could be installed without vast cost. The two bedrooms upstairs were papered in a funeral-home print, with an equally gruesome pink carpet covering the floor. But the estate agent assured me that there were decent floorboards beneath this polyester veneer (something a surveyor confirmed a week later), and that the woodchip paper in the hallways could be stripped away and replastered. The bathroom had a lurid salmon-pink suite. But at least the central heating was new throughout. Ditto the wiring. There was also substantial space for an attic office. I knew that, once all the decorative horrors were stripped away, it could be made to feel light and airy. For the first time in my transient life, I found myself thinking a surprisingly domesticated thought: this could actually be a home.

Margaret and I said nothing as we toured the house. Once we were outside, however, she turned to me and asked, 'So?'

'Bad clothes, good bones', I said. 'But the potential is fantastic'

'My feeling exactly. And if they're asking four-thirty-five...'

'I'm offering three-eighty-five... if Tony gives it the thumbs-up'.

Later that night, I spent the better part of my half-hour phone call with Sandy waxing lyrical about the cottage's possibilities and the genuine pleasantness of the neighbourhood - especially the towpath fronting the Thames, which was just down the street from me.

'Good God', she said. 'You actually sound housebroken'.

'Very funny' I said. 'But after all the dismal stuff I've seen, it is a relief to find somewhere which could be actually made liveable'.

'Especially with all the Martha Stewart plans you've got for it'.

'You're really enjoying this, aren't you?'

'Damn right. I never expected to ever hear you sound like someone who subscribes to Better Homes and Gardens'.

'Believe me, I keep shocking myself. Like I never thought I'd be poring over Dr Spock as if he was Holy Writ'.

'You reach the chapter where he tells you how to flee the country during colic?'

'Yeah - the stuff about false passports is terrific'

'And wait until you experience your first broken night...'

'I think I'll hang up now'.

'Congrats on the house'.

'Well, it's not ours yet. And Tony still has to see it'.

'You'll sell it to him'.

'Damn right I will. Because I start work again in a few weeks - and I just can't afford, time-wise, another extended house hunting blitz'.

But Tony was so wrapped up in life at the Chronicle that he could only make it down to Sefton Street five days later. It was a late Saturday morning and we arrived by tube, crossing Putney Bridge, then turning right into the Lower Richmond Road. Instead of continuing down this thoroughfare, I directed us towards the towpath, following the Thames as it continued snaking eastwards. It was Tony's first view of the area by day, and I could tell that he immediately liked the idea of having a river walk virtually on his doorstep. Then I steered him into the green-and-pleasant expanses of Putney Common, located right beyond our future street. He even approved of the upscale shops and wine bars decorating the Lower Richmond Road. But when we turned into Sefton Street, I saw him take in the considerable number of Jeeps and Land Rovers parked there, signalling that this was one of those areas which has been discovered, and populated, by the professional classes... of the sort who looked upon these charming little cottages as family starter homes, to be eventually traded in (as Margaret had informed me) for more capacious residences when the second child arrived and the bigger job came along.