David is standing at the front door. He reminds me of Paul Kelly, and it occurs to me that he could easily be one of Kelly’s many brothers since I’ve never known David’s surname. The only thing I know for certain about him is that when my son and his friend were trick-or-treating during Halloween one year, David surprised them by saying, “Trick, please”. They obliged by making farting noises with their armpits.
Seeing David, my first thought is that there’s been an accident in the street or that Jenny over the road has had a fall. David has never stood on our front verandah before. But all’s well. He’s inviting us to the Christmas party that he and his wife Kate are holding for the neighbours. “Bring a plate and some grog,” he says breezily as he walks back down the path. “And your son is welcome, too, of course.”
Light up some lives and get to know the neighbours at Christmas. Credit: Edwina Pickles
I arrive exactly five minutes past the invited hour because we have to be at a Christmas dinner across town by 6pm. I’m feeling a little nervous as David’s wife Kate opens the door – we’ve never met before – and walks me through to the patio. It could be a scene from Italy as we sit under a wooden trellis entwined with thick green vines and lit by the afternoon sun. The garden is immaculate.
We talk about the lane that runs behind their property. It was once the hallowed route for the dunny men who came with their horses and carts. I’d pointed it out to my partner only a few days ago on a dog walk. I told him that it had been an excellent place for snogging as a teenager. Recently, parcels of the lane were offered for sale to those interested in extending their back gardens. No more snogging, then.
Kate remembers my dad. “When he got his diagnosis he decided not to have therapy,” she tells me. “He’d rather have six good months than two years of suffering.” This is fascinating. I’ve never heard this version of events before. The conversation dips and the three of us stare thoughtfully at the empty space the maple tree has left in the corner now that it’s been expunged. “Getting too big,” David says. “And messy too.”
A ring at the door and a family of five descend on the party. I’ve never seen these people in my life, yet they’ve lived only four houses from ours for more than 10 years. Still more unfamiliar faces arrive. I stand up and shake hands. “Hi, I’m Jo from number 12.” “Hi, I’m Sam from 15 and this is my wife, Jerry.”
We continue to speak in code as more and more neighbours move into the space under the trellis. Sometimes we need more than a number to visualise who belongs to which house. “Are you the one with the clump of agapanthus out the front?” “No, that’s Jane. We’re the one with the fire hydrant on the nature strip.”
“How long have you lived in Olive Street?” someone asks. I feel like Katharine Hepburn talking to a newcomer to Long Island Sound. “I’ve lived here all my life!” I boast with the famous quaver in my voice. “That’d be 84 years then,” someone quips. “I was born here,” I try again, and realise it sounds like I was born on the kitchen table back when mums used cloth nappies and dads stoked incinerators. “Well, not actually in the house, but …”
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