Workshop 3: Kentish Town Library
February 9, 2011
For this workshop, I read participants my 'Prologue' poem and then asked them the following questions - if you were a road, what kind of a road would you be? If you were a map, what kind of map would you be? If you were a traveller, what kind of traveller would you be? See below for some examples of answers and if you would like to contribute to the blog, I'd love for you to put your own answers in the comments section below.
I then read them my 'Pressing Buttons' piece about Rosie, a young woman who has come to Adelaide Road to search for her father. All she has to go on is a postcard her father sent her mother twenty five years ago. Participants were asked to write what they thought this postcard might have said. We then created characters that might possibly live in the tower block where Rosie's father once lived and who she might meet in her search.
Writing by Ruth Smith
My road is a back street, narrow and full of cars. It's a road mainly of shops and some have To Let signs. There's a 'chippy' and what used to be a bank that is now a pizza house. The old-fashioned pawnshop is still there with it's hanging sign and barred windows with displays of wedding rings from years back; watches, gold chains, radios, all the paraphernalia of loss. Torn adverts peel on a stretch of brick and there are none to replace them.
I'd be a map of the wilderness, mostly green to show trees and with walking trails, thin black lines with turn-offs and junctions, then wires crimped and wriggling as the contours steepen. The mountains are shaded from fawn to brown and there are rivers that open into blue lakes in the broader valleys.
I'd have all the kit – rucksack, walking poles, wet gear and a lightweight tent I could erect in minutes. I'd walk in the wilderness, slightly afraid of bears but so glad to be in this pristine environment that I'd overcome my fear. Wherever birds would stay still, I'd zoom in on them using the photos to identify them later. I want to learn. I'd have my lunch by a lake if I could, sitting close to the lapping water.
Dear Bella
I hope you are well. As you can see I've got a place now. Nothing much but it will do. This address will find me. I've spoken to a bloke who might take me on but nothing's settled and it isn't much money. It's funny living up high in this tower block. Like being a bird and that's the only good thing about it. They're a rough lot here. Won't be for long though – I hope. All for now. Fred
Retired cook. Lady in her early sixties.
Indoors she's wearing a comfy deep-pocketed cardigan and a brown skirt with opaque beige tights and fluffy flip-flops.
As for love. Not likely! Had enough of that in my time, if you could call it love. It can't be love now at my age but I'm quite partial to the gent in No. 85 and when I say gent I mean 'gent.' He opens doors for me as if I'm royalty.
The one thing I want is that my son will remember my birthday and take me out for a slap-up meal so that everyone can see us and I can say, 'That's my son!'
Something I've never told anyone is that I had a spell in a Mental Hospital. That's where they put me when I got in the family way and acted up when they took away the baby.
The thing no one's told her is that she has a beautiful smile and that her Eve's Pudding is amazing..
One thing that's shaped her personality is really a throwback to the days of austerity after the Second World War when people scrimped and hoarded things. She always has tins of food in the cupboard and looks out for bargains. She's frugal but also generous because sharing's important to her.
When Rosie presses the doorbell
'There it goes again. Bloomin' kids. Can't they give it a rest? No! Come to think of it the beggars should be at school or else hanging about in the parks avoiding it. I'd better answer. It might be a neighbour and they'll know I'm in. What's the hurry? Can't you wait?'
'Excuse me' the girl says. (A pretty little thing. Blonde.) 'I'm sorry to bother you. Have you lived here long?'
'Oh, about thirty years dear.' (That's older than you are by the look of it.) 'Why do you ask?'
'Well it's a long story but if you've been here that long you might have known my dad and you might be able to tell me something about him.'
'What's his name?”
'Fred Bales.”
'Don't remember anyone who went by that name. Any idea what he looked like when I might have known him, or what he did?'
'I've got an old photo of him when he married my mum.'
I looked at the photo hard. It was a small black and white photo, much creased and the man looked smarmed down for the occasion and a bit stiff as though he wasn't enjoying it. To be honest my attention was on the bride. Lovely she looked. so fresh and so dimply. I tried again to get the measure of him – height, hair, but it didn't work. 'Can you tell me anything else about him? Not being nosey but it might help.'
'Well, I never knew him. I was born after he came here about twenty-five years ago. My mum never said much but I know he was good with his hands and interested in the railways.'
'I'm sorry I can't help you love but there must be someone who can . I know! Why don't you try Mrs Skiggs at number 23? She's the right age and I reckon she keeps a dossier on this place. Knows everything about everyone if you know what I mean.'
I offered the young lady a cup of tea but I could see she wanted to be off and the last thing I saw as I closed the door was her hesitating on the landing before turning to go down stairs.
By Ruth Smith
Writing by Lynn-Marie Harper
“Dramatic Proof that we are everywhere,” says Aoife, in regard to what I don't remember, but in regard to reality this is true beyond belief – and what do I know?
A wide wide sandy path
Beneath a vast open sky
Dune like sides with sparse grasses
And the wind blowing through
The sea lives somewhere down one end opening on to the endless ocean
And in the other direction
The modern city
Snapshot of this road is people less for now.
A speaking map just like a person, because it is a person
Hello, do you think you can help me?
Do you know where “……is.” Or where I'm going?
Speaking to a friendly, all answering, all knowing person, knowing where this is and where my destination lies.
If I were a traveller I would carry no burdens
The sparsest of bags
Bearing neither resentment, worries nor needs
The eternal now travelled in simplicity
Happy alone
And happy with whatever companion has joined me en route.
And I, one who could joyfully, enthusiastically, wholeheartedly experience everything in my path.
Turning my attention to it fully and then letting it go.
Adelaide Road, a tower block from where a young Irish man wrote a postcard home.
I got here on the 10th and mum and dad had gone from here.
Elaine lives here still with 3 kids now, no job, no money and suspended benefits. She says I can stay if I pay my way. Interview for McInerney tomorrow.
Keep the faith, will write again soon,
Love Sam
Patricia Gilbert, born in Paris as Patrice Gilbert, 23, lives there now with her little girl and cannabis addicted boyfriend. She is an aspiring dancer.
Patrice is wearing a pink and purple top, short sleeved, clinging to her svelte body, her lower half clothed in grey jeggings and her feet swathed in Italian leather black boots.
She is in love with dance, a lifelong affair, and with Andre her boyfriend of one year who moved in with her and her daughter Karella (who she loves very much) six months ago.
She wants her own dance company and she wants it to bring a good enough income eventually to provide security for her daughter in the near and far future.
An uncle, her father's favourite younger brother, raped her when she was 14 and she has never told anyone about it.
She doesn't realise that the rape has altered the openness she had as a child and that her so called choice of partners is partly a projection from and influenced by the past.
She regrets coming to England, to London, and not remaining in France to continue her studies in dance but she was offered a scholarship and jumped at the chance to study at a prestigious dance school but she misses her friends and family. She also welcomed the chance at the time to get away from the location of her bad memories and her inability to divulge what became a very burdensome secret.
She wants to teach young people to dance in a safe and free environment. She wants to create a school where they can work and live together in trust.
She had a teacher in boarding school in Paris who taught her dance, art and literature and who recognised her talent and encouraged her creativity. She told her there was nothing she could not achieve when she put her mind to it. She has never doubted that this is true.
Narrator, So, Rosie is pressing the buttons now of number 102 Belsham Tower. Seven times the bell rang, so who is this at the door? Patrice presses the intercom button of her 12th floor flat.
P – Hello?
R - Hello, I'm looking for someone called Sam Mulhanney or Elaine Pierce. Do they live here still, perhaps?
P - No, I live here and I am neither of these people. Sorry.
Silence then
R – OK, thanks (in a low depressed voice)
P - Wait a minute, I'm going out in a moment. Hang on there and I'll see if I can help. I know a few of the neighbours.
They meet at the door, by the entry phone and Rosie looks so lost and forlorn, Patrice feels sorry for her.
P –What makes you think they live here? I've been here only one year but the people before in 102 were called Elsenborg, I still get mail for them.
R – Just a postcard, he's my father and it was sent a long time ago but it's all I have to go on. I'm trying to trace him; I'm here from Ireland and staying at the Y up the road.
P – How long ago was it?
R - 25 years, says Rosie in embarrassment.
P – 25 years! That's longer than my lifetime!
R – And mine too, just about!
P – Wow, Well, I'm sure you can make some headway by talking to some people here. Many of my neighbours have been here for a long time. There's a concierge in the downstairs office but he is new although he lives nearby, come, I'll introduce you.
And together Patrice and Rosie walk towards the ground floor office.
Rosie is thinking, “someone is listening. Someone has heard. Maybe, Maybe. It's a start.”
By Lynn-Marie Harper
Writing by Brigid McGann
If
If I were a road I think I would be a dirt track in a
rural area with tall thick hedges growing either side.
I would have lots of twists and turns so you can't see where
you are going. The road would be light brown colored mud,
not too mucky just soft and easy to walk.
If I were a map I would be a yellow rolled up parchment
showing a tropical island with a cross to mark where there
is treasure buried.
I think I'd be a traveller in Ireland living in one of those lovely
old horse-drawn caravans with all the cooking utensils
hanging up inside. They would make a jingling jangling sound
with the motion of the swaying caravan. It would be an
adventurous life never staying long in one place always on the
move.
Hi Patricia,
Hope you are well. I've got a new flat, it's in a tower block on
Adelaide Rd on the 19th floor and the lift is always broken,
which is a pain. It's a big flat and the views are fantastic.
Miss you. Hope will see you soon.
Love
William
Jimmy
He is wearing a white T-shirt, jeans and a duffle coat
and trainers.
No he is not in love. Only loves his collection of exotic
birds.
His greatest wish:
To go back to Glasgow and see his family whom he has not
seen for 25 years.
His Secret:
He was in love with his primary school teacher.
That he is an alcoholic and when he is drunk he talks to
everyone he sees.
His biggest regret:
Leaving Glasgow and coming to London.
His dream:
To cross the Atlantic on an ocean liner to visit New York.
Event that shaped his character
He had an alcoholic father who beat him.
- Hello
- Hello who is it?
- My name is Rosie. I'm looking for my father William.
He used to live in this block of flats many years ago.
He was from Ireland.
- Is that right? Let me buzz you in and you can come up
and we can have a chat.
- O.K.
Jimmy doesn't know Rosie's father, but he likes Irish
people so he lets Rosie in because he is lonely and
wants some company.
By Brigid McGann
by Adelaide Road Participants
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