Roots Number 7

There is something very familiar and reassuring about a door key. Thrust deep into a pocket for safekeeping it only takes the briefest of touches to bring back the sights, sounds, smells and all pervading comforts of a home or a particular phase of your life.

My younger sister, on an all too short and fleeting visit from Memphis, Tennessee where she has put down her roots, went through a bit of a personal catharsis today and I was privileged to be there to bear witness.

It took place on an old terraced street in East Hull . A bustling, vibrant street of tightly packed houses, shallow forecourt style to the pavement, a few bits of greenery where bombing indiscriminantly cleared a path in the dark years of 1942 to 1943, a modern junior school replacing the huge edifice of a state institution a victim to urban clearance, a few colourful tags of litter blowing about between parked cars, the sounded horn of a taxi picking up a pre-booked fare to town, playground mums chatting outside the corner shop.

We had to park well up the street away from the double yellow lines and no parking chevrons. It was a sultry tuesday morning. The pavement smokily steamed after a short cool summer shower and the slugs were out on a mission. The street had not really altered much since my sister moved away with her work to the US in 1996.

Number 7, an end house, light blue painted fascia and bay woodwork had been her first ever property, purchased in 1989 with all the novelty and excitement of being a first time buyer. It was a determined move, a natural process after getting a job and a car. A proper grown up and expected thing to do for a 26 year old.

We approached the house. She remembered but did not show this morning, on a calm, wiser demeanour, the strong emotions of that time. The flashback was vivid. There will have been furniture to plan for and buy, paper and paint to colour match, pictures and shelves to secure to the walls, scatter cushions to scatter, kitchen pots, pans and utensils to arrange in the kitchen cupboards, a teddy bear to take up residence in the bedroom. It was a co-operative effort to lug and move the contents by family and friends but somehow, still a very personal and intense experience. This was quickly followed by a bit of panic and anxiety on closing the front door and being alone for that first night.

The slightest new sounds from the street were amplified. Two carousing cats resembled a rumble in the jungle, a passing car must have been doing a ton on two wheels, boozed up pals gave a good impression of a whole regiment on a night out.

There were of course some feelings that it had been a move too far and too soon and the family house of welcoming parents and younger siblings, some 8 miles away, was a tempting escape from responsibilities, obligations and thoughts of actually having a mortgage.

There were advantages of having your own place, granted. No curfew, no noise abatement, you could walk around in your jogging bottoms at all hours if you wanted but only until the lady at the house directly opposite tactfully recommended net curtains for the goldfish bowl of a bay window onto the front living room. It was a personal space, a permanent after-party place and with plenty of floor area for friends and hangers on to crash out in the early hours of a sunday morning. It was home.

I purposely hung back on the forecourt that morning and let my sister step over the old, low railing stones and approach the front door. We both had mixed feelings because the house had been kept in the family after her job move to Florida and rented out to strangers by our parents. With the death of father in the last 12 months the house had become a stressful burden not helped by a poor tenant and we now just wanted rid.

It was then that my sister drew 2 keys out of her coat pocket. One, a Yale type was worn and shiny. The other, a mortice was similarly free from tarnish . They had evidently not been confined to a drawer for the duration. She had been carrying the keys around for the last 16 years, close to hand, a combined talisman and reminder of a certain time and stage in her life.It was now time to let go. Her life and loves were Stateside. The keys did not now fit anyway. The look on her face was not one of disappointment but of an all knowing acceptance that the house had served its purpose all those years ago. It had been a natural first step in a journey that had taken her to where she was now and with no regrets.  I walked ahead of my sister and her thoughtful husband as we returned to the car. They were holding hands in a shared experience and a tangible aura of excitement about their life together. It is true what they say about another door opening as one closes behind you.