H.M.O.

H.M.O.

I used to live in Hove, actually... but now I live in the heart of the
City. I haven't moved, it's the world around me that's changed.

I live in an HMO - nothing to do with Her Majesty's Office - it's a
House of Multiple Occupancy in Brunswick Square. My flat is first floor
front - one bedroom and a balcony. I love that balcony. I've got big
old pots of red geraniums, and there's clematis and honeysuckle winding
round the railings. I even grew some tomatoes out there last summer.
It's lovely to have a slice of the outdoors, and believe me, I know how
lucky I am to be able to lean out over the Square and watch the sea
winking at me.
I'm an english language teacher at one of the colleges down the road.
I've taught there for the last seven years, in between foreign
placements. After living all over the globe, it feels perfect to settle
down with the ocean at my feet. I've even acquired a tabby cat called
Fred who looks after the balcony when I'm out working.
The others in the house are a mixed crowd. The basement flat was empty
for ages, then a muscley young guy moved in and gutted it. I had him
down as an eligible bachelor and took a keen interest in his progress,
so I was a little disappointed when his very pregnant partner moved in
a few weeks later. Now they've got twins called Ella and Josh. It's a
tough job to get the push-chair up and down the basement steps, so I
give them a hand if I see them struggling. I've even got quite fond of
the kids.
The ground floor flat is owned by a woman in her eighties called Mrs
Gertrude Green, or Gertie if she likes you. She's lived here way longer
than anyone else and spends most of the summer in a director's chair
just outside the front door. It means she gets to talk to anyone who
passes by, whether they like it or not, and she knows all the comings
and goings in our house.
First floor rear is a bijou studio flat where a woman called Dot lives
with her two cats and four window boxes. There isn't much space inside,
but she's used every bit of it to the max. It's not so much a flat as
an elevated caravan. She's even installed an old wood burning
stove.
Dot is short for Dorothy, and at 4'10" and wiry, she's not much bigger
than a dot. She's lived in her flat for 17 years - one of the few
Brightoners left with protected rent. She's in her early 40s with
ginger hair greying at the temples. She moved to Brighton to study at
the art college and says she can't imagine living anywhere else. She's
a print-maker and gets the occasional illustration job. I've seen her
work - aquatints with wishy-washy backgrounds incised by sharp, clear
lines. It's not what I'd describe as commercial art, but that's Dot all
over. She's not one to compromise. She gets by with the help of some
regular cleaning jobs, and she's got an allotment.
Since Mrs Green's husband died, Dot also keeps an eye on the courtyard
garden at the back of the building. More to the point, she uses this as
a way to keep a watchful eye on Gertie, who is beginning to get quite
frail.
The flat above me is the home of a computer programmer called AJ and
her partner Syd who works in the council planning department. They're a
pretty quiet couple except for their music. They're both die-hard Bob
Dylan fans and rarely play anything else. Samuel, the guy who lives in
the second floor studio flat can't stand Bob Dylan. They nearly came to
blows about it, but I managed to mediate and things have been better
since then. If Sam gets to the post before me on the day the Dylan
fanzines arrive, he always grimaces and pretends to tear them up, but
that's as far as the tension goes these days.
Sam is a post-graduate student from the Caribbean. His research is
about the effects of globalisation on indigenous communities. He really
enjoys living in Brighton - apart from Bob Dylan, his only complaint is
that he has to go to South London to get a decent hair cut and a tasty
bit of goat. His flat is the same size as Dot's but it couldn't look
more different. Sam has hardly any furniture, just piles of books and
papers strewn everywhere. I don't know how he can find his computer in
the mess, let alone locate a working biro.
Above him is a floor full of undergraduates. I can never tell if it's a
constant flux of different faces, or just different hair-dye and
fashion statements, but it's certainly hard to keep track of them.
Apart from the occasional drunken party and the permanent pile of bills
and junk mail in the hallway, they're actually not too much trouble.
They suffered a lot more from noise pollution at the peak of the Loud
Bob era than they've ever inflicted on anyone else. Students these days
seem to be too busy studying or out working to have any spare time or
energy to be a nuisance. They don't even smoke cigarettes. I feel a bit
sorry for them.
The top floor residents are the newest. They're a couple called Seb and
Jayne who moved down from London. Judging from Seb's very sharp suits
and commuting pattern, he works in the City, whilst Jayne's 'in
publishing'. They've got a silver convertible that I'm rather envious
of and Dot loathes.
Seb got off on the wrong foot with her from the start. Dot always
chains her bike to the resident's parking sign outside the house, and
one evening was outraged to find a note taped to the saddle which asked
if she would refrain from leaving her bicycle there in case of damage
to the paint work of near-by parked cars. Mrs Green had been on the
lookout from her deckchair when Seb stuck the note on the bike, and I'm
sure there was more than a gleam of mischief in her eye when she passed
the news on. When Dot found out who was responsible, she was up all
four flights of stairs and hammering on Seb's door before you could
spell the word 'gentrification'.
"If you object to me parking my bicycle outside the front door, what do
you recommend I do with it?" she spat at him from under the security
chain. "Perhaps you think it would be better if I got a car and
competed with you for the parking spaces?". Poor Seb was too busy
choking on his Sauvignon to reply, as Dot stomped back downstairs
nearly knocking me and my Waitrose bags flying.
After that, Dot refused to acknowledge Seb or Jayne and took to singing
an old punk rock lyric that goes - "You're deprived of being deprived"
under her breath as they passed in the hallway.
I've always managed to keep on the right side of Dot. I need to because
she's got the spare key to my flat. She's George Peppard to my Holly
Golightly. I might be an experienced and professional teacher by day,
but at night I still like 'Tripping The Light Fantastic', as Mrs Green
would say. There have been many occasions when Dot has got up in the
small hours to let me back into my flat, and I always make sure she
knows how grateful I am. She might not be a high-earner or even a
high-profile artist, but I've got a lot of respect for Dot. She's one
of the generation that turned Brighton from a seedy unloved town into a
sparkling and magical place, and her fiery temper is balanced by a
heart of gold.
But it's Mrs Green who is the real constant in the house. Because she's
always outside the front door on sentry duty, Gertie's the one person
that everyone else speaks to, and we get to know about each other's
lives through her reports. Since her husband died, she's pretty much on
her own, and she loves the chance to snare anyone into conversation. I
get her to come and talk to my advance english groups. It's great for
them to listen to her stories, and it does her the world of good to get
out and play to an audience.
Her father was a fisherman when there was still a fishing industry
here, and she grew up in the terraced houses off Albion Street. When
they were knocked down, her family was relocated to Moulsecoomb. She
met her husband Charlie when they were both seventeen, and got married
within the year. He used to be a fireman, and later became a
taxi-driver with his own cab. When he was off-duty they'd use the taxi
to drive all over Brighton and Hove. Gertie smiles when she talks about
their little trips, she calls them her "adventures close to home". I
know she misses getting out and about almost as much as she misses
Charlie, and now she's housebound, she loves any opportunity to tell
stories about her home town.
She even developed a special friendship with two of my Japanese
students - which was quite an event, considering one of her cousins
died in a Japanese prisoner of war camp. I think it was a shared love
of fish that won her around. Tokiko and Yashi came to visit with hand
made sushi and in return Gertie got out her jars of winkles and roll
mop herrings. Another night Samuel and I prepared a meal of salt fish
for her. We would never have thought of cooking together unless Gertie
had been there to make it happen.
That night we all bonded into our own funny kind of pretend family.
When Sam and I made our way back to our front doors, he had a solemn
look on his face. "When I first moved here", he said, "I was real
scared of having to go past that nosey old lady every time I went in or
out, but you know what? she's just like my grandma. Who'd have thought
a little old white lady who's never even left Brighton would be the one
thing to make me feel homesick!"

Last year, after flitting around the world teaching english for so
long, I decided to have a typically British summer, so I booked
Wimbledon fortnight off work. I split my time between watching tennis
on TV and being a tourist in my own city. The weather could have been
better, but it didn't stop me from visiting the newly opened museum,
and caf?-hopping around the North Laine. And of course, I took the
opportunity to get re-acquainted with the mid-week club scene.
One afternoon, when the sun was shining but the tennis and my hangover
were both dull, there was a knock on the door. Samuel was standing in
the corridor looking troubled. "Thank goodness, I'm so glad you're
in... I'm sorry to bother you, but it's Mrs Green - I don't think she's
very well. It looks like she might have fallen asleep in her deck-chair
and now she's lying on the path... I just didn't know what to
do."
I followed Sam down to the front door. He'd left Mrs Green lying there.
She was breathing, but unconscious, and she'd hit her head and grazed
her arm where she had fallen. Whilst Samuel and I were peering at her
wondering what on earth to do, Dot arrived, pushing her bike with two
enormous bags of laundry balanced on the handlebars. Within seconds
she'd put Gertie in the recovery position, covered her with a
newly-dried duvet; checked her pulse and started quizzing us to find
out whether there was a possibility that she had had a stroke. At just
that moment, Mrs Green blinked and stirred. Dot checked all her limbs
and helped her to sit up. Samuel and I looked at each other sheepishly,
relieved that someone who knew what to do had turned up at just the
right moment.
For once, Mrs Green was not happy to be the centre of attention. She
insisted she was alright and didn't want any more fuss. Dot wanted to
call an ambulance, but Gertie wouldn't have any of it. Instead Dot
shouted at me and Sam to go and make some strong, sweet tea and Sam
sloped off to do it.
"Even if Gertie refuses to travel in an ambulance, we need to get her
to outpatients. Can you drive Pat?"
"Well, I can, in theory - but I haven't driven for years... and to be
honest Dot, even if I had a car, after what I got up to last night I'm
in no fit state to drive."
Dot turned to Sam, who'd just got back to the doorstep with a cup of
tea for Gertie and a glass of soluble aspirin for me. He shook his head
"I haven't got a license or a car, honey". Dot rolled her eyes and
muttered "For crying out loud, where's a car owner when you actually
need one? Isn't there anyone around?"
I looked around the square, and spotted the silver convertible. It only
had two seats. "Well, there's Seb and Jayne's car..."
Dot looked at the car with loathing, hugged Mrs Green protectively, and
looked at me. "Well, are the yuppies home? Ring their bell. It is an
emergency". I pressed the buzzer, and was relieved to hear Jayne's
voice over the intercom. I tried to explain the situation to her, and
then ran up the stairs to make her realise how important it was for her
to help. I wasn't sure how she'd take to the suggestion of a distinctly
un-stylish old lady messing up her nice leather car seats.
"Thank goodness I was working at home today. Of course I'll help." We
trotted down the stairs together, and found Samuel and Dot sitting
either side of Gertie, encouraging her to drink her tea. Dot fixed on
Jayne - "We need to get Mrs Green to out-patients. You're going to have
to drive her there in your precious little car." I watched Jayne quiver
momentarily under Dot's gaze, and then regain her composure.
"Yes, of course, but ? I don't know where the hospital is? I'll need
someone to direct me." Dot rolled her eyes again. She knew she was the
only one small enough to fit in the back of the convertible. "If you
can bring the car as close as possible, these two can help Mrs Green
into the passenger seat. I'll sit behind you and tell you where to
go".
I couldn't help thinking that before today, the place that Dot would
have told Jayne to go would be somewhere a lot lower than the Royal
Sussex. Jayne went off to move the car whilst Samuel and I helped a
reluctant Mrs Green down the path. Dot hopped onto the shelf behind the
seats and lay down with her hand on Gert's shoulder and her mouth as
close as possible to Jayne's ear. She snapped directions that only a
cyclist with years of Brighton tarmac under their wheels could know,
and Jayne listened and made the car respond in the way that only the
publisher of educational maps who had taken a weekend course at
Silverstone could drive.
I spoke to Mrs Green later, and the shine in her eyes told me that
she'd loved that car journey more than anything that had happened since
her husband was at the peak of his health. I reckon she got as much of
a kick from the friction between Dot and Jayne as she did from the
sheer excitement of being driven full pelt along the seafront in a
silver convertible.

Dot had been right to have insisted on Mrs Green's visit to the
hospital. They kept her in over night and ran a series of tests on her.
It transpired that she had had a stroke. Fortunately, it was very
minor, and so was the physical damage to her head and arm. But it was
enough to highlight that she needed more health provision, and it also
guaranteed that everyone in the house kept an eye on her. After all,
she'd kept an eye on all of us for long enough...
The most bizarre turn of events was the development of a very real
friendship between Dot and Seb and Jayne. Jayne had been very impressed
by Dot's response to Gert's accident, and secretly, Seb had always felt
rather guilty about the note he'd taped to Dot's bike. As a friendly
gesture, the two of them took Dot to the best vegetarian restaurant in
the city, and they all enjoyed their meal much more than they expected
to.
As a result of that evening, Seb volunteered his services as an
accountant for the local credit union and Jayne worked directly with
Dot on an instructional manual for people in houses of multiple
occupancy which covered everything from how to buy the freehold to how
to run a streetparty. Whilst they were busy writing it, Seb grew a
beard and stopped wearing his suits so much - which I blame Dot for.
And then they decided to sell the silver convertible and buy a VW
camper van which Dot helped them to re-weld. They sprayed it silver,
upholstered it in hot pink velvet and opened it up in the Brighton
Festival that Spring as a special gallery for Dot's aquatints.
Despite Dot's initial reluctance to talk to the press, the show was a
media sensation. Gertie booked herself in to supervise every session in
the festival. She loved her job, and the punters adored her. On Sunday
afternoons there was often a queue to get into the van. Dot's work was
some of the nicest I've ever seen. The show was called "Fraternal" and
each exhibit was made from two tiny abstract prints which were almost,
but not quite, mirror images. She let the couple in the basement with
the twins choose their favourite piece as a thank you for their
inspiration. By the end of the show, all the other pieces had
sold.

We wouldn't want Dot to hear us admit it, but Mrs Green and I both miss
the silver convertible. Still, the VW does have it's advantages - Jayne
says they only bought it so that next time someone has to go to the
Royal Sussex then we can all travel together. Fortunately, we haven't
had to use it for a hospital trip, but we have had a few
Scooby-Doo-style outings. Mrs Green requested a visit to the Booth Bird
Museum up Dyke Road, and Seb and Jayne took Samuel and AJ and Syd to
visit the Earthship that was built at Roedale allotments. Those three
have been getting on a lot better lately, I even heard Samuel humming
"Lay Lady Lay" the other evening.
The most hair-raising trip was when Jayne took us all to visit the
camera obscura at Foredown Tower. Everyone except her and Gertie had to
get out and walk up the hill so the van had enough power to get up. But
it was well worth the hike - it was one of those early January days
when the sky was really clear and the sun was at full strength. We all
stood round and watched our city and the sea and the downs reflected in
the big white dish. I can really understand why Dot says she couldn't
live anywhere else.
Because the Camper Van Gallery was so successful, we're already
planning a whole Open House next festival. Dot's working on a series of
panoramic circular prints. She calls them her Portraits of Brighton and
Hove. Bethan and Tamsin - two of the current students on the third
floor are going to transform my front room into a gallery for their
fashion designs - they say their flat is already too full of people to
open it to the general public. Samuel says he's going to exhibit his
bedsit as an installation called "Work in Progress", but I think "Fire
Hazard" would be a better name. I don't think he'll ever finish his PhD
until he learns to tidy up.
Anyway, if you're passing Brunswick Square on a Festival weekend, do
drop in. Ours is the house with the best display of geraniums on the
balcony and Bob Dylan wafting down from the second floor. Gertie will
probably be outside keeping an eye on the twins, and there'll be a very
small-framed mountain bike chained to the parking notice. You can't
miss us.