Visits to see my godfather, Wilfred

Years Later

Wilfred used to meet us at the door of the lift, in the building on Tite St where he lived in London. This was situated in a part of London, which very much felt like a part, unlike the rest of the city. My mother and I used to travel to his home to visit him when we could. To say that we’d travelled almost seems a farce, as the only burden of getting from a to b, really, was taking the time to do so. For Wilfred, travelling involved neither car, nor plane, nor train if he could avoid it, and taking the time to cross a desert or a country was a part of the experience, or indeed the essence of travel.

Around this time I was this time I was 10 or 11 years old. I had become obsessed with anything electronic, which required the incessant bashing of buttons, and unconditional attention to the television upon which these trivial games and films were displayed. I would spend countless weeks playing game after game with my friends, much to the dismay of my mother and father who had always encouraged me to read books and paint pictures in my spare time. I considered it to be a chore to go down to London to visit Wilfred, something that I am ashamed of when looking back on those moments, few and special as they were. We would arrive at the door to his building in Chelsea and ring his bell. An old, quiet voice would ask: “Hello?” to which my mother would always reply: “ Hello Wilfred, it’s Jane and Dylan.” Shortly after this brief exchange of dialog, we would hear the rattling, mechanical noise of the door unlock. Again, for me now, I understand the subtleties of such things, which as a young lad, I didn’t notice. Wilfred utilised such conveniences only to a minimal extent, I suppose he found no need to stand and chat over an intercom when the essence of conversation lay only moments away, a few floors down. The building he lived in was strange to me- a word that I frequently thought of when referring to Wilfred at the time. It possessed a quirky charm, which, to the visitor, felt like one was stepping back in time to the beginning of the 20th century. Light switches on the walls were made out of metal with dainty, ornate details which modern ones lack. The carpets in the foyer had a burgundy red floral pattern, reminiscent of a tapestry made by William Morris. A narrow, dimly lit stairwell, allowing only the slightest amount of daylight, spiralled around a lift like an anaconda strangling its prey, which by modern standards again, would be unheard of. It was no more than a box big enough for 2 or perhaps 3 people to fit inside of, which appeared to be made out of cast iron bars. I recall musing how painful it would be if you got your hands or fingers caught in the sliding door. Despite its cold, hard appearance, the thing worked remarkably well. It made only the slightest sound as it creaked upwards to his apartment. Because the lift was effectively a cage, you could see out of it, something which will remain vividly in my memory from our visits as, approaching the top floor you would always see Wilfred standing quietly, waiting to greet us.

As people do when they grow old, Wilfred appeared curved, like a long bow. He always dressed elegantly in shirts and ties with regal tones of burgundy and olive greens or browns. Everything used to appear a little too baggy, or loose, should I say. I take this to mean only that at one time, this giant man must have been even bigger, or that, he found little if no concern in having such clothing on had he had the choice of being elsewhere.

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