by Hilary Jocelyn
We use the word community a lot in our lives. Think about it. There are Community Centres, Community Meals, Community Gardens, and many other such examples. Just for fun, and because it is one of my favourite words, I looked it up in the dictionary and found out that it means “making connections with a place, with others, sharing a common belief, or holding the same values”. It is a simple word that describes something that is so natural, and so fundamental to our humanity and our collective wellbeing.
Here in the Hills, we get to experience many different and plentiful kinds of community. Some come to us naturally, like our various streets and neighbourhoods, and some are specifically built, such as a group of parents, groups at the Community Centres who have a shared interest, the Wakefield Grannies, farmers, artists, a choir, a yoga class, the Wakefield Market, and so on.
I grew up on a busy road called Liberton Brae. (Whoops, spellcheck didn’t like that word and tells me it should either be Bra or Bray, but I digress!). A Brae, dear spellcheck, is a Scottish word for a hill. This particular hill was no rural paradise, but instead was a main artery, leading into the city of Edinburgh. Outside this childhood home, buses would thunder down the road, along with cars and rumbling trucks. The whole house would shake, and the rowan berries on the tree outside would tumble off their branches into the puddles on the well-worn sidewalk. (By the way, I dare not use the real Scottish word for truck, which is a “ lorry”, as I really don’t think Spellcheck would like that one either!)
On Liberton Brae, it is safe to say, there was really no sense of community, no common ground, no opportunity to gather. The root of the problem was that there was no where to really meet anyone who lived in this grey housing mass. There was just no place to stop and chat, except at the bus stop, because the houses had long and narrow front yards that no one lingered in, due to either the heavy traffic thundering by, or the very regular Scottish rain.
Of course, we knew our immediate neighbours. There was kind and characterful Lorna Sprigg, who lived next door in number 25, who cackled and guffawed her way through the thin walls of our terraced house, and whose television was so loud that we really didn’t need to bother switching ours on to hear the nightly Ten O’clock News. And then there was Kathleen Donald in number 23, who was my mother’s best friend (most of the time). They had got to know each other many years earlier when they had both moved in two doors apart and had shared many conversations over many cups of tea.
And then, of course, there was Miss Turnbull, in number 17, who didn’t even seem to have a first name, and who would stand at the bus stop tut-tutting disapprovingly at everything, and everyone that passed by. “Look at her”, she would sniff loudly, shaking her tightly scraped back bun of sinewy grey hair, as a heavily pregnant woman waddled down the street. “She shouldn’t be allowed out in public looking like that.”
One day while my mother, whose name was Josie, was cruising down the Brae on the number 31 bus, she began to wonder more curiously about all the people who were living along, beside, opposite, across, and up from her. She realised that she really couldn’t say that she was acquainted with most of the actual people who lived their lives behind the grey stone walls of their homes. Were they older and lonely? Young couples with kids? Young upwardly mobile singles? Poor? Happy? Sad? Scared? Yes, she had few clues for sure, and had seen a woman in a sari recently coming out of number 14, and also noticed a sign outside number 21 advertising help with preparing Thai food. But Who? What? Which? Why?
She pondered this as she bumped along on the bus to town and pondered it a bit more later over her almost daily ritual of an afternoon cup of tea with Kathleen, which morphed as it often did, into a pre-dinner glass of something sweet and sticky, with a rough alcohol content of about 18%. As the two old friends talked, they came up with the sinews of an idea.
“Let’s write a letter and deliver it through the letter boxes of all the 30 houses on the block”, one of them gasped excitedly. “We will invite all the women on the street to come and have tea one evening and see what happens!”
Somehow, they felt more comfortable inviting the women they didn’t know to their houses, than the unintroduced men…The next day Josie sat down, and hit the keys on her ancient computer and plodded out the invitation. September 16th was the date she picked for the big event. The day after her birthday. . She then discovered that her printer was out of order, so she had no choice but to write them all by hand, in spite of the feedback she had had all her life about her very poor handwriting skills.
Then, she set off in the rain to drop off her handiwork to all the houses on the lower part of the Brae. She was excited and nervous about what they had got themselves into, but only time would tell if this experiment in social inclusion and community building would be a hit or a miss.
She definitely hesitated for some time outside the door of number 17, where Miss Turnbull lived. Did she really want this judgemental and offensive woman to join them in this plan to get to know each other a little better? She was sorely tempted to walk on by, but, in the end, her conscience got the better of her, and her fingers reluctantly let the invitation drop through the letter box, hoping fervently that Miss Turnbull would have other plans for this particular evening.
A few days before the big event, Kathleen and Josie made scones, cupcakes, shortbread, lemon cake to die for, brownies, mince pies and much more. The morning of the big event, Josie scrubbed the house all over, and washed the towels, and put out fresh soap, and then rearranged the furniture until the house gleamed in a state of rarely achieved spotlessness. Then, at 7 pm on the button, on the day of the big event, the doorbell began to ring, again and again, and then again, until the living room was filled with loud voices, new faces, and hoots of riotous laughter . Women of all ages and types and sizes and cultures and backgrounds and shoe sizes filled her humble home.
The teapot kept pouring and being refilled, and the cakes slowly emptied from the plates into the mouths, and as the evening was nearing its climax, Kathleen stood up and clapped her hands energetically, calling out in her beautiful guttural Orkney island brogue.
“Josie and I have been living here on the brae fer ower 30 years, and we decided we wid like to do something so we cood aw get tae ken each other a wee bit mair.”
Heids nodded, eyes sparkled, grins reached ears, and teeth flashed in smiles of agreement. “Aye, Aye, Aye.” Spirited conversation then followed about what comes next, and after a short discussion, the rules of this dynamic game called ‘Getting to know your Neighbours’ began to emerge.
Rule number one – No baking whatsoever, or it becomes a competition about who makes the best scones, or who can whip up a prize chocolate cake. Just a simple plate of supermarket cookies. After all, we’ve had supper by the time we come over.
Rule number two – We can meet every month, and rotate hosting responsibilities, but no pressure to host. And no need to clean before we all come. We all have dirt in our houses.
Rule number three – No unkind gossip.
Rule number four – We will call ourselves the Liberton Ladies.
And so it was that Josie’s idea, that little nugget of a thought that came to her unexpectedly as she was riding the number 31 bus into town that day, grew and developed into a wonderful group of women supporting women. They did meet monthly for many years, and enduring friendships developed and thrived. A Community was formed, glued together by the monthly gatherings that now took place in different people’s houses.
Oh, and just in case you are wondering, Miss Turnbull never came to a single Liberton Ladies meeting and continued to tut and disapprove of almost everything and everyone that breathed on the street called Liberton Brae.
