This is Hartley Road. I am leaving, and I am stuck with these feelings and vibes. I tell myself that I cannot miss something from the UK, except my books. Grey dawn, rain, and grey sunset, but, I am missing Hartley Road. Tiny little things. The Jukebox café at the beginning of the street, and the smile of the girls turning bad morning into funny ones. Great English breakfast, lots of food, and convenience for my loose pockets, different regulars at various hours. Early in the morning, workers, construction workers and dustmen, big shoulders, and open hearts. Then, old fellas, reading the newspaper, no matter who you are. Dad and kids, mum and kids, mums, takeaways, and other lazybones, just like me. I will miss its atmosphere and the hope that I had when I was coming back from hard stuff, that it will have cheered me up. Most of the time it did it. A couple of time, it was too difficult to squeeze bad feelings. At the end of the day, it was just songs back from the Seventies, photos on the walls of the old Notts, some papers on that movie called Saturday night, Sunday morning, a smile and just a funny chat, shared with me, a customer. Do they have to give me that? I am ordering only some number 5 breakfast. No, they don’t.
I loved to walk around in the neighbourhood. There is the greengrocer, a man with his son, fighting against the constraints induced by a shit-hole and poor people living around. What were their dreams? I wondered many times about it. Where they happy? They seemed to like that, mainly, on Sundays, when men’s talks took place outside the shop. You can find everything in there. The man will help you and quietly will wait until you take everything you need. Brightening apples, red and green. Once, a woman entered in there and recalled how good aubergine was. Satisfied people move in and out, looking for a deal surrounded by cheap stuff and care. Close to them, perhaps, a business associate, a Muslim man, selling everything you might need and replace in your home. White-bearded, intense eyes, looking at customers and guessing their point. Sitting behind a raised desk, leaving me wondering where are you, my friend. In the same bloc, that old fella with blue eyes and blue jeans, working hard, washing cars with a cup of tea on asphalt. Looking nowhere and riding a bike, he managed to find me at any time.
Five or six more steps and there is the house of the smiling princess, with her mum and her good spirit, making jokes and laughing, questioning, and guessing who I am. I recognise you among school kids, you all moving around, all the same, all different, united by your uniforms and jokes. I miss demure dads with book bags, full of colours in the land of grey skies. Houses surrounded by small and big gates, I knock your doors, fragile as your barriers, perhaps. One Jamaican restaurant and a takeaway, starring at each other, day after day. Where is pride? Are you competing or are you associated? I wish I knew, to avoid feeling sad when I had to choose. Smelly and delicious food, lunch, and dinner, I did not feel lost if I can come in. And these peaceful Sundays, when most of you are closed, wondering on how are you all spending your day off. The old man with hat and spotted coat smiles at me. People running around, and he asked me a coin. Does he remember me? Is he watching over me? Does he know how lonely I feel? He vanished away when I step into the Polish and Hungarian shop. I am looking for a very cheap dinner, and I want to cook. It’s time to go back to the gate, putting an end to this whichever day in Nottingham.