Saturday, November 7, 2015

Just off Kensington High



Just off Kensington High

I arrived in England in the summer of 1966 with a wife, two children, 13 bags and an ice axe to commence my studies for a PhD at Imperial College.  I hasten to add, the ice axe was being delivered to an acquaintance of a friend in the States. I was not into climbing mountains, or at least had given it up at that time in my life. Our first order of business was to find living quarters. Schools for our 15 year old and 5 year old boys came second. That task, unexpectedly, turned out to be a not inconsiderable job in itself.

We looked at a number of places in the Kensington area that were within walking distance or easy commute to Imperial College located just south of Hyde Park and the Albert Hall. It’s a pretty ritzy area but I was on the Navy’s dime and we felt we could afford it. After a week or so of looking we felt very fortunate to find a flat (‘apartment’ in Americanese) in a lovely old six story Victorian building just off Kensington High on Allen Street. In fact this grand structure was called Allen House. You can inspect it to this very day on Google Earth if you like. I’ve included a screenshot which shows that it hasn’t changed a jot since that far off time. 




 

The flat was on the northwest side of the building in front on the fourth floor. Those windows at the very top of the picture on the left are ours. The master bedroom window looked down on an alley that ran behind the shops on Kensington High Street; in particular we had a view of the back entrance to Sainsbury’s grocery and meat market. Barbara said it took some getting used to seeing the sides of beef being thrown out onto the alley from the delivery trucks and later dragged into the rear door of the shop. Don’t get me wrong Sainsbury’s is a good chain. We traded there regularly.


Straight across Allen Street to the west was a Chinese restaurant facing out onto Kensington High. We used to gaze down at the roof of this building which seemed to have far more than its share of pigeons in residence. We never ate there. We weren’t sure if those pigeons might not be serving some financial purpose to the owners of the food establishment below. Someone had told us that you should not eat London pigeons. They were not good for you.

We had been warned by the U.S, Navy authorities down on Audley Street in the center of London that we should use the Navy-provided rental agreement form for any rental or lease agreements we should undertake. Good advice. After we returned home in 1968 dear Mrs. McGarvy-Munn, the owner, spent years through her solicitor trying to collect property tax expenses from us. Thank goodness for the Navy rental form. Before we could take possession a surveyor appeared on the premises and began to list in a large book everything in the place including the light switches. In the kitchen he noted jelly glasses on the shelf as crystal ware. We had to sign this and were expected to pay up for anything lost, worn or damaged when we left. In a way this was a relief because it insured that we would never attempt to clean anything very well.

Back to the negotiations for this elegant domicile: Barbara later came to call it “a magnificent ruin.” All the flats in Allen House were privately owned, condo style, and I’m sure, except for ours, were well maintained. We couldn’t be sure of that since, as foreigners, we were never invited into any of our neighbor’s places. Strangely, I never saw the aforementioned lady but my wife surely did. Mrs. McGarvy-Munn was asked what the heating consisted of. She said, “Central heating. It comes out of the walls.” To our extreme discomfort that turned out to be untrue. The flat had about six rooms including two bedrooms, a formal parlor, a dining room, a kitchen, a bathroom, and maid’s quarters in the back. That room went to our 15 year old. The parlor had a magnificent chandelier with many hundreds of dangly crystals which we were strictly admonished not to touch. The parlor was furnished with gilt formal furniture of about 1880 vintage upon which we never dared to sit. The side board piece with its gilt framed mirror served as a repository for the wire mesh enclosed soda water bottle that was traditionally refilled by a vendor who was supposed to visit on occasion. The kitchen was another matter. The linoleum was so worn that the holes in it were an actual tripping hazard. The refrigerator worked but was only hip high and held very little. It was a good thing milk was delivered daily, and that Safeway was just across Kensington High with Sainsbury’s just below. The ragged carpet in the long hall that ran the length of the apartment presented the same hazard as the kitchen linoleum. Although promised the dear lady never came through on any of our requests for new linoleum and hall carpet.

The approaching winter turned out to be quite cold, so without heat we were forced to buy some small electric space heaters to make up for the phantom central heat. These were quite high wattage with very high velocity fans. They were about the size of a toaster and believe it or not could actually warm a room. We were most thankful for that. On one occasion while I was at the University and the children were at school Barbara decided to finally really get warmed up, got in the tub and let the warm water fill to the overflow. While relaxing and luxuriating she heard a banging on the door, an unusual occurrence since we didn’t know anyone. When she finally did get to the door it turned out to be John, the building porter, wanting to know if she was all right. It seems that water was dribbling down the outside of the building from our flat. The tub overflow led directly out to what was once a lead pipe sticking out into empty space. This had been sawed off long ago flush to the brick wall by thieves who were about their business of stealing lead.

Barbara didn’t smoke – well, one every now and then to promote regularity. Besides, it was nice to have some cigarettes around for guests, should any ever show up. Everyone in England seemed to be smokers in those days so we kept a supply. We got them at the Navy PX down town and kept them on an upper shelf in our bedroom closet. They were hard to keep on hand even though we seldom used them ourselves and we had very few smoking guests. I don’t know how she did it, she was quite a short person, but Mrs. McGarvy-Munn would use her illicitly retained key to enter our place while Barbara was out and steal the cigarettes.

One last anecdote about our landlady: She claimed to be a dear and close friend of the late Queen Consort to George V, Mary of Teck. Queen Mary had died just 13 years prior to our coming to England. We could never know if this was true but it made a good story.
All was not harsh discomfort at Allen House. There was always John the porter. We became quite fond of him. And then there was the milk man who came every morning early with his hand drawn electric powered milk wagon. Our five year old would dash down to the street and give the milk man a hand in distributing the bottles to the various flats.

As I recall the lift (‘elevator’ in Americanese) was one of those cage affairs which allows full view in or out in all four directions and has the staircase winding alongside in view of the lift passengers. It may have been water-powered; many were at the turn of the century. In fact I was inspired to write this account while reading a Maisie Dobbs mystery novel (Jacqueline Winspear) in which the heroine finally acquires a flat in Pimlico which had just such a lift. Pimlico is a district not far from Kensington. 

Living in Allen House had other benefits. It was near Kensington Palace. Our youngest son who attended school at Kensington Cathedral got to play near the statue of Peter Pan at the Round Pond in Hyde Park after school. In fact, he starred as Peter Pan in a school produced performance. His mother made his costume from potato sacks. I walked the back streets to Imperial College passing through what I recall as Thackeray Square. The William Makepeace Thackeray house had the familiar London landmark blue plaque near the door. This inspired me to finally get around to reading about Becky Sharp in Vanity Fair.

You could probably not live ‘up market’ off Kensington High today: times have changed.