Today, in my spam folder, there was an unexpected email. It wasn’t the promise of cheap viagarara [sic], that I get offered. Or yet another generous offer of a credit card with 325% APR. It was from the save Gaby’s campaign.
The day I went up to London for my friend’s memorial, I went to Gaby’s to buy a sandwich for lunch. I had not been eating very well, merely that which I knew I had to. Desire for food, flavour and sensations had gone to ground. Also, with all shock or stress, I begin to clam up, holding everything in and preventing unwanted stuff from entering. I build walls all around me, hoping that anything negative will be kept at bay. It is a vain attempt and hope because despite my best efforts, thoughts creep in through the cracks. Sleep becomes a double edged sword. It is a relief to be able to spend at least some time away from it all and I have learned over the years that time does begin to numb what is past. Each sleep heralds the hope of anaesthesia but it never, fully succeeds. My sleep after hearing the news was characterised by insistent mind chatter, words, phrases and sentences on repeat mode. My only regret now is that I didn’t capture my subconscious as it made itself insistently known. There is such repetition and urgency that I am always convinced, in my half terror, that I will be able to recall a phrase or sentence on waking but more often than not all I am left with is a feeling of deep disquiet and exhaustion. When I do open my mouth to speak, I share what’s in my head and I am learning, still, that it is sometimes preferable to say nothing.
If anyone knows London, then they will probably know Gaby’s. It is a Mediterranean deli, close by to St Martin’s in the Field. They do a mean pastrami on rye with offers of any or all of the following, as I recall, coleslaw, preserved whole chillies, mustard, sprouts, salad, humous and chilli sauce. I opted for salad, mustard and a little chilli sauce. As I waited for my sandwich to be made to order, before my very eyes, I noticed a petition on the counter, ‘Save Gaby’s.’
It was obvious then and is patently clear now that Gaby’s is threatened with closure. The petition was calling for names and email addresses, maybe, even addresses. I entered my details and waited patiently as I was offered yet more toppings to add to my generous portion of pastrami. The mound between the two slices of bread eventually requiring a jolly good squash by the maker, to encourage the two halves to stay together long enough for him to cut it in half. Thereafter, it was wrapped, parcel like, ready for me to take away. I had opted for a takeaway because I didn’t have the courage to make my way through the lunch time throng to find a table and sit on my own. I felt too exposed and elected anonymity instead, sitting on a flattened cardboard box, conveniently left there, presumably by a rough sleeper, on the steps of the tradesmen’s entrance of the Wyndham theatre.
The man who put his order in after me, noted on the petition, ‘Even foreigners prefer it.’ I was half minded to tell him not to make assumptions but my accent, as a South African, even if I am now a citizen, was enough for him to use me as further weight to the argument. The fact is that before I lived in London and visited it, as a tourist, Gaby’s was something of a landmark. A place to meet and more often than not, to indulge in a range of Mediterranean dishes, though, as a carnivore, I tend to steer my way towards the pastrami, rather than the falafel. I have no doubt that whatever is served is scrumptious and well worth the money. In our credit crunched recession times, it seems their portions have escaped, unscathed and the price of my towering sandwich, more than reasonable at £4.00. I have, recently, in part of my grabbing the nettle mode of living, convinced my husband to eat at McDonald’s - we were cold, hungry and on unfamiliar turf. There was not much change from a tenner and I most certainly wasn’t feeling the love in the burger, though they never fail to deliver the same, predictable fare and that too is rather comforting, even if our McDonad’s solace is something we seek every other year, if.
It would, if I remember correctly, have been one of her and my ports of call, even if we were too brassic in my single mother days and her publishing assistant ones, to indulge. It does though, form the rich tapestry of familiarity that she helped me to navigate and negotiate, largely without fear, so many years ago. Her ability to live life was remarkable. She was never ever cowed by convention and on one of my dowdy mouse following sparkling jewelled Goddess outings, she commandeered us, me, hovering in her majestic wake, right into the lounge of the Savoy Hotel. The soft pile carpet so thick that it sucked my feet in, anemone like, with each step, as we made our way into the lounge.
There we enjoyed G & Ts, my first ever, me enthralled by the ambiance that only a grand piano, swizel stick, discretion, fresh flowers, sparkly chandeliers, guarded chatter and in all probability, a lovely young thing, masquerading as a waiter [her words always for a good looking man], could bring. If I felt any discomfort, initially, in being unworthy of such an experience, it faltered under her giant, unapologetic, colourful wing, where I was encouraged to sit up a little straighter and find a tiny bit of my pre-divorce glow. Even though my drink cost an eye watering £7, which at that stage equated to half a week’s groceries, it was a watershed in opening my eyes to the unworthy sister routine. It is fair to say though, that behaving out of character, is always more delicious and heady, when in company and it is always easier for me, when I am being coaxed and encouraged.
To that end, I owe so much of myself to her. On every single meaningful subject, she was always the spear-header and her courage enough for me to find mine. So now, as I continue to rake over the embers she has left, I am continuing to find heat and nuggets of warmth and energy that spur me on, day by day, to continue this journey without her. It is unbelievably hard, as it is for everyone, to know that there will be no further unfolding of her wellspring. However, it is remarkable to me that she has left, in such a short space, such a packing case of joy filled with generous chunks of magpie sparkly self. I know that I will always be able to untangle yet another piece of her to hold in the light. It is the promise of rainbows, unexpected refraction and manifestation of who she was, carried on in who she left behind, and created, that help me to continue forwards, searching and following; rather than dwelling and dwindling.
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