Josna Rege

259. London without Lily

In 1930s, 2010s, Books, Britain, history, India, Inter/Transnational, people, places, Stories, travel, United States, women & gender on April 14, 2014 at 8:42 am

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Kenwood House Coffee Café (artist: Ashley Cecil)

Kenwood House Coffee Café (artist: Ashley Cecil)

Every time I return to the city of my birth, I prepare for a hectic and joyful flurry of visiting—my mother’s sister and brother, cousins (or as we say in India, cousin-sisters and brothers), their children and grandchildren, and old friends—friends of my parents from before my birth, their children, who go back with me to the beginning, and a small number of friends who have either migrated to Britain from the Indian Subcontinent or whom I have got to know over the years during one of my extended stays. I ache for London when I am away from it and certain places in it (Hampstead Heath, Kentish Town, Camden Town) have an almost magical resonance for me, but as I plan to return once again, this time after six long years, I am reminded that it is people, as always, who matter the most. This time though, it will be the people who have passed away during the intervening six years who are uppermost in my mind: for I will return to a landscape without them in it. This time, no one defines London more by her absence than my mother’s oldest and dearest friend Lily.

Over the years I have visited Lily at a succession of different houses, in Highgate, Haringey, Kentish Town—just a short walk from where Mum and she were born, in adjacent streets—and Regents Park. We have met for lunch or coffee in Hampstead, shopped for boots at Camden Lock (Lily had impeccable taste), or just sat companionably over tea in her living room and talked about everything, from difficulties with family to personal fears to favorite musicians (hers were Pat Metheny and Miles Davis), books, and writers. In retrospect, it was probably I who talked, mostly, and she who listened.

British Edition, Michael Joseph, 1962 (


I never made elaborate plans in advance to meet Lily, simply let her know when I was coming and arranged to meet once I had visited all my aunts, uncles, and cousins. In fact, on one visit I surprised her by just turning up at her door unannounced. If she was put out she didn’t show it; she seemed unflappable, which was balm to me after the high drama that always attended my family relations. Although we were as close and went back as far as any member of my mother’s family, she shuddered at the thought of my calling her “Auntie” and strictly forbade it, saying that it made her feel old. So from my teen years on, she was always just Lily, who never judged or patronized me, never presumed to tell me what to do, but always listened, with brief responses that were absolutely on the mark. And she told me what to read.



Lily was a voracious and discerning reader who had her finger on the intellectual pulse of the city. She seemed to know everyone, had entertained Natalie Wood back in the day, had taken a creative writing class with Beryl Bainbridge before Bainbridge wrote her first novel, and had an impressive knowledge of the music and culture of our generation as well. Now that I look back, I realize that I counted on her to let me know what I had missed since I had last been in London, and to point me in the right direction for catching up. Only now do I realize that it was Lily who introduced me to the writers and ideas that have become the subject matter of my scholarly work and the touchstones of my sense of belonging in the world. Only now, after she is gone, do I realize that it was Lily who turned me on to Doris Lessing (“If you liked The Summer Before the Dark, that’s nothing compared to The Golden Notebook”) in the Spring of 1974 when I was studying in London and trying to read all the contemporary British fiction that I could (see TMA #135, Doris Lessing and Me); Lily (as well as my dear Uncle Ted) who sent us a copy of Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children in the early 1980s, soon after its publication; Lily who, on hearing in 1990 that I was interested in Black British writing, sent me to Compendium bookshop to pick up a copy of Peter Fryer’s Staying Power; The History of Black People in Britain. Who else of my mother’s generation in England read all Maya Jaggi’s book reviews in The Guardian as well as remembering what life was like before the War? How is it that only now, as I try to process the shocking news of her death, do I see what a critical role she played in my intellectual development?

Street Scene Kentish Town circa 1931 ( artist: Cliff Rowe, at the Tate )

Street Scene Kentish Town circa 1931 ( artist: Cliff Rowe, at the Tate )

Lily had been my mother’s best friend from childhood. They were born months apart in the late 1920s and grew up together in the same working-class neighborhood of Kentish Town, North London. They aced their Eleven-plus exam together, went off to Grammar School at Parliament Hill School together (well, six months apart, but that’s another story), were both evacuated from London, along with their school, to live with different foster families in St. Albans during the bombing, left school together, got their first jobs at the same time, and went to the movies and out dancing together a couple of times a week. It was indirectly through Mum that Lily met and fell in love with Leon, the man she married; Mum met Dad around the same time and marriage was soon to take her away from England and Lily, but they remained close friends, writing to each other, exchanging cards, and getting together every time we returned.

After global communications became easier, Lily would always ring on my mother’s birthday and Mum would do the same on hers. She even came to visit in America once or twice, and Mum made a big fuss of her. She loved Lily, and always respected and admired her as well, her intelligence and dry wit, her beauty, sophistication, and style. Perhaps in her mind Lily had the life that she sometimes felt she would have liked to have lived if she had stayed in England rather than uprooting and traveling across three continents. In any case, whenever I visited Lily in London I couldn’t escape the feeling that somehow it should have been my mother, not me, who was enjoying tea with her in her sunny and elegant living room (no one else we knew, before or since, had a chaise longue). But it wasn’t my mother, of course; it was me.

Now, as I prepare once again to return to London, the city will present me with a bleaker, more impersonal face. Doris Lessing died in November at age 94, and though I have mourned her, the loss will come home to me again as I ramble over the Heath in Hampstead as she did so often (and where my mother once happened to see her, walking on the Heath herself—with Lily, I shouldn’t wonder). Lily died several months before Doris Lessing, although I still don’t know the date; as things turned out we didn’t receive the sad news until some time after Christmas. I will try to visit her daughter and son, whom I haven’t seen for many years and but nonetheless feel a kinship with. Even as I look forward eagerly to meeting my beloved friends and family, I can’t help feeling a certain dread, because for the first time I will be returning to a London without Lily.

Tell Me Another (Contents to Date)

Chronological Table of Contents

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  1. […] London without Lily […]

  2. Every young woman should have a Lily in her life. I enjoyed meeting her in this post.

  3. Not quite yet could I do justice to Roland–I’m afraid I’m quite bleary-eyed–but this I could, since I recognize Lily as one of those super-cool ladies like my “great aunt” Edith was. You just know them as per your brilliant description, “she was always just Lily, who never judged or patronized me, never presumed to tell me what to do, but always listened, with brief responses that were absolutely on the mark.” Everything from “Lily was a voracious reader…” on down, I devoured with yeses, to include your hindsight realization of the role she played… So you will be whirlwinding and experiencing sadnesses and lovely memories, and yet I imagine you will find peace at the center… Bon voyage : )

    • Thank you very much, for your comment and for the good wish for my trip; I fly today. What will I write for N and how? It ought to be P for packing, which I haven’t yet done! Your great-aunt Edith sounds as if she was a “super-cool lady” too. How we rely on these women to guide us, even as we think, in our youth, that we know it all.

  4. I love this post. It brings Lily to life in a way, for me. I have been listening to Doris Lessings “The Golden Notebook” on BBC4plus this week and thinking of re-reading it. I like the paintings too.

  5. A very moving post, Josna. So interesting how our memories and experiences of places are connected to the people we love(d) there.

  6. She sounds just wonderful, and I’ll bet she was so pleased that her dear friend’s daughter became a real friend, too. I hope you do get to see her children.

  7. Dearest friend, Loving Lily as you so obviously do, you must realize that she will always be with you as you journey on. A wonderful mentor like her does not leave just because she has died. Be comforted knowing that she is probably watching over you even as you mourn her physical passing. You are fortunate indeed in having known and loved Lily.

    • Thank you, dear Marianne, for your reminder and words of comfort. Perhaps I was being over-emotional. I always get a little over-wrought before a trip to London, and there hasn’t been a chance to mourn her yet, so I suppose I needed to write all that. What I still need to write–probably not on the blog, though, are more detailed reminiscences of times spent with her and her family, how my mother felt about her and the stories she told about her, and how she and her family influenced me. For now, yes, I hope to enjoy the short time I have in England, and the even shorter time in London itself.

  8. A warm and loving testimony to what sounds like a very special lady. I hope you will find something of her in her children.

    • Thank you, Keith, she was, in such an understated way. I feel sure I will find intimations of her in unexpected people and places.

  9. Bless you cussin, let’s hope we can fit that walk in even if you have done a few. A lovely post. Hugs and love xxx

    • Thank you, dear cussin. And yes, please, I can’t have too many walks, and I can’t have enough of them with you. xxx

  10. As you walk on the heath may its soft breeze touch you with the memory of Lily and Doris Lessing. Lovely post.

    • Thank you, Don, for knowing to say, and saying, just what I needed to hear. I will certainly do that. Warm regards, J

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