Reminiscences of Sheffield Terrace
It was quite early in the morning, even earlier than when the nightbird begins to sing his lonely song. I was wide awake, even though I kept telling myself to close my eyes and go back to sleep. I tossed and I turned, tossed and turned and tossed once more, but to no avail. I picked up my book and tried to read, I could not concentrate. Finally I picked up my cellphone. Ah! My friend Linda in London had sent me an article about Prince Harry and his wife Meghan and all the havoc they are causing the royals in Buckingham Palace. I decided to reply. When I did, instead of texting she phoned me. Before long we were happily chatting away. She told me that she is writing about food and I told her that I am going through a terribly dry spell. I could not form a single sentence! She told me that when she got stuck she used trigger phrases ‘’For instance, I think of all the houses I have lived in,’’ she said.
I chuckled. ‘’As a group, us Iraqi Jews have certainly lived in quite a few, the world over.’’
With that, she opened a flood gates of my memory. Suddenly I was transported to the student that I used to be sixty plus years ago. On a whim, my father had decided to send my sister Nora and me to boarding school in England. He was on a business trip in Europe at that point in time. He telegraphed my mother to tell her that he had enrolled their two older daughters at St. James’ College, in Malvern, Worcestershire. In my mother’s mind she imagined a scene from a recent movie she had seen where healthy, happy girls in shorts and tanned legs running across fields with their ponytails swaying behind them. In her thoughts, the sun was shining down upon this happy group of girls. She was enchanted by the thought. She cheerfully packed us up and sent us along our way! All was well and good until the Christmas holidays approached. Our headmistress, Miss Anstruther, or Tante, as she was affectionately called, wanted to know where we were to spend the holidays. But Papa hadn’t thought that far ahead. Between his friend, Uncle Isaac, his distant cousins, Uncle Bertie, Auntie Moselle and their venerable aged mother, Auntie Hannah, they came up with a plan. We were to stay with Auntie Hannah and Auntie Moselle for the Christmas holidays. Uncle Bertie and Uncle Isaac were to oversee things. As an adult, now, I feel deep affection and a great debt for these wonderful people, and that’s putting it mildly. Without hesitation and any questions loving care of two girls they did not know. There are no words to express the love I feel towards all of them. Nothing I can say or do will suffice for their overgenerous hearts. In a corner of my being, I will always have a very special place for them. Always! Always!
Easter holidays saw us happily ensconced at number 9 Sheffield Terrace, off Church Street, Kensington, London. Mrs. Harris was a widow. She lived in a spacious three story pieds a terre with living quarters and kitchen in the basement where she and Bessie, her housekeeper, resided. Mrs. Harris was a cheerful kindly woman. She was matronly with salt and pepper hair and a face that showed wrinkles of a happy and contented nature. On the other hand, Bessie looked as if she had gone through many hardships. Her expression was always grim. She never smiled in all the years we stayed there for the holidays. Her facial skin was as thin as the outer layer of an onion skin and just as brittle. One felt that if she smiled, that her face might crack and disintegrate. It was of a pale hue as if she lived in constant shadows just like a mushroom. She always made us girls feel as if we had done something wrong. We tried to avoid her as much as possible. I did not like her then, but now I realize that she could not have had an easy nor a happy life and I feel regret for how I felt towards her then. Besides Mrs. Harris and Bessie, ‘the family’ consisted of Mrs. Harris’ daughters, Meg and Pat, and her sons in law. They often came to visit and sometimes stayed overnight. They were in their early twenties and always cheerful and fun.
As you entered the house from the main entrance, you climbed up a short flight of outside stairs. These led to the solid glossy black door with a brass knocker and a brass number nine hanging above it. You entered the vestibule which led into a huge center hall. On the left was the wide winding staircase that led to the two floors above and a narrower set of stairs that led to the lower floor. At the opposite side of the hall a table stood against the wall, with an ornate mirror over it. That was where everyone’s mail was placed. As one climbed up the stairs, before each story going up, there was a landing on which there were two ladies chairs and a side table. It was obvious that had been Mrs. Harris’ home. Perhaps when her husband passed away, she was obliged to take in the boarding school girls, to make ends meet. The bedrooms on each floor were used as semi private dormitories for us girls. My sister Nora and I shared a bedroom. Very little heat was prov…