Our move from a main road in Clapham to Hampstead, NW3 felt like from polar ice to the Equator. Our house was halfway up Nassington Road towards the Heath. There was so much greenery around, I perceived our home as a country villa. We all loved it; I had not uprooted us for nothing. Eric and I remained there until death did us part.
By chance, Eric already knew our neighbour, Manny Tuckman, a retired GP, and his wife Gita, a sculptor. They ran an artist collective at No. 12. John Southgate, an impressive jazz pianist, was a tenant there who we were friends with – except on the nights he forgot the time and would play way past midnight. The first friend I made lived two doors down: Barbara Zeinau at No. 6 and her German husband Sigurd, a theoretical physicist. It didn’t take long to get to know many other neighbours too, but Barbara and I bonded so easily. We are the same age and she was a teacher at St Dominic’s, a local primary school. Some say we looked alike.
We have both moved away now, but to this day she still faithfully phones me every Sunday morning for our weekly chat. Sigurd died unexpectedly, and after raising her two children, Varina and Matthew, Barbara became the wife of a delightful architect. He was one of those boat people, restless on land, and was soon off sailing again. Barbara used to come over often, expecting Eric to be away too. During a sweltering heatwave, hot enough to stay outdoors, we talked all through the night in my garden, drinking wine and grumbling about our absent husbands, who were either sailing or lecturing. That long night cemented our friendship for good.
With so much travel and Eric often being away, home traditions were very important for us all. I am not one for surprises. I like to know what’s coming and what to look forward to. Christmas is perfect for this; in fact, I ran it like a military operation. It was a Herculean task for me to keep the show on the road for three days, and then pack up for Wales on the fourth.
Christmas Eve (the continental Christmas) was reserved for the four of us only. We had a festive candlelit supper treat on our own for around thirty years – a tradition that all began in Nassington Road, and continues to this day. It was an immovable feast – while I did preparations in the afternoon, Eric would take the children to a museum (in the days when they stayed open on Christmas Eve) or the cinema. My own little ritual was listening to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols on the radio from King’s College, Cambridge while I stuffed the turkey and scoured the ham to decorate with cloves, both large enough to last over Boxing Day. I enjoyed knowing that so many people would all be doing the same as me. There is a sense of belonging in shared tradition. Recently I heard our friend Hella Pick say on Desert Island Discs that although she felt deeply about being British, ‘I still wonder if anyone not born in this country is ever fully accepted and integrated.’ My experience is different in that I feel totally integrated, accepted and loyal to Britain, but in my head I’m a Continental woman.
On Christmas Day, the house was a little more full. Grandma Lilly, cousin Gretl, plus a dog always came to us, as well as Francis and Larissa Haskell. Later we acquired the Italian historian and professor of Classics, Arnaldo Momigliano, who also joined the tradition. Eric fetched him and he always arrived, presenting me with a CD of music by the seventeenth-century Italian composer Gesualdo. As I enjoy predictability, this always gave me great pleasure. Sometimes the odd foreign scholar or two who had not reckoned with the British Library being closed and needed Christmas cheer came too. I am not sure how much our children enjoyed these rather intellectual Christmas Day lunches, although they became very fond of the Haskells.
For Boxing Day, Eric’s communist friends came for a cold buffet, polishing off food from the past two days. Regulars were Margaret Heinemann, the archaeologist, Tamara Deutscher, the writer and Monty Johnstone, a writer and lecturer, among others – usually about fifteen people. It was totally casual - they were a loud, jolly lot and I’m sorry the names have gone from my memory now. The next day, we would pack up our things, and drive six hours to Wales, where we stayed until after New Year had rolled in.