In March 1990 I took my son, Adam, on a trip to London, England. We arrived on a Saturday night and drove to my cousin Frank’s house in Radlett about 30 minutes from the airport.
The next morning, we woke up early and after breakfast decided I would take Adam to the house I lived in when I was born. The ride was 40 minutes and on the way I realized that I couldn’t remember the exact house number. Oh well, not to worry, I could remember a picture of me on my bike taken outside my house. Shouldn’t be too difficult.
We got to Tring and found Beaconsfield Rd. I found the house in the picture, but it was not quite like I remembered. I didn’t remember it being a semi. I looked further along the road until I found the house I remembered.
It was now 2pm and I walked up to the house with Adam close behind me and knocked on the door. The door was opened by a fellow around my age. He was wearing just an undershirt and pyjamas.
I introduced myself. “Hi, I’m Russell Ross and this is my son Adam. I lived in this house during the war.”
“No you didn’t”, he shot back at me. “How can you be so sure?”, I persisted. “Because I lived here at that time”. “Oh!”, was all I could manage as a response. “Well, eh, where did I live?”
He had no idea, but suggested I talk to Margaret, across the road. So off I went with Adam trailing close behind me.
I got to the house and knocked on the door. Margaret answered and I went through my introduction again. “Hi, I’m Russell Ross and this is my son Adam. I lived on this road during the war.” This time I ended with “Do you remember where I lived?” She did vaguely remember me but had no idea which house mine was. I mentioned that I had a picture of me on my tricycle outside a house with a pebbled front wall. “Oh, you mean number 25. That’s back there on the right.” I thanked her and off we went again. Thinking back, we must have looked like Jehovah’s Witnesses going from house to house.
We arrived at number 25 and I again knocked on the front door. A young girl opened the door and I could here a string quartet playing in one of the rooms.
“Hi, I’m Russell Ross and this is my son Adam. I lived in this house during the war.” “Oh, isn’t that wonderful, you must go into the back garden and tell my Dad. All right, we’re on a roll and into the back garden we marched.
We introduced ourselves to the owner of the house and I began to relate my memories of the house. As I talked, he listened intently and nodded at my comment about how there used to be a side-door and he laughed at my story of the coal house
We had tea and I thanked him for his hospitality and we were off. I was glad that I had been able to show Adam where I lived. He was now able to put a picture of the place to the stories I’d been telling him about my childhood.
I showed him where the haystacks were, where I broke my collar bone and Miswell Hill where the Christmas Tree story took place. And then we went back to Radlett.
Later that evening I phoned my cousin Ruth. She had lived in the house in Tring before I was born. “Hi Ruth”, I began, “Guess, what, I took Adam to Tring to see where I lived”. “Oh, you went to number 79 did you?” “Err, no!”, I stammered, “I went to number 25.” “Oh well you went to the wrong house”, and she laughed hysterically as I recounted the whole story.
Adam was also very amused. Everywhere I took him to show him my past he always said, “are you sure you lived here or went to school there”.
79 Beaconsfield Road
Finally, I took Adam back to Tring and knocked on the front door of #79. The door was opened by a lady about my age. I went through my, “Hi, I’m Russell Ross”, routine. “Oh, how wonderful, please come in”. And in we trouped. We were introduced to her husband and I related my Tring stories to my new audience: especially the Christmas Tree story. We had a tour of the house and the backyard. The coal shed was no longer there but you could see the outline on the cement path where it had been.
I felt vindicated and relieved. What’s really crazy is that I had brought my birth certificate with me to London which showed the address where I had lived in Tring.
Some years later, on another trip to London, I again stayed in Radlett with Frank and his wife Hazel. The next day we went to Tring.
We parked outside the house and I noticed we were being watched from inside the house. So, I got out of the car and rang the doorbell. The door was opened by the same lady. I was going through my, “Hi, I’m Russell Ross”, routine, but she stopped me and said, “Oh I remember you, you were here a few years ago with your young son. Please come in.” And in we trouped once again.
In the front room was a man, I said, “Hi we were here a few years ago”, and before I could finish the sentence he said, “well I wasn’t”. I turned to the lady and she explained that in the time between my visits she had divorced and this was her latest “friend”.
Oh well, never mind, and we continued our visit. As we were leaving the house, I turned to the lady and the man and smiling I said, “Bye, see you in a few more years”. “You probably won’t see me”, said the man and then we were gone. I went back one more time with my daughter and the man was, indeed, gone.
