You can listen to a recording of this play or read it below
Tilda is played by Lauren-Nicole Mayes. Sound recording by Joe Chesterman-March.
A Tour
TILDA is in her twenties and lives in Manchester.
I never understood houses like this as a kid. You know, historical, preserved ones. Carpets and desks and old artwork. ‘This was so and so’s favourite knitting needle. This is where they met the Duke Earl of Somewhere or Other’. Who actually cares about this stuff?
When I said this, you’d smile at me knowingly, in that irritating way you had, like you knew so much more than me. You said, one day, I’d want to know more. That one day, I’d choose to visit somewhere just to soak up the life of another person. You’d say, I was so lucky to still be in school. I thought you were mental.
Doesn’t this place feel massive though? My room in my house-share is tiny. The living room and kitchen are big enough, but it never feels totally clean and it’s not like we can properly make it our own. I’ve put some fairy lights up and a few posters that I don’t even like, they were just half price in Afflecks. You got that it was hard for our generation to buy a proper house but you’d still be a bit narky at me if I told you I’d been out for a curry with my mates. ‘Ooh eating out’, you’d say, ‘we didn’t do all that in my day’.
Last weekend we started cleaning out your bungalow.
In the kitchen, you will find 72 packets of her favourite banana slimfast. You’ll note that everything in the house feels vaguely coated in tropical dust.
In this house there are servant’s quarters. In a way, I find it nicer in that bit than the main house. Everyone wants the exposed brick look nowadays don’t they? People don’t have servants anymore. Or I guess some people do, but you don’t really see them – the supermarket delivery drivers and overnight laundry services, cleaners that come while you’re out. Mum tried to encourage you to get a cleaner, but you weren’t having it. You said you didn’t like the idea of people going through your stuff.
This is what she called her ‘computer room’ even though she didn’t have a computer, she had a laptop. The room may appear neat and tidy, but if you open that cupboard to the left, four decades of Good Housekeeping will fall out. All the passwords for the laptop can be found sharpied onto its lid.
Mum kept asking me if I wanted anything, clothes, jewellery. I kept your Clarins body spray.
Apparently loads of big names came through here. The dining table can seat 20. I don’t have people round if I can avoid it. You used to always get visitors, neighbours from down the road, old friends would show up out of the blue. You always offered them a sherry, regardless of what time it was.
On this windowsill you’ll see an assortment of handmade crafts from her various grandchildren. A plasticine cat with three legs, a pasta portrait of the queen, and a piece of GCSE art, condemning the BNP, which she really took a fancy to.
I’m thinking of quitting my job. But I know you’d be against it. You liked that I was doing something that was helping people, even if you didn’t completely believe in ‘mental health’. You’d say stuff like ‘All these young people are ever so worried these days aren’t they?’ with concern, and then after sherry number two ‘we used to just get on with things’. Then, during covid, you were afraid to touch any surfaces, wore gloves in the summer, avoided us, me for months after things opened up. I tried to suggest you talk to someone, professional. You weren’t having it.
Instead, you taught yourself to voice-note. The first few were hilarious, you’d not realise you were still recording and sign off swearing at the stupid buttons. But you got the hang of it pretty quick. Soon you were telling me about your day. You’d keep me fully up to date on Casualty and what bargains you’d found on the Aldi middle aisle.
This was her bedroom, a modest size, and full to the brim with books. She attended two local book clubs, and was frequently scathing about other members’ ‘interesting’ choices.
I’d listen to you on the tram, when they started getting us to come back into the office two days a week. They said it would be morale boosting. I’d tell you about the stupid ice-breakers they’d do in the team meetings, you’d tell me not to be too harsh.
Of course, one of her most cherished memories was when she met Peter Kay in Knutsford Services, and you’ll find a photograph of that moment framed in the downstairs toilet.
Mums asked if I want to say something at your funeral. Like a poem? I asked, and she laughed at my wincing face. ‘Like what you’d say to her if you could talk to her now maybe?’ – she offered. I didn’t tell her I talk to you all the time.
We came here three months ago. You loved North and South you said, or at least, you loved Richard Armitage. I can still see you quizzing the volunteers, making me get a photo by her desk. That desk, in the dining room, allowing the writer to be a mum and run the house. Over Espresso Martinis we wondered if she’d envied her husband’s study, a quiet space, or if she loved being there, at the centre of it all.
You have to be polite at a funeral don’t you? Mum said I didn’t have to wear black, but when I asked her what I could wear she said ‘navy’.
Her garden was her pride and joy, she didn’t have a huge amount of space, but she used every inch of it. There are over 60 different plants in the back garden alone, she could name all of them.
Today I found the ticket for here on my desk, under a pile of work folders and notebooks. I was trying to have a clear out, make my room feel less miniscule. I almost threw it out, but it lasts a year.
I want to say the good stuff. Like how you got me into reading and crosswords. How you showed up to every school concert, and would feed me an entire oven pizza as a ‘snack’. But I can’t say how hurt I was when you’d comment on my weight, and when you tried to defend Jeremy Clarkson.
How am I supposed to write about you, all of you? How you put a huge cactus under your bedroom windowsill to ‘catch thieves’. You’d push together tiny slivers of soap to create a new bar, when you could easily afford a new one. How you loved magic shows, and hated it if anyone explained the trick to you. How do I fit it all in? What detail is the most important?
We hope you’ve enjoyed your visit, please feel free to enjoy the space, we close at 4pm. If you’d like a souvenir, there is an endless supply of novelty fridge magnets on your way out.
Being here again, I wish I could ask the writer what she thought about this. How to start. How to make sure I get it all down. I’d want to know her opinion about this house as well. Is this how she remembers it? Is it wrong, right, strange, moving?
I catch myself, and I see you smiling, that infuriating, know-it-all smile. Because of course you were right. I want to know more.
This play was written by Georgia Affonso for Elizabeth Gaskell’s House in collaboration with The Writing Squad and Manchester City of Literature. This project was been funded by National Lottery players, via The National Lottery Heritage Fund. Click Here for more information on the project.
This work is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International licence (CC-BY 4.0).
