Mad Cat Lady only ever knocks gently on my door. It’s as if she’s nervous, half wandering whether she should knock or not. I was outside scrubbing my rough clay Arabic water jug, which was playing welcoming host to a thin green moss, a moss encouraged to grow by the creeping dampness invading my cave at present. Anyway, I just made out the light tap and gentle, almost whispered ‘Kerry?’ and called for her to come in. She wouldn’t of course, so I went to her. She gestured for me to follow her and shuffling in her slippers took me into her home workshop. There were no beds or seats other than the ones beneath the three sewing machines that sat under lines upon lines of multicoloured threads orderly in neat rows above my head. Lines of colourful thread which, by the way, she appeared not to use if the insoles that she sells on the street are anything to go by. It was at once entirely captivating and industrious, I was desperate for my camera but I was distracted by her having thrust a cream woollen beret into my head. Momentarily stunned, my gaze followed her gesticulations to a selection of hats which we, through sketchy Mandarin and English, managed to establish were made by her daughter – a daughter I’m not sure I’ve ever seen.
I have a small head ish, so the strange cap like creations she roughly plonked onto my head fell over my eyes, making her chuckle. Muttering, she climbed the thin wooden steps onto the floor above, a mezzanine of sorts, and dragged down a box as big as her which, I was soon to discover, was full of hats. Despite my protestations which were disregarded with hand signals and rebuttals, she rummaged. Shit, I had hoped for an early night and I still had no idea what was happening back there in the cold, dark workshop. I left eventually, a stinging refusal to my offer of paying ringing in my ears, with four hats, two of which were exactly the same and still confused, entered my flat; her tight lipped approving nod and awkward hug ensuring the lopsided grin remained while I picked up the sponge and jug again, resuming the task at hand.
I arrived home from England on a night flight and so Mad Cat Lady was not up when I got back after this summer. The first I saw of her was the following morning when I went to check whether my bike was still there, in our lane. It was. Nestled between a scrap metal trolley and a thin electric scooter, it was waiting. Someone had covered the seat with a shower cap and had wrapped the handle bars, pedals and back arch in plastic to protect it from the summer storms of Shanghai. I wanted to cry. This kindness was a little more than a sentimental, jet lagged, vulnerable me could cope with but the tears didn’t appear because suddenly there she was. Chop sticks hovering above the bowl she cupped in her hand she saw me and actually yelped; panicked slightly as to where she should put the bowl then just chucked them down and took a little old lady jog towards me. I wasn’t quite sure what to do so just grinned at her until she reached me, paused in a slight embarrassment then just grabbed me. Smiling at her as she kind of told me off, pointing towards my bike – I think she was telling me off, you never can be too sure and proceeded to hit me with an avalanche of Mandarin which I just… grinned at. Much grinning ensued – I had no idea whatsoever what she was saying.
My other neighbour, Ben the camp Baker, has popped round a couple of times. Last time bringing with him his signature brownies which I was forced to share with the guests I had round for Paella Sunday – a day which started at 2 and ended at 11 after too much red wine. I love them, Ben the Camp Baker and Mad Cat Lady with her well fed and protective guardian cats. They make my lane a neighbourhood, a home; somewhere that I love cycling into, inviting people to, and living in.
Living in a typical ‘Lane House’ has its benefits while also offering draw backs. The creatures I share my cave with, spiders, slugs, bastard mosquitos and occasional cockroaches make it quite a challenge although I’d take them any day over the mouldy dampness that creeps through the pages of my books and ruins my shoes and clothes. But even with the invasive exploration of these creatures and natural processes, I will not move. The tenancy is up in December and I’ve already asked to extend. I may have taken on the dampness and occasionally waft with the unidentifiable ‘Chinese smell’ that permeates concrete walls and winding lanes of Shanghai but with this acceptance comes acceptance. I am part of my cave as much as I am not just the random ‘laowai’ who lives on the ground floor of number 7 in room 101: I am part of it.
I reckon Shanghai kind of gets you like that. It is somewhere to which I have become incredibly fond. Walking the streets around where I live, or more often cycling them; meeting my friends in new and weird wonderful cafes and closet bars; knowing the staff, learning how Avocado lady sells the cheapest and best imported goods from her packed out ‘hole-in-the wall’ shop for prices that are fair is far greater an experience than heading to the featureless city supermarkets. Admittedly, I crave a Sainsburys sometimes and I still rarely eat the meat; I’ve not been very successful with learning the language or tolerating nose picking, spitting and ear rummaging. I still want to elbow people in the head when they shove me back into the carriage of the metro I’d been attempting to disembark. I still can’t understand why the parent on the scooter next to me at the lights is wearing a helmet while their child at their feet, peeking over the handle bars has none. But what I love is that while sitting at that traffic light, sneering at such apparent disregard, I notice a balcony right from 1920s China peeking from behind an open iron gate, foliage spoiling from the front and wrapping itself around the columns below. I can see Shanghai as it was then and I look around with new eyes at a city that is both inspiring and stomach churning, realising that to be content here, one must simply give themselves a chance to live here.
Indulging in the odd massage and attending a glitzy brunch is fine if I can spend a day at the weekend on the back of my friend’s moped exploring or wandering around taking pictures of the chairs that frequent the tree lined streets of the Former French Concession. I love its secrets and I love being thrown out of a lane which I’ve been drawn into because I shouldn’t be there but catching a glimpse of a magic balcony before I do. I love the hand made flute that the homeless man plays at the end of my road and jumping on my bike to meet my friend for an Asahi in our favourite bar even though we’ve both given up alcohol for a week.
And even though I am scared of talking to Mad Cat Lady because I can’t express what I am trying to say to her, I love that I arrive home to her waving at me or mischievously telling me something of the other neighbours, only knowing that’s what she’s doing because of her hasty series of hand gestures and conspiratorial eye brow raises and nods. I love that Ben thinks Mad Cat Lady is crazy and tells me so any time I bump in to him.
I will leave Shanghai one day in the not too distant future, but I am so happy that I got to ‘feel’ it before I do. I will not look forward to telling Mad Cat Lady when I eventually leave. I have a feeling she likes to look after me in her own way and I think she might feel sad but I will thank her, and leave her with her husband and cats, he who occasionally allows himself to engage by nodding and them who eye me suspiciously and circle her feet whenever she drags me off to explain something through her battered phrase book.
Until that day, I will continue to accept her little gifts (a bucket brimming with pomegranates the week before last!), offer my own in return and smile as she talks to my friends as they arrive at my house – particularly Pippa who was told off by Ben for having a red bike as it would ‘tempt the robbers’ and who gets dragged into random conversations nearly as often as I do.
It’s a cosy little place and I’m almost looking forward to winter.
She went to Shanghai 