Photo by Lumie Okado

2. N4 Cafe

I used to live a three-minute walk from N4 Cafe. I started going there simply because my old flatmate was working there sometimes. I started going there because he could give me free coffee and sometimes free sandwiches. Even when I missed his shift, he still brought back pastries and sandwiches for our flat occasionally. The pastries and coffee are great, but my main reason for going there is to get plenty of sunshine. 

Corner units always seem to win. N4 makes the most of its position, spilling chairs and tables out onto the pavement so that everyone can share whatever sunlight the day decides to give. I feel the cold more than most so I can’t stay outside for long when the breeze is chill. Still, a coffee, a cigarette, a breath of fresh air, that’s enough to switch on my day.

In the blazing August heat, I would go around noon and read, half-listening to the conversations beside me if they sounded interesting. The day after drinking too much, my boyfriend and I would show up like zombies, revive ourselves with a dose of outdoor air, then retreat back home. Come to think of it, I’ve probably been there more often with him than alone. After one of us stayed over, we’d meet at N4 Coffee as our midpoint to pause for a moment, and then peel off into our separate days. Sometimes it was simply our meeting spot.

The wooden tables wobble slightly. I always forget that the flat white comes in a larger mug than the latte and only realize after ordering. I’ve been curious about the matcha for ages but never actually tried it. On brilliantly sunny days the terrace becomes a quiet battlefield; you have to move like a ninja to secure a seat. A dog might be sleeping at your feet, pigeons edging closer. Some people hammer at their laptops; others hold online meetings or just loud phone calls. Runners stop mid-route for a smoothie and a chat. I usually stick to coffee, though every now and then we(especially my boyfriend) add a croissant or a cookie, almost by ritual.

Facing Stroud Green Road, it’s perfect for watching people. At the crisscrossed crossing, pedestrians approach from every direction. People spill out from the nearby bus stop. Drivers step out of cars parked right in front. Groups of Turkish staff gather outside the restaurants and cafés opposite. Young couples pause in front of estate agents’ windows, studying property listings.

I’ve watched all of them. Thought all kinds of thoughts. Chatted. Written. As if trying to absorb every rare drop of London sunlight before it disappears, I’ve spent an enormous amount of time at those terrace seats at N4.

44. Noise

There is a chorus of sounds that exist on an estate in inner city London. Enter the gate and lives pile on top of one another. Calypso drums are rehearsed as gospel music blasts through kitchen windows where meals are prepared with love and care. Celine Dion soars across the concrete block as cherry blossoms unfurl. The call to prayer undulates as bass lines throb. It is a cacophony of sound. A mis matched chorus both perfectly attuned and clashing across time. The sounds of the city. Layering. Living.  

 

It is an unremarkable estate. Not as infamous or large as the neighbouring one next door. Nor as notable, either in beauty, or lack of, as others that lace across the city. Made up of blocks of various sizes, who’s name I can never remember, and a tower that rises high about the rest.  

The tallest tower, in recent years has struggled with squatters and people sleeping rough, desperately seeking warmth and shelter in its corridors. Behind me, the block which we all envy, with the more spacious garden and sunlight. Directly across, the more modern build of which I know least. To my left, an older block which opens onto the children’s playground. Finally, my block, the smallest and often quietest. Previously gave home to predominantly older and disabled people, due to its larger ground floor and accessible spaces; though in recent years hosts younger families.  

Sitting in the depths of the estate, we are often sheltered from the outside, the cheering crowds of Arsenal stadium and the bustling shoppers of Fonthill road. Where there are seemingly endless runs of bridal and formal wear shops, which to an outside eye seem to stock exactly the same things, but always have customers filling their shelves.  

Our central position places us perfectly as a sound trap to the rest of the estate. Our windows fill with the lives of others. Most of their names unknown, but intimacies shared regardless.  

 

I came to the estate in a series of interweaving circumstances. Slightly unsure of the decision to call this place home. After living very separate lives for much of our young adulthood, my siblings and I made the decision to pull our resources and buy a flat together. Fed up of giving so much of our money to faceless landlords and housing agencies. A combination of generously left inheritance, a retiring landlord and good timing enabled us to place a collective foot on the ladder. Though a hugely privileged position to be in, negotiating a shared life as adults is not simple. The flat, though technically three bedrooms, has vast discrepancies in the size of the rooms. Though I am the eldest, my income is lowest, so I found myself in the smallest room. Just big enough for a double bed, though we had to specifically order a shorter frame to accommodate the radiator, as my pride could not quite succumb to a single bed pushing thirty.  

Prior to moving in, we had many tearful, drunk and angry conversations about what it would mean to live together. We agreed terms. Negotiated our privacy. In reality, the house became a silent dictator. Or perhaps, more aptly, a very not silent dictator. Although robust concrete divides us from our neighbours, the internal walls are porous plasterboard. The sounds of each of us easily penetrating to one another. Each early morning alarm, late night lovings or intimate phone call suddenly belonged to all of us. I took long showers to cover my sobs when talking it through felt too much. 

These intimacies, often reserved for friendships or the anonymity of shared houses forced us together. We pushed and pulled and battled our way into a harmonious balance, each working out what we had to offer, what we needed to take and what to preserve with ferocity. Though now my brother is married and living in the US, and my sister is preparing to move in with her partner, this home that we shared, allowed us the space and time to grow into adulthood. We nurtured each others songs. A polyphonic melody, in tune for a time – now separating off to find our own.  

 

Our flat, number 1. Sits on the ground floor tucked into the cavern created at the centre of the estate. Split over two floors, technically a maisonette. It folds space on top of itself, with clever storage amongst its compartments. A throw back to when social housing was designed with actual humans in mind. It reminds me sometimes of a shoebox, windows running along each of the long edges, and solid concrete enclosing both ends, one side leading across to Frank and the rest of the block, the other to empty space and bike sheds. Adelaide is above us. Despite large windows, it isn’t very bright, the sun is hindered by blocks either side, and to the east, my favourite cherry tree. Our favourite cherry tree. Adama at number 5 and I long ago decided that should the council ever come for it, we would chain ourselves to its branches and use our bodies as shields. 

 

There is a rhythm to life here. A daily heartbeat marked out by existing. Each morning after the foxes final cry, Isatu totters her terracotta pots as she brings out her chilli plants for a morning bathe in sun sweet rays. A clatter and incessant beep of reversing bin trucks announces the days beginning. The sound of a boiling kettle a signal, get up, its time to debrief on yesterday’s adventures.  A whizz and giggle as number 4 hurries his children to school all piled atop of a single overburdened bike. Their frenzied tune cuts through. Each lunchtime, Donna, struggling with her own health makes her way across to tend to her father. Sometimes, her cackle and chatter sing through the window as I work, on bad days, she wheezes, leaning heavily on her frame. In quiet afternoons mothers chatter and bustle home with rustling shopping bags. On his good days, Franks crooner vocals seep through his window. Balls bouncing across the bike sheds announce the end of school. By evening, sounds become undeceivable. The orchestra has no conductor and improvisations clash to find their part.  

Later, as each home turns to sleep, Adelaide upstairs closes her door to go to work. Her teenagers come alive, once with electronic beats of video games, now sneaking friends over for late night illicit adventures. As I turn in, I listen out for the gentle tinter of terracotta as the chilli plants are safely stored once more. The foxes can roam.  

 

At times, human noise can become too much. In an already small space, the density of sound can be claustrophobic, making already cramped spaces oppressive. The dog who barks incessantly, or, perhaps worse, their owner, too tired to walk them far, hollers across our communal garden, unaware that their voice reverberates across the concrete, penetrating our homes as if, in fact, scolding us too.  

Children’s laughter, often infectious and nostalgic, can become a force that entraps others in their homes. Every summer, the children of number 10 play out from morning till dusk. Each day, bringing shouts and screams as imaginations wane and the small patch of communal outdoor space struggles to contain them.  

Each year they grow, and each year it becomes more challenging for their imaginations to temporarily lift them from this enclosure, which poverty and limited parental capacity to take them out into the world make this their only space. Frank, gentle and kind, cannot understand why their shouts don’t relent, giving him the moments of peace he craves. His later years have been filled with illness, after a life lived in the fast lanes of the city. It is not until little Sofia, the newest resident at no 3 arrives, and charms him with her big eyes and babbling chatter that he is reminded that children come with noise built into their bones.  

Now Faizal and Rahwa knock on to play with her, delighting in a younger child to refresh their imaginations and enliven their games. Sweet Frank, no longer enraged, brings her an ice cream each day, its sticky residue dripping from her chin onto her father’s football shirt.  

 

Like every inner city estate, there have been times where there is darkness. Twice, to my knowledge, since living here, a young life has been cut short. An unfinished song, left before lyrics had time to find tune. There have been times too where my space felt invaded. Bikes stolen from the covered sheds. Doors left ajar give away the thief had a key. It seemed to hurt more to know I lived amongst them. For months afterward, the creak of the shed door in the dead of the night would awaJohn me. Eventually, I let the shrillness come down a few octaves. It’s just a bike.  

Now that shed holds dual purpose, the drop point for deals, snatched like teenage kisses. I see an elegance in the young masked figure who delivers them; though the resulting tweaking amongst the recipients reveals an increasing crescendo of pain and self destruction. John used to try to intervene, an ever-present watchman, until he succumbed into silence, through deafness and progressive dementia. Now he is gone but I still hear his presence. A gate swings open and I await his chatter to Ruby the dog, a whiff of a cigarette resonates in the corner of the kitchen. Perhaps silence is not the absence of something but the presence of everything been and has been.  

 

In the peak of the pandemic, we silently negotiated access to our shared outdoor space. We resisted the frantic panic of lockdown restrictions. Found our own pace. In the early mornings, hijab clad joggers took privacy, before giving way to bleary eyed dog owners. Kids pattering feet kept time with my keyboard as I sit attempting to work before giving up and seeking refuge outside. Little clapping for carers here, only hard fought survival.  

 

On the twelfth floor of the tallest tower, lives Stan. I’ve never ventured up to his flat, much to his dismay. We meet mainly at a circle of grass, sometimes host to parties and gatherings, often BBQs where low, dirty reggaeton beats cross oceans in search of gyrating hips. Children perreo. I am drawn in, by smell and by sound. On celebratory occasions, the circle is the favoured spot for teenagers to release fireworks. The bangs clatter across the concrete, shattering through my bones. I never used to mind these jubilant pyrotechnics before, but since living here I often find the jarring explosions startling. The dog cowers beneath my bed. Its shivers and pants keep time with my own jitterings.  

 

It is the dog that has led me to Stan, who’s companion Sid taught him to play as a puppy. To describe Stan as Sid’s owner would do their relationship a disservice. They are life partners, each Sunday sharing a roast. Were life partners. When gentle Sid died a few months ago, the estate gathers at the circle to join Stan in mourning. Former residents travelled back just to say their goodbyes. As we stood alongside him, one friend arrived, an incongruous ‘celebrate good times…’ blasting from their backpack. They give out ballons. Sid used to love them as a puppy we are told.  

Through the breath of erratic tears, Stan strung them together and weaves them between two trees. Months later, the burst ballons flaccidly clack against the wind. Eventually, the security guard from the shop on the corner buys Stan a new pack, fresh flowers too: replace the memorial. A momentary lift for a man missing his partner. An unwanted solo. Sorrowful and slow, until the rest of the orchestra picks up life again, and his mournful tune remains undercurrent.  

I am at times, unsure of who I am to the estate. The everchanging yet resilient ecosystem, filled with characters of contrast, yet empathetic and accepting ears. The vibrations of each life, individual in note come together in a fractious harmony. Perhaps I cannot make out my own tone because it is most difficult to turn your ear inward, or indeed, that I worry my pitch sits a little off. The majority of tenants here are still council, a rarity in post Thatcher / Blairite Britain.  

I am not.  

I feel deeply that life here is easier for me. My stable income and job security. Despite living in one of the most expensive cities in the world, I have some level of disposable income. Less than others, and certainly not so much that it disconnects me from the beauty that is found in hard grafted community. Its generosity.  

I sometimes fear how I am seen. Do others perceive me to be an other to them and their experiences? A tenant passing through until so called ‘better’ opportunities arrive?  

After ten years of living here, these worries feel less present. Though occasionally when collecting packages delivered during working hours, I reflect on the privilege of knowing that my neighbours will be home to receive these for me willingly.  

I am walking the dog, who stubbornly insists that rather than heading to the park we must sniff every millisecond of the estate gate. I stand frustrated. Inpatient to move.  

‘Have a nice day Becky luv!’ 

Donna’s dulcet tones interrupt my disgruntlement. Echoing down from her third floor walkway. I am startled, not knowing initially from which direction her lyrics have found me from. I smile. Wave.  

‘You too!’  

The dog pisses. My signal that he has gathered his news. We walk, and a warmth spreads across my chest.  

I didn’t know that she knew my name.