It all started with Betty.

I had never tasted meatloaf before in my life. Betty was a good cook. “I always make sure my students eat” she said and she really did.

I felt safe. That all mattered.

16th September 1997.

Partially cloudy day in London. My heart was beating fast with excitement and nervousness in equal measure.

The car went down to Streatham SW16 and parked in front of the terraced house on the crescent road.

“Alright darling, come in. Welcome welcome.”

Deep but cheerful friendly voice came though as the door opened.

Black old telephone in the corner of her entrance. White cat lounging like nobody’s business. Pealed wall paper.

Just a few of the stuff that caught my eyes.

Myself and another student walked in to her flat. I could see her tiny kitchen at the end and back garden through the kitchen door. There were unkept green that started to turn its colour.

Betty, 77 years old South African Black woman with her hair up with numbers of pins, walking slowly, ever so slightly limping, guided us to the dining table. There were numbers of ex-students’ pictures like ID card stuck on the edge of the mirror on the wall and only a few of what looks-like family of hers on the mantle piece.

Betty was a host mother provided by the Language school I first attended as a foreign student to study English, which I travelled to Waterloo over 9 months from hers. She had a very strong accent and laughed with her shoulders.

She made us meatloaf in a bowl that evening. I had never tasted meatloaf before in my life.

Betty was a good cook. “I always make sure my students eat” she said and she really did.

We went upstairs as she introduced us our bedroom with two single beds. It was comfortable enough and I had no issue sleeping anywhere, apart from the allergy to cats. (She said she made sure her cat wouldn’t come in the room, which surprisingly was most of the time, not by Betty, but cat seems to know who is the best in the house. )

Next morning Betty explained how to get to the station and other students who stays at one of her friends near by. We got together and started to head towards the first day of the school.

Everything I saw and heard was new.

Street, corner shop, advertisement, people walking, park, announcement on the train, sounds of ‘mind the gap’, and even the colour of sky and taste of the air.

EVERYTHING.

At school, my ‘new’ flat mate, who had beautiful long black hair and wearing glasses, called me to come to the admin office with her.

With my clumsy still-to-get-used-to English,

“why”? I asked.

She said

“I want to ask them to change the house. I thought you’d agree.”

I was confused. So I said “why” again.

She looked a bit frustrated (with me or herself not sure) and said

“I can’t stand her and her house, I need to move out.”

“Oh I see.” I said. And replied,

“I’ll stay. I like her.” to my soon-to-be-ex roommate.

Off she went, without me, and arranged to exchange the house on the first day of school.

I stayed with Betty, simply because I didn’t find anything like what she said.

Yes her wall paper might not be pristine.

Yes her home might not be as tidy as expected.

Yes she might be an old woman and not be as active as younger family.

But I had no need to change. I simply appreciated what I was offered. Place to sleep, food given and her laughter.

It was the beginning of my 9 months of London life, first with an empty bed next to me. Gradually filled with another two students, Italian and Colombian, who came for shorter course.

Betty told us and shared us many things. That she used to be a model. (As she talks, she moves her shoulders up and happily grins) That she loves Pretty Pink (movie). That she winks at us when she makes jokes. That she gives us parsley to chew if you ate and stink of garlic. That we all need to learn from the war and stop hating each other. (I felt this her experiencing the conflict within the housed students in the past, as well as their race.) That she goes to the hair salon on Streatham Hill, which she took me for having mine done. That her daughter is called Miriam, who I never seen during my stay, never visited.

Betty, I and those two flat mates had a great time together.

I felt safe. That all mattered.

She called me ‘a cleaver girl’ for my painting result that I attended Saturday class at Wandsworth college, showing the pieces to her neighbours who visited her. She helped me speak to the owner of Mitchum Mint, the pub at the corner, so that I could work there to earn some cash. She cheered me going to study further as I moved to Brixton at the end of 9 months.

Betty became someone I admire and respect for the rest of my UK life.

I used to call her my second mother. I liked the way she was to me. My own mother did not have the same comfort and vastness.

I often visited Betty when I came down to London after moving up to Yorkshire.

She gave me a comfort when I broke up with my abusive Ex. She let me stay on a spare room when I needed. She met my (current) husband a few times we visited and made us dinner that I used to love as a student. She said how much she was enjoying yoga class at the age of 90, though she was no longer accommodating students by that time.

I used to telephone her on her birthday at the end of November. I sang happy birthday without saying my name, whilst imagining her picking up the black phone receiver by the entrance, probably leaning her body against the wall, with other hand trying to cover her mouth with her usual grin. Silence usually followed by her giggle that breaks out before the song gets to the end and her voice saying,

‘oh darling’.

Until one birthday I couldn’t hear her giggle after my song, then there was a voice saying,

“Oh… you must be Maki…. I’m so sorry…. My mum died last week...”

It was her daughter Miriam and was the first time I spoke to her all these years.

Tears came down, to an unexpected news broke out in an unexpected way on Betty’s birthday. Fortunately under unfortunate circumstances, it was just then her funeral was still on its way. So myself and husband drove down to London one cold December and met Miriam and the rest of her family for the first time.

I left my note to Betty in their family book that was provided at the funeral.

Thank you for everything you did for me.

You taught me so much and made my life possible.

You were my second mother. I miss you. RIP Betty.

26 years on. The words still stand today.