Arthur Sinclair sat on an old wooden bench overlooking the River Thames. The autumn wind gently pulled the remaining leaves from the branches above him and scattered those that had already fallen across the path in front of him. He reached up and adjusted his thinning white hair before replacing his hat. Beside him rested a cane, a constant support that had seen him through these last few years as his legs and balance began to let him down. Above him the sky was a pale grey, the clouds filled with the promise of rain to come. Arthur had lived a long life; he was now in his eightieth year but as he looked out across the Thames; he recognised this was not the London he had been born into. In truth, it wasn’t even the city his parents had known. In his living memory, the once thriving metropolis of British culture had changed beyond recognition, and perhaps he was one of the last who remembered what had been before.
He had been sitting here for over an hour and had looked around, his blue eyes taking in the now common scene. The bustling streets had been filled with people, as they always had been, but now the faces filling them were a kaleidoscope of colour and culture. As Arthur took in a deep breath he brought with it the thick scents of street food — aromas of spices he could not name, mixed with the smell of incense from the stalls that lined the streets around the green park he sat in. The smell was almost palpable, and his mouth watered slightly at the promise of food the aromas held.
In the distance a familiar sound began which mixed in with the buzz of chatter and stall holders shouts, it was the call to prayer which echoed from a nearby mosque, its sound resonating across the square reaching out to those faithful members of the community and bringing them into the warmth for prayer. Arthur looked at his wristwatch. It was five o’clock and the stalls, hearing the Adhan had started packing away. As he watched, he noted many had nearly packed up their wares, likely having begun closing at the sight of the dropping sun with the sky growing darker. The melodic chants from the mosque mixed with the hum of voices and the distant honking of car horns. Itwas all so different now, so foreign.
Arthur found, as he sat looking at the dissipating crowds and recalling listening to stall holders haggle in a language he barely understood,memories flood back to him. He had had a good life, married the woman he loved and spent fifty years building a life and family with her as all around him things changed. Sometimes the changes were subtle and appeared overnight with little government intervention, such as the call to prayer at his local Mosque. It had been the norm that this was not an acceptable practice in this country but following cultural tensions, it was agreed by local councils that the growing population and the Islam faith becoming the prominent religion in the area that this should now be allowed. Other councils followed suit, with communities seeking similar concessions that had been afforded in his part of London. Within months, Adhan was broadcasting across the city with other areas of the UK, also allowing this to take place. Then it was as normal as the chimes of Big Ben.
A pigeon fluttered to the ground in front of him, he watched as the bird bobbed its head as it strutted around looking for scraps to eat. As he watched, it tilted its head as though looking back at him. For a moment the two locked eyes and Arthur felt a kinship of sorts with this bird, seen by many now as vermin. A man kicked the bird as he walked past and then muttered something under his breath as he looked at Arthur, who shot him an angry look. Yes, things were not as they once were in this old city.
Arthur felt he was, at times, a lone white face in a sea of colour,and the loneliness of that truth gnawed at him. The old London, the one his grandparents had told him stories about as he sat at the dinner table during Sunday meals, was gone. His grandfather had been a proud Londoner, a patriot, some would say, who happily retold the stories passed down to him from his grandfather, who had lived through the Blitz, and had seen the city rebuild itself brick by brick after the war. He would tell Arthur tales of a time when the Union flag flew high and proud, about times when the streets were filled with the sound of English voices, and the pubs were the heart of every neighbourhood.
He would tell of the sound of church bells filling the air, “every Sunday, the church bells rang out across the city, calling us to worship, not this foreign noise,” he would say in that thick London accent, gravelly with age but still melodious to Arthur’s ears. “Arthur… when the bells rang, you could sit and feel the hand of God touch your heart as the sound washed over you.” Arthur found he couldn’t remember what the sound was as the bells had fallen silent long ago. “My boy,” his grandfather would tell him, “London was the greatest city in the world. During the war we stood tall, even when the bombs fell. Our way of life, our traditions, our culture it kept us united. The King, God bless him, was my grandad’s guiding star, and we knew who we were.”
Arthur’s grandmother would nod in agreement, her knitting needles clicking rhythmically as she added, “And every Christmas, the whole family would gather. We’d have a proper roast, sing carols by the fire, and the Queen’s speech—ah, we never missed it. It was a time of togetherness, of belonging.”
Arthur remembered speaking with his grandfather for the last time. He was frail and bed bound in a home for the elderly. His once life filled eyes were glazed and his face gaunt as he slowly faded away from life. “Arthur,my boy!” he said as Arthur sat beside him. “I am leaving London for the last time son, I never thought the day would come, blooming heck I thought I’s have to be dragged out kicking and screaming!” he laughed which quickly became a coughing fit. A nurse reached over and lifted his head to give him a drink and allow air to refill his lungs. “I admit, I am glad to go… I don’t recognise my city anymore, you kids and their kids after them will never know what it was to be a Londoner!” He had died two days later. His funeral was a sad day, he had often told of his wishes to have an old London knee’s up for his funeral, his coffin pulled through the streets of his area and those he knew following behind. The funeral he was given was one of multicultural values, heavily focussed on religious significance that was not the same as his grandfather held but the council had made rulings against how funerals could be held, and this was the closest they were allowed to the old ways his grandfather had wanted.
Those memories, passed down from his grandparents, were Arthur’s most cherished. But as he sat there, watching the world go by, he realised how far away that world was now. The Christmases of his youth had been replaced by a mix of religious holidays, with Diwali lights twinkling in the streets and the sound of prayers filling the night air during Ramadan. Therewas beauty in it, to be sure—a tapestry of traditions that had woven together over time—but it wasn’t the London he had known and a far cry from the London his grandfather had spoken of.
He sighed deeply; the sound barely audible above the noise of the people around him. A Policeman worked his way through the crowd, likely making his own way towards the mosque. That was something else that had changed, Arthur considered as he watched the constable turn a corner and disappear from sight. The introduction of Sharia laws had been gradual at first, but now they were an integral part of life across the country. Arthur had heard stories from friends, those few who still lived in the UK, of how their neighbourhoods had changed, how some women no longer felt safe walking alone, how businesses had needed to adapt or close if they didn’t align with the new ways. There had been protests, of course, but those voices had been drowned out over time, dismissed as relics of an outdated past. Many of those friends had passed long ago. A few had remained as he had but so many left and were now buried in a foreign land far from the soil they trod as children. I weighed heavy on Arthur’s heart, but decisions had to be made, and for many that meant leaving these shores to find lives elsewhere.
Arthur’s thoughts turned to his own life. He had seen the country change with each passing decade. The old pubs where he had once laughed with friends, shared stories over pints of lager, had been replaced by cafes serving chai and hookah lounges where the young gathered. English was still spoken, but it was peppered with words and phrases from a dozen other languages, and it seemed that although still classed as the national language,it was very much a second language in certain areas of the country, sometimes he struggled to understand what was being said around him in his own community.
He turned his head away from the people heading off to prayer and looked out again across the Thames, the river had been the only thing not to have changed, yes, the boats looked different, but the water still flowed and meandered through the city as it always had. From his bench he could see Wandsworth, where he had settled with Kath, his wife. In his mind’s eye he saw a church spire sticking up above the roofs between the tower buildings on the other side of the water. The sight brought with it the memories of his children’s weddings. Scott had married first in 2079, and he and Jane had put on a marvellous spread following a magical service at St. Thomas á Beckett in Wandsworth, the same church he had married Kath thirty years before. He recalled how little the building and had altered from his own wedding to that of his son, the surrounding community had change which was a contrast to how he felt waling from the building with his beautiful wife, her golden hair immaculately weaved into a tight plait that lay majestically down her back. The image in his mind was vivid and he could see Kath standing resting her hand in his as she walked from the church into a rainstorm of confetti. The beauty he had fallen so deeply in love with oozing from her as she laughed beside him her blue eyes twinkling with happiness. Back then London seemed unchangeable, it was stoic in its resistance having stood as a symbol of Britishness for a thousand years.
Scott and Jane had emigrated to Australia three years after their wedding, he and Kath had planned to visit but never found the time or money to go, life seemed to always get in the way.
Claire had married Ahmed a few years later. Their wedding was something of an event with bright clothing and a feast that you needed to see to believe. Ahmed’s family was huge, and it seemed every one of them attended. Kath had bought a traditional Muslim dress to ‘fit in’ she had said.Arthur wore the same suit he used for Scott’s wedding and within minutes regretted his decision, he stood out like a sore thumb. No-one said anything,both families mixed wonderfully, and the wedding was a spectacle of grand proportions. Claire had converted to Islam and seemed to have been fully accepted by Ahmed’s family and community which was a wonderful thing to see.
Claire and Ahmed settled in Newham and before long had three children. Aisha his first granddaughter followed by the twins Adnan and Zayan. After Kath died all plans to visit Scott and his grandchildren, Peter and Sarah, were shelved. He didn’t want to leave the place he felt close to his wife, he ached inside and found comfort only in the places they used to frequent together,like here at Azadi Park, it used to be called Victoria Tower Gardens but was changed to better reflect the growing multicultural community in the area. In fact,many of the old names had been replaced, any references to the old monarchy had been removed or renamed, it was a historical washing to bring the city in line with the people who it should now represent.
Many things remained the same in the city, though the faces may have changed. People still milled around getting from A to B, some seemed to have purpose, others appeared just to drift as the tide of people pulled them along to where they were going. People still spoke and laughed as they passed by, but the words he heard were sometimes unfamiliar, though that was happening less than it had when he was a younger man. The changes in the language weren’t the only thing he noticed. It was the feeling of it all, a sense that things were not as they once were. There had been a subtle shift in the air at first. How people acted and spoke altered. With that change communities slowly became divided. The way people had once lived their lives alongside each other had gradually been replaced by living your life apart.
The British values he had grown up with, those he had been taught by his parents and grandparents—fair play, a stiff upper lip, a sense of duty and decency—seemed a fairy tale, something you would read in a children’s book. But he remembered them and felt a sadness that they had been replaced by something else, something he didn’t quite understand but knew to be less than the morals he once had. It was like eating a favourite meal with one of the key ingredients missing. You were still sustained, but it wasn't as enjoyable an experience.
The monarchy, that symbol of continuity and tradition, had been abolished years ago, replaced by a republic that, at the time, felt to him like just another step away from what Britain had once been. Another layer of bureaucracy had been added and campaigns for leadership were, at first, respectful but as time passed and the candidates became more and more aligned to the new population, with it came violence and disorder. Cultural differences were played out on the streets of England as those with Sunni heritage fought those from differing factions. They held onto that cultural connection as fiercely as Arthur held onto the stories his granddad had told him. Ultimately, accord was achieved, and a ruling faction of mixed Muslims took control. It ended years of violence, during which time Kath had been killed. It happened as she walked home from visiting Claire and Ahmed, young boys filled with rage and looking for someone to release it on. His wife was in the wrong place at the wrong time, the police told him. There was an outpouring of grief and anger from Ahmed's family, and they sought justice through the new laws, and in their eyes the punishment handed out to those who took her from him was fair and swift. But none of that helped him with his pain.
Arthur followed the flight of a small robin as it flitted from post to post in front of him. A passerby spooked it and he watched as it took flight over the rooftops of Westminster towards Big Ben. In all the upheaval and changes, these had, reassuringly, remained unchanged. The same couldn’t be said for Buckingham palace, which had been repurposed as a tourist destination and hotel. It had some of the most expensive rooms in the world and many of the rich elite visited London just to stay at the former home of the monarchy.
“Granddad,” a voice interrupted his reverie. It was Aisha,his granddaughter. Her dark hair framed her beautiful brown face, her eyes warm with concern. She was the one of the more beautiful things this new world had brought to his life. She was a connection to a future that was unfolding around him, a future he would likely never see. “Penny for your thoughts,” she said, sitting down beside him.
Arthur smiled weakly. “It has been a while since I heard that, sweetie.” He said. “I am just remembering, love. Thinking about the old days and the stories my granddad used to tell me.”
Aisha nodded, her gaze following his out over the river. “Do you think he would like it here now?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” Arthur replied, though he knew he wouldn’t, his voice heavy with the weight of his years. “He would certainly love you.” He added as he placed a hand on her knee, “that I know for certain.” He smiled before turning back to look out across the now darkening horizon over the river. “If I thought about it, I think there would be many parts of the city he wouldn’t recognise, in truth, and perhaps that would upset him slightly. He spoke often about the London of his childhood and the stories were always filled with warm and pleasant memories." He recalled. "I would like to believe he would see the changes and know some of them were for the better. We’ve become a more inclusive society, more tolerant in many ways. But we’ve lost something too… something precious and immeasurable.” He looked at her, his eyes searching hers for understanding. “It’s nobody’s fault, not really. Those who opposed the changes accepted them eventually, and the world moved on. People come and go, and cultures change.” He said as he tightened the scarf around his neck. The setting sun had brought a chill to the air and he found shelter in his jacket and the knitted scarf Kath had made for him many years before. “But sometimes,” he continued as he finished zipping his jacket up to hold his scarf in place, “I feel… like I’m the last of my kind, and I am trying to hold onto something that’s slipping away and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s very lonely sometimes, especially since your grandmother passed.”
Aisha took his hand in hers, then pulled it to her face. Her cheeks were warm, and she placed a kiss onto the back of his hand as she moved it away. “You’re not alone, Granddad. You have me, and we still have each other.” She said. “Plus, the twins are back from Pakistan next week and I am sure they will have gifts from our homeland…” she looked excited by the prospect and Arthur gave her another smile. Sometimes the woman in front of him still looked like the precocious seven-year-old who had broken into his sweet cupboard to find the treats he had hidden there. “And mum said she and dad are thinking of taking a trip out to see uncle Scott and aunty Jane in Australia. I know they’d take you if you asked.”
Arthur smiled at her, grateful for her presence. “Yes, love,that would be lovely and would mean the world to me.” He said.
“You see, you’re not alone after all, as you have family,and we are here for you.” Aisha said as she squeezed his hand.
“You are right, of course, but sometimes, I wonder what will happen when I’m gone. Who will remember the stories, or recall the way things were? Who will remember the feeling when the church bells rang out across the city, or how the King’s speech brought us all together at Christmastime, when everyone was a little bit kinder to each other? Who will recall how we used to roll cheese down hills and chase it for no other reason than it was fun or the local fayres and country fetes?” he asked.
Aisha leaned her head on his shoulder. “I will remember, Granddad.” She said, “I will tell my children, and they’ll tell theirs. That’s how stories are kept alive. We pass them on, so they won’t be forgotten.”
Arthur closed his eyes, feeling a sense of comfort from his granddaughter’s words. The city had indeed changed, and he had become a relic, a leftover from a time that had passed, but perhaps that was how it should be? After all, nothing lasts forever. Perhaps it was enough to know that, through love and family, the stories would live on, even as the land of his birth continued to adapt to its new occupants.
With the sun dropping below the horizon, casting a shadow over the city, Arthur felt a sense of finality. London had changed beyond the recognition of his forebears, but the memories of what had passed, the tales of what Britain had been, would endure. Arthur nodded as he pushed against his cane to get to his feet. “In the end,” he thought, “perhaps that will have to be enough.”
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