Letters to a Future Tenant

When I left the flat on the steep street above the harbour last spring, after nine years, I wrote three letters to whoever would live there next and left them in the kitchen drawer, the one that sticks. I do not know whether anyone has read them. I kept the drafts, and I print them here with the address removed, in case they are useful to anyone else who is about to leave a place they have known for a long time.

The first letter, about the flat

Dear tenant,

The boiler switch is the second from the left in the fuse box, and the fridge is on its own switch, which you must never turn off. The window in the small bedroom will not close in winter unless you lift it slightly as you push. The tap in the bathroom drips when the people upstairs run their bath, which they do at about ten at night. You will stop hearing it after a month.

The kitchen gets the sun from about four in the afternoon until it sets, and in October it comes all the way across the floor and reaches the door. This is the best hour in the flat. I am telling you so that you do not miss it.

The second letter, about the building

Dear tenant,

The woman on the second floor, on the left, will take in your parcels if you knock twice and wait. She is slow to the door. Do not knock a third time. The man on the ground floor plays the accordion on Sunday mornings. He is not very good, and he knows it, and he is getting better, and I would ask you not to complain.

The caretaker sings in the courtyard when he sweeps. He only knows the first verse of anything. If you learn the second verse of one of his songs and sing it back to him, you will have a friend in the building for as long as you live here.

The third letter, about leaving

Dear tenant,

One day you will leave this flat, as I have. When you do, you will stand in the empty kitchen and find that it has become a stranger again. This will happen very quickly. The walls will remember you for about an hour.

I do not say this to make you sad. I say it so that you spend the years you have here paying attention. Notice the light in October. Learn the second verse. Mend the window if you can, though I never could. Leave something in the drawer for whoever comes after you.

And if you find this letter, and you have a moment, write back. You do not need to send it. Just leave it in the drawer, with mine. That way, whoever comes after you will know that the flat has had more than one careful reader.

With good wishes,

A former tenant