Whenever we could, Joan and I took refuge in the streets of Gibraltar. The Englishman's home is his castle because he has not much choice. There is nowhere to sit in the streets of England, not even, after twilight, in the public gardens. The climate, very often, does not even permit him to walk outside. Naturally, he stays indoors and creates a cocoon of comfort. That was the way we lived in Leeds.
These southern people, on the other hand, look outwards. The Gibraltarian home is, typically, a small and crowded apartment up several flights of dark and dirty stairs. In it, one, two or even three old people share a few ill-lit rooms with the young family. Once he has eaten, changed his clothes, embraced his wife, kissed his children and his parents, there is nothing to keep the southern man at home. He hurries out, taking even his breakfast coffee at his local bar. He comes home late for his aftemoon meal after an appetitive hour at his caf6. He sleeps for an hour, dresses, goes out again and stays out until late at night. His wife does not miss him, for she is out, too——at the market in the morning and in the afternoon sitting with other mothers, baby-minding in the sun.
The usual Gibraltarian home has no sitting-room, living-room or lounge. The parlour of our working-class houses would be an intolerable waste of space. Easy-chairs, sofas and such-like furniture are unknown. There are no bookshelves, because there are no books. Talking and drinking, as well as eating, are done on hard chairs round the dining-table, between a sideboard decorated with the best glasses and an inevitable display cabinet full of family treasures, photographs and souvenirs. The elaborate chandelier over this table proclaims it as the hub of the household and of the family. "Hearth and home" makes very little sense in Gibraltar. One's home is one's town or village, and one's hearth is the sunshine.
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