A while ago I hosted two long-time British friends at Sunnybank. Chatting with them brought back the flavor of England, where I’d spent over forty years exploring the intriguing nooks and crannies of this lovely country, and most especially in Hereford and Ross-on-Wye, two ancient towns very near my family’s home in Herefordshire. Ancient buildings lean comfortably, their dignified timbers seemingly impervious to insects and time.
One cold, snowy day I noticed a tiny teashop in the middle of Hereford’s huge mid-town square, where cars are banished. It would be lovely to set down my groceries, rest my tired feet and enjoy a bracing cup of tea. Bundled people milled around outside, toting webbed shopping bags crammed with crusty loaves of bread, fresh veggies, and perhaps a beef or lamb ‘joint’ for Sunday dinner. Sighing, I settled next to an ancient, stooped man, who was slurping his tea with obvious pleasure. His bright eyes scanned the square, never missing a thing. I bade him good afternoon.
Turning to me with a smile he said, “‘Tain’t good ‘til me teatime sweets pass under me nose, young lady. What brings you hereabouts?” I explained that I was visiting England, and grocery shopping to prepare dinner for friends. He nodded, noting my American accent.
“The States—too young to know any better, too brash to grasp what’s important. Look around. What strikes?”
I immediately shot back, “The architecture. I never get enough of venerable English Gothic cathedrals, black-and-white timbered houses that Shakespeare saw, cobblestoned streets, huge, centuries-old trees that are still thriving… but mostly the buildings. For me they sing. The English do understand preservation.”
“Aye; ’tis the Old World, you know.” He grinned, and, startled, I saw his teeth in the palm of his hand. He’d removed them quietly, and his amusement at my discomfiture was clear.
“Haven’t thoroughly broken ‘em in, m’dear. They’re new, see, and I always enjoy how white me choppers are in the beginning- ‘til a thousand cups of tea finally stains ‘em brown.” So I pops ‘em out regular at teatime- ‘til I forget. Everybody preserves everything here.” and he threw back his head and laughed.
Clearly, this little joke had made his day. Amused, I joined in. Then my tea and his sweets- scones, clotted cream and jam- came. He expertly popped in those gleaming teeth and polished off the treat.
Mr. Longworth told me he came to town weekly to visit his wife’s grave, change the flowers, and “have a wander down memory lane.” They’d been married 58 years.
He’d dug his future wife out of the debris that had been her London home, during the Blitz. Though she’d lost everything she’d kept her sense of humor, joking that as long as her spectacles worked, and she never missed teatime, all would be well. He’d admired her brusque dismissal of her broken arm. “She said the lads fighting the massive nightly fires were the ones to admire.” He sighed. “So, I married ‘er. She liked my smile. It was the first thing she saw under the flat’s rubble as I bent down to pull ‘er outa there. Young teeth, wire spectacles and teatime…Funny what comes to mind when you’ve too much time to think.”
Replete, he sighed and pushed away from the little table, paid for everything, then shook my hand firmly.
“I hope the world always remembers what’s important, lassie. History’s more ‘n old buildings, or old people like me hanging on. It’s about spirit, and laughs, and, o’course, warm digs with a great lady.”
With a wide smile he capped his bald head and slowly left the shop.