By Rhonda Wiley-Jones
Eighteenth Annual Solas Awards Silver Winner in the Doing Good or the Kindness of Strangers category
All I had done in England and Scotland was lug my backpack on and off trains, try to make sense of routes, search where to purchase a ticket, hunt for B&Bs, and find a bite to eat before re-boarding. My patience was wearing thin, like my shoes.
As I headed to Chester, I reexamined my decision to travel alone. I’d spent three years anticipating independent travel. I paid off my car and credit card debt, got accepted to the University of Missouri graduate program in Higher and Adult Education, applied for, and received a student loan and internship. I emptied my pension plan, what there was of it, moved from Little Rock and in with a roommate in Columbia.
The month of May 1980 was a break between spring and summer semesters. I had just enough money if I was frugal. I was serious with a man I had met during the fall semester. I didn’t want to marry before launching myself into the world. At twenty-seven I had traveled aboard and, in the States, but always on a planned and pre-determined trip with a purpose for my church. Some women friends had traveled abroad alone, and I was envious to do the same. I wanted to be my own travel agent on this trip.
As the train neared Chester, I recalled disappointing events. In Windemere, I found my B&B dirty and unkept, cat hair in the bed and toothpaste left by too many others. The host waved “Cheerio!” and returned to her laundry before I let myself out. If I had taken a bus trip around the Poet’s Lake District, home to Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey, it would have gotten me to Chester too late to find lodging. This had been one anticipated location for me, having studied these romantic poets in my undergraduate English major. I tried to reach a pony-trekking stable without success, so I left for Kendal hoping to find something to do there. Again, no luck. So, I headed to Chester. Decisions! I’m weary of making them alone. If I just had a friend along.
I wanted adventure, not wrong turns, or stalled schedules.
Chester sat on the English-Welsh border on my way to Ireland. It was a city of cathedrals with a citadel wall built to protect the inhabitants millennia ago, most of it still standing. In York, a week ago, I’d awoken early to walk the city walls before commerce started. Chester’s ramparts were more complete, but I preferred York’s imperfect ones. Like in York, Chester offered a different view of the city, looking down on rooftops rather than around while walking the streets. Birds sang as I walked alone, enjoying a sleepy city, The air was still and the morning quiet, like church during prayer. I didn’t even need cathedrals, though I enjoyed visiting them later.
Once in Chester, I learned the connecting ferry was down Friday until Monday. I would be stuck for two days. I needed the ferry to get me to the next train station that would take me to the next ferry over the channel to Dublin.
After learning of the delay, I returned to the train station’s bulletin board to search for something to do. An announcement of At Home in Chester, a program that matched tourists with locals, was posted. Meeting someone could be fun. I made the call, and they matched me with Margaret. Who could she be?
The next day I took the bus, and a two-block walk to her home.
She waited for me on the front porch. “Hello, Rhonda. I’m Margaret. I’m so happy to meet you.” She patted my back and waved me to follow. “Please join me in the backyard.”
Margaret was an attractive woman in her mid-fifties, eyes that met mine, dark hair in a French twist. She wore a casual shirt-waist dress and earbobs. At first sight, she reminded me of my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Lewis, who walked with a slight swish in her full-skirted dress. I admired her femininity, though I didn’t have the words to convey it then.
We circled the house, a shuttered, stone cottage. I saw a well-kept garden of roses encircling the house, mostly pinks, whites, and yellows that spilled in front of the periwinkle shutters. She likes pastels. Once in the backyard, the grass was clipped short and neat. As a girl growing up on the edge of town on a farm, I thought, Things sure look tidy. She invited me to sit in the sun, which was unusually warm for their May. The tea tray sat ready on a bistro table.
I was disappointed I hadn’t been invited inside to see Margaret’s house. I wondered why. Maybe this was the best way to host travelers, outside, for safety purposes.
She served hot tea, no crumpets or cookies, no finger sandwiches, just tea and her inquisitive spirit. Coming from a rural Arkansas background, every time company came, we served iced tea or coffee and something to eat. I didn’t yet know that in England, tea was customarily served on its own. My stomach grumbled. I ignored it, focusing instead on Margaret and her inquisitive spirit.
Margaret, relaxed and curious, asked where I was from. “Arkansas.” She asked where it was situated. “Arkansas is bordered by the Mississippi River on the Eastern side. I grew up close to but not on the river. The Mississippi creates rich delta land where rice and cotton grow well.” I wanted to share details about where I called home.
“Did you grow up in a city, town, or in a rural area?”
“In a small town, but dad raised Hereford cattle on the side, and hay and oats for feed. We had cattle back of the house and barns beyond. I’m fond of your stone fences that are built everywhere here. Unlike our wood or barbed wire fences at home, yours are so pretty.”
“So, your dad was a farmer?”
“No, a contractor and builder. Farming was a hobby.”
“And your mom?”
“She’d a nursing home administrator.”
“Smart cookie, I suppose?”
“Yes, she is. And I have two younger but towering brothers who round out the family.”
Then she asked, “And you, what are you doing traveling alone?”
“I had some women friends who had traveled alone to Europe and England. I envied them the experience, so I decided to do it myself. A rite of passage, I might call it.”
“What do you mean?” She raised her eyebrows in interest.
“I see a first rite of passage when you get your driver’s license, then when you leave home for college or work. Those are obvious, but this one is optional.” I shifted in my chair wondering what she thought of my take on this.
She arched an eyebrow. “How is that?”
“I’ve traveled to Europe and two other states that are very different from my own. Where I went and why I was there have always been set by the church organization that invited or sent me. I had lots of freedom and got see and do a lot, but now I wanted to make my own decisions, choose where and when I go and leave.”
Margaret took a sip of tea. “I would love to see the world. Where all have you been?”
I said, “When I was fifteen, I went on a European tour and attended a Baptist Youth World Conference in Switzerland. At seventeen, I went to Hawaii for ten weeks to do Vacation Bible Schools and youth work.” I took a deep sigh, wondering if she thought I was a Jesus Freak. “Then during my sophomore year of college, I went to Westminster College in Salt Lake City to hold Bible studies in the dorm and plan regional events and conferences there and at the University of Utah.”
I always felt awkward detailing my travels that came about because of my church association. It had given me lots of experience that I valued in working with others, in communicating through teaching and public speaking, even leadership through organizing Bible and mission studies.
“Admittedly,” I said, “My church has opened up a world of travel for me.”
“You have seen a lot—what a world traveler, you are.”
I liked that she saw me as a globe trotter; hopefully not a Jesus Freak, which was a frequent term used by Christians then. I did not want to be seen that way.
“I loved geography as early as fifth grade, before I knew it was possible to travel,” I said.
I shifted the conversation. “But all that travel was planned for me and most decisions about what I did were set by someone else. This time I wanted to be my own ‘travel agent.’”
In her chirpy British voice, Margaret said, “Oh, how I love your pluck!”
I would not have used that word, but it seemed to fit.
“Why the UK?” she said.
I told her because I knew the language. I’d admitted to myself it was a flimsy aim and suspected she saw it as such, too. “That’s not a good reason, but I knew everything else would be new, foreign money, learning train and bus routes, finding things to do, staying safe.”
“See, you’re a plucky one.” I relished the way she viewed me. “And how did you find your way to Chester?”
I sheepishly shrugged a shoulder. “Chester is on my way to Ireland.” Margaret put me at ease laughing with me over my honest but not so generous answers; yet I had unearthed an explanation for my travels that I had not articulated to myself before now, a new level or kind of independence.
A boyfriend just a year before had said, “You set goals, take action, and make things happen in your life.” I’d heard the longing in his voice to command his life with intention. This jaunt to the UK was like a Girl Scout badge: Foreign Travel, Woman Traveling Alone.
Raised as a polite Southern girl, I knew it was proper to ask about Margaret. “How did you come to serve as a host in the At Home in Chester program?”
She told me she was recently widowed and wanted to do something productive with her time. “Grief doesn’t become me. My sons are grown and married.” She smiled and tipped her head as if to let me in on a secret, “No grandchildren yet.” She waved her hand around the yard. “I could putter in my garden, and I do, but I want to travel, as well. Without the resources to do that, I decided I could see the world through other people, like you.” She leaned back as if satisfied with her answer. “Chester At Home gave me the perfect way to do that.”
She may have been in awe of my pluck; I, on the other hand, admired her ingenuity of traveling the world while firmly planted in Chester.
Margaret and my mother shared a unique approach to seeing the world.
My mother was one of the firsts at church to invite visitors to our home, missionaries or visiting preachers. Her gift of hospitality reached others, such as Lilly, the English woman and her two little ones, or Sharon and her teen daughter Ellen from Alaska, who came to see their mothers-in-law and attended our church. Mom brought people who lived in far-off places to our dinner table that otherwise we would not have known in our rural town.
The book of Genesis in the Old Testament Bible tells us how to treat strangers—with love and affection. The New Testament refers to the gift of hospitality, to befriend the outsider, and open our homes to those who are visiting or lonely. In the Middle East of the Bible, the desert could be a harsh place. Hospitality was key in a place like that.
Margaret, generous beyond the requirements of the program, invited me to the Spring Thaw Revue the following night. Local music and drama. I shivered with delight. She too fostered the gift of hospitality, like my mother.
I apologized that I only had a white blouse, black skirt, and casual loafers to wear.
“You’ll look quite stunning, I’m sure.” The lilt in her voice gave me a high I had needed during recent days of lousy schedules and missed chances.
The next day I walked the rampart wall of Chester with a brighter spirit. I ran into a woman from New Zealand and the second time we met, we stopped to chat. She was continuing her education in dance nearby. It was a chilly day, nonetheless I boarded a tour boat on the Dee River. Three boys about ten or eleven on the shore dropped their drawers to moon us, then doubled over laughing at their own mischief. Midday, I napped in Grosvenor’s Park, as I had in every city park where I’d spent time. Later that afternoon, the British Heritage Center provided a historical and architectural presentation about Chester. Afterward, the center offered brass-rubbing. Before I completed mine of Henry VIII, I tore my paper. So much for a free souvenir.
That evening, Margaret drove to a parking lot and we walked around the corner to the theater. She murmured, “There’s not much traffic.” A big ribbon across the ticket counter read, “POSTPONED UNTIL NEXT WEEK.” The producers delayed the production, no reason given.
My shoulders sagged. “I’ve brought my bad luck with me.”
“No, no. That’s not true.” Yesterday Margaret had heard me list my misfortunes of previous days on the road. Schedules had gone awry again, this felt too familiar.
“Let me think, there has to something else.” She pursed her lips, cocked her head, then snapped her fingers. “I know just the place.”
She was gleeful; I was hopeful.
She told me there was a lovely restaurant not far away. We’d have coffee. That seemed mundane after the promise of a theater production, but she felt on the spot to offer a substitution.
Once there, my camel loafers with rubber gum soles felt out of place. Starched white cloths and small crystal cups with lit tea candles adorned the tables. The servers dressed in crisp black pants and white shirts. I could have been confused for an employee rather than a customer, except for my stand-out camel brogues. This place is swanky.
She tossed words over her shoulder as we entered. “This is no ordinary cup of coffee.”
Margaret ordered for us. A decision I did not have to make, a luxury. Deciding what to do, where to go, when to stay and when to leave had been my idea of independence, until it became lead in my shoes.
We lingered over conversation as we waited for our order. I noticed the formality of servers, gilded and mirrored walls, plush gold carpet with medallions. My head moved about the room as my eyes took in the elegance of the place. I commented on this and that. Margaret chuckled at my fascination with the interior. Anticipation was part of the delight.
After some time, the male server approached with two clear wine glasses of coffee. He smiled when my eyes widen. The man was so smooth carrying them that the coffee did not sway.
My eyes followed the server’s hands as he set the delicate glass sitting on a saucer in front of me. It must be crystal. My mother had ceramic mugs and China cups, but I had never seen coffee in see-through glass.
A quarter inch of cream nested on top of the coffee. It floated milky-white atop the dark chocolate-colored coffee, separate and distinct. At home cream or milk always merged naturally when poured in a cup. How did they do this? A dainty silver teaspoon lay next to the cubes of raw sugar on the saucer.
I lifted my eyes from the coffee to the server. “Thank you,” I said, still in awe.
I sat on the edge of my seat and reached for the spoon.
Margaret leaned forward and placed her hand on the table indicating that I wait. She gave me directions as she performed the ritual. “Gingerly lower the sugar cubes cradled in the spoon so as not to disturb the cream.” I tried desperately not to disrupt the creamy froth, as she had instructed. “Now slowly stir the cream into the coffee.” She swirled her spoon in the vessel. “See the cream cascading into the dark coffee in tiny strips … now wider ribbons … even wider ribbons … and now they begin to merge.” I mimicked her movements.
An earthy acrid aroma wafted from the goblet. The spoon made a tinkling sound as I circled it against the crystal glass. I closed my eyes to shut out the world for just a moment to relish the potent, bittersweet aroma. I prefer my coffee robust and stout, so by adding cream or milk I temper the flavor without diluting it.
That’s what Margaret had done for me, soften the trip with her gift of hospitality.
Then I raised the steaming coffee to my nose, inhaled the fragrance, smiled at Margaret, and touched my lips to the rim. It was hot and reminded me to cool the liquid by blowing lightly.
Margaret eased back into her seat as she sensed my pleasure. My decision to call the program, At Home in Chester, from the train station seemed to have turned the tide. We nursed the indulgent coffee and savored our last time together.
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| Author Bio: Wiley-Jones published her debut novel, Song of Herself, in 2022 and her memoir, At Home in the World: Travel Stories of Growing Up & Growing Away, in 2014. Her fiction and nonfiction are found online and in print, published on Flash Fiction Magazine, WritingItReal, and WOW Women on Writing websites, and in anthologies. She writes travel tips and travel stories for two local lifestyle magazines in the Texas Hill Country. Since the early 1990s, she has taught workshops on travel journal writing, travel writing, and the craft of writing on college campuses, at public events for community members, and at national writing and creativity conferences. Visit Wiley-Jones’s website and blog, https://RhondaWiley-Jones.com. |