Was invited out to tea by an eighty three year old Irish
woman on Malta, yesterday. We’d never
met before. I had been at a restaurant
and her daughter, sitting at a nearby table, heard my Irish accent and said her
mother would like to meet me. She gave
me her card and her mother’s phone number was written on the back. I took a chance and phoned the next day
before I lost courage and forgot. A
lovely Donegal accent replied and we arranged to meet at her home. This was how I found myself at a lovely villa
overlooking the sea along the coast outside Sliema, sharing a large laden table
with this sprightly lady and her two friends (around the same age). It felt surreal to find beautiful china,
elegant linen napkins, homemade bread, apple tarts etc. with the strong Irish
brogue coming at me. Mother of eight, she spoke her mind and I loved listening to a familiar tune washing over
me. Despite having lived in Malta fifty
years her accent was as strong as if we had just met on the back roads of
Donegal today. I cannot begin to tell
of the delight of this company. Their
wit, the laughter, shopping exploits, collections of spoons, husbands all
illuminated by three ladies who had lived life to the full. Their openness and friendliness was like an
antidote to homesickness delivered intravenously with copious gallons of
tea. When you are far from much that
speaks of home it is delightful to fall into such company. I thank God that my Irish accent was
overheard, that her daughter handed me her card and for encouraging me to call
and that for once I took the opportunity offered. Life is far too short to waste what it brings
unexpected to your door. Unexpected
kindness takes you by the hand and urges you gently to start thinking of others
instead of yourself. A memory from
childhood blows to me on familiar breezes.
When I was a child we had a caravan in Donegal on a
windswept beach that even in bad weather was breath taking. It struck me how empty all this landscape
was with sand stretching off into the distance devoid of any humans. As we made the journey to our caravan and
back we’d go down tiny bumpy back roads equally empty. But, if
ever we did come across a solitary human being high in the mountains it
was usually an old farmer type, wearing formal dark suits. He would straighten as the car passed and
wave a warm welcome and nod their head sweetly in our direction as if you were
a fond cousin newly arrived. I asked my
father why they did this and he said, in olden days everyone would out of simple
courtesy. Sitting in the back of the
car I watched the green fields flash by and I mourned the loss of such simple
civility in our brand new world.
A strange thing would happen when we passed a funeral
cortege. My father would slow
the car and remove his hat, setting it on my mother’s lap beside him. A sober silence would reign and as a young
child I knew that no talking was allowed. Later, I would ask, why this
careful ceremony and he gave different answers, like “every man’s death
diminishes me”, or “every life deserves respect as does every death” and “it
reminds us all powerfully of our own mortality”. Every time, a different answer as if the actual answer was too
deep to put into normal words. Even now, when
passing a funeral, I long to have a hat to remove and show my respect. I make do with a silent prayer and remember
my father’s small gesture and the lessons it inculcated in all of us.
Once, we caught the train to Dublin and my father played
chess with a friendly priest in our compartment. As they played they discussed Irish history, politics and
religion. It was like watching two
experienced swordsmen testing each other capabilities. Quotes would be used from historians, writers
and the bible. Anecdotes given and
tales told to make a point and always laughter as the wheels of the train
rocked us south. You could tell they
were pleasantly surprised to meet a worthy opponent both on the board and
off. At times, the discussion became
heated but it was always courteous.
From the clash of differing opinions the truth does emerge and it was
thrilling sitting eavesdropping on this epic battle. When they said their polite farewells, my father asked his name
and the old priest replied, “It’s William, sure you’ll not forgot crossing the
Boyne with Father William will you?”
I drank it all in, their wit and good humour along with their eagerness
to test their insights and experience with each other.
Yesterday, drinking gallons of tea at a laden table,
listening the Donegal accent work its magic, a fragrance of that lost world
wrapped itself around me. That old-fashioned
courtesy and kindness no longer extinct, as I feared, but sitting opposite me,
pouring tea and forcing slices of freshly baked cakes onto my plate.
“Well is it with him who is illumined with the light of
courtesy”
