Letter from Berringford 14

Skye Cottage

Berringford

14 February, 1979

Theresa

The village postbag will be heavier this morning because it is St Valentine’s Day. Stan will take a little longer than usual and though he shares much news about the village he never says much about St Valentine’s cards for which he reserves a special respect. He asks no questions and just hands over the letter and if he notices the odd blush or a fumbling with the paper knife opening the envelope, he pretends not to.

Stan is some way off retirement but retirement is something that comes to all of us sooner or later, and here is Theresa’s story.

Theresa was born and brought up in Berringford.  She did not marry and after helping out in the Post Office here for few years she opened a small restaurant in Westington. It was not in the centre or in one of those streets at right-angles to the High Street and leading down to the sea. If you wanted to eat there, you had to know where it was, and even then you could walk past it, so little was made of the entrance. There was just a small hand painted sign over the door saying “Theresa’s restaurant”. It was, in fact, Theresa’s house, and the two rooms downstairs had been made into dining rooms and the kitchen at the back had been enlarged.

“Theresa’s restaurant” was always full at lunchtime.  The food was good and plentiful.  Theresa made meat and potato pie with a glorious pastry crust and unforgettable gravy.  We always served ourselves a second helping from the enormous gravy boat which was placed in the middle of the table and was refilled regularly.  To finish there were ginger puddings with piping hot custard, and apple pie made from the Bramleys that my uncle gave Theresa each year. Some customers had their lunch there every day. For some of the retired customers it was the highlight of their day. It was not only the good food but the company. For an hour or so each day these old people were not sitting alone.  Everyone entered in expectation and came out contented in body and mind.

Theresa never stopped.  Early each morning she went to the market and bought the meat and fish and the fruit and vegetables. Then she spent all morning in the kitchen. At midday Annie came in and helped with waiting on the tables. Theresa found time to greet each guest at the door.  During the meal she asked how they were getting on. She went from table to table like a mother hen fussing over her brood. Guests who had come for one meal returned and became regulars.  One person would recommend another, and sometimes in the street people would stop us and ask how to get to Theresa’s because they couldn’t find it but someone had told them that it was by far the best place to eat in Westington.

Well, the years passed and Theresa talked of retirement.  She talked of day trips to Weymouth and Torquay and a weekend excursion to Cornwall to see Land’s End.  She was going to take up watercolour painting and perhaps try to learn French at evening classes.  And when people had reluctantly accepted the idea that her decision was irrevocable, there was a big party for all the regulars in the dining room and next day the little restaurant was closed.  During the next week or so some of the regulars wandered lost in the street outside, like wasps going back to a nest that has been destroyed and buzzing bewildered around the place where it used to be.  Others forgot the change and one day arrived automatically at the closed door.  Then with a ‘silly me’ gesture they remembered and sadly turned around and made for some noisy pub on the sea front in order to have a microwaved pie and chips.

I saw Theresa the week after the party. She was in a pub herself, alone at a table.  She met me with her usual smile and said how marvellous it was to be free, how she could watch TV until late and how she did not have to rush in the mornings.

I didn’t see her for a long time after that.  The autumn and the winter passed and then I saw her last week once more. She was walking down the street near her home.  When she saw me the smile was still there but she walked more slowly now.

“How’s everything going, Theresa?”

“Not too well.  The doctor says I have depression.  He’s given me something to take each day. I can’t seem to get going on anything.” 

She seemed puzzled that this had happened to her as if a car had suddenly emerged from a side street and knocked her down.

I said I was sorry to hear that, and I tried to be light-hearted and I asked her to let me know if ever she opened the restaurant again. She smiled again but shook her head. 

“I couldn’t manage it now.  I have to get used to things.” And she slowly made her way down the street to her house.

And there it is.  We take for granted the blessing of having a job.  We just get to work each morning and then the day takes care of itself. And how good we feel at the end of it.  How marvellous are Friday afternoons when we are working!Being retired means having to organise each day, having to make an effort again and again as the day progresses and at each stage having to resist the tempting option of doing nothing.

I always thought, looking at retired people sitting with their newspaper and their cup of coffee, that all their problems were solved. It seems that problems are never solved. It is just that they are different.