National Treasure

I met a lady called Edith today.

We got on really well. Her dog took a bit of a dislike to me but it was one of those chubby, bumbling types who seem to chunter at everything from a utility bill through the letter box to a late delivery of the evening paper,the dull thud of wheelie-bin men and Jehovah's Witnesses. Still, the dog was only doing its duty and keeping guard.

Edith lives on her own in a busy street. She has rented the same house for the last 70 years. I always like to ask how long people have lived in a house when I visit. It is interesting to see their chain of thought as they compute how long. This usually involves a quick glance at a child, a pet or a cherished photograph of a lost, loved one. Edith told me that her son was 2 years old when they moved to the house and he is now 72 years old. The incongruity of having a son aged 72 fascinated me.

I was, fortunately, ahead of my busy work schedule and so I was, for once, able to talk with one of the most interesting people I have ever met in the over 100 age category. Edith's story is remarkable but even more so is the fact that she is of razor sharp mind, recollection and with a wicked sense of humour. I have about 66% of these attributes which made us broadly compatible in outlook and attitude which I found pleasing but also disturbing in equal measures given the considerable differences in all other aspects of our life stories and experience.

To put things into some perspective Edith was the age I am now in the year that I was born. This is a difficult thing to comprehend and appreciate but an opportunity to meet and chat with someone representing a generation twice or three times distant is a rare thing. She was born and brought up in Hull and the local area. It was a time when very few were inclined or compelled to leave the place of their birth not out of a lack of ambition or insularity but because many towns and cities of that period could provide for everything required for a normal, modest and hard working life.

The old sepia tinted photographs of Hull show a very distinguished and thriving Port Town with Trawlers and Merchant Ships parked on the doorstep of the city centre, some very striking commercial and Corporate buildings which would not look out of place in Edinburgh or Nottingham and always crowds of pedestrians in their sunday best with a determined look of intent to get on with their busy lives.

I always make point of asking about the wartime experiences of longstanding residents of the city because it was a major chapter in the auspicious history of Hull and one that I am convinced still has some persistence even today in how the city has fared after the devastation and upheaval of that time. Hull was very much on the front line but has never received the righteous recognition for its strife.

Edith was but one of those bombed out of their terraced houses and in 1942 she took up residence where she now still lives. Whilst the rehousing will have been very welcome I would not, myself, feel much more secure given that the two properties were but half a mile apart. The gutted shell of the old house on Folkestone Street was only discovered by Edith upon her return from working on the Hull to Withernsea railway line one smoke filled morning after an all night shift.

The railway job was right out towards the east coast and I was able to identify many of the areas still strongly imprinted in Ediths memory. We spoke about Patrington, a small town but with a history of prosperity from the Middle Ages from sea trade and agriculture. Edith was married at St Patricks Church whose sheer size and grandeur testifies to the former wealth and status of the town. She worked in the signal box and also manned the road crossing just on the north western edge of town during the war years. She remembered the old Flax Mill, The White Hall, had attended Winestead School and we traded stories of Enholmes Farm, the Crown Estate cottages, local shops and  the rolling Holderness countryside. Of course, Edith had seen all of these in their halcyon days whereas my experience related to more mundane things and with many of the buildings now serving a very different purpose, mainly as private houses and not places of thriving business and employment.

Her ability to recall names, dates, places and events was astounding and when it was my turn to add a story or anecdote of my own I stumbled and 'ummed', and 'aahed' unable to extricate any sense whatsoever. Our mental ability and agility was, in effect, reversed which was a shameful thing for me to admit but it was true.

 The time sped by and I felt that I had known Edith for a good part of my life. I admitted to my hijacking of the Methodist Chapel at Easington for a good sing song rather than doing the job I was asked to do there and Edith found this hilarious. She had just been able to track down a hymn or anthem that her father had sung to her when she was a young child and the piano in the front parlour would soon be cleared of its resident soft toys for a nostalgic rendition of 'Pull for the Shore Sailor' by Philip Bliss (1873).

If we had had the music there and then I am convinced that the street will have resounded to our combined effort resembling a good old Sunday School sing song.

On leaving, reluctantly on my part , Edith with great pride showed me her telegram from the Queen for her 100th birthday just a few weeks before. It was signed in a very beautiful and delicate handwriting and not in any way rubber stamped or faked by a lady in waiting. I was impressed. The portrait photograph of the Queen was glossy but she did not look very happy with her own 86 years behind her but as Edith rightly said, that is the trouble with the young people of today.