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Mary Davies.

Walking along Oxford Street in London, I saw this lady who looked very familiar. I greeted the woman by name. She stopped, looked hard at me and said, “My name is Mary Davies but I cannot place you.” I smiled and said, “Nineteen forty three you were the next door neighbour.” I was one of the evacuee children that were sent to Glamorgan South Wales just after the beginning of the Second World War. Mrs Davies looked at me again but there was no recognition in her eyes.

I had an inspiration, “Would you like a cup of tea or coffee we are very near to Lyons corner coffee shop.” Yes she would love a nice cup of tea and I offered her my arm and we sauntered along to Lyons corner house coffee shop.

After a cup of sweet tea Mrs. Davies settled down and the words came pouring from her lips. The Welsh accent became deeper the longer she talked. I heard all about her family, about a few people that had passed on. It seemed as if I had hit the right knob for the words poured from her mouth. To try to put a stop to all of this random talk about people that I must admit I had forgotten all about. I called one of the waitresses and ordered two more cups of tea. I thought that this might put an end to her talking. It was at this very moment it all came back to me the woman was a widow her husband had been killed in one of the many mine disasters. She was lonely and meeting someone that had recognised her from that far away time and place here in this big city of London. I knew she was lonely. I now settled back and let her talk. Talk she did. I heard things from that small village that had happened long before my time thee as an evacuee.

I looked nervously at my watch. Suddenly Mrs. Davies stopped talking and said in a rather startled voice, My train, I must not miss my train or I will have to stay another night here in this terrible city. I quickly paid the waitress and escorted Mrs. Davies out of the Lyons coffee Shop and flagged down a taxi. I called to the driver Paddington Station as quickly as possible.

 I looked at Mrs. Davies the tears were running down her cheeks she sobbed out the words Thank you and then in Welsh Diolch yn vawr. Thank you very much. I had not heard these words since my early day as an evacuee in the small village in Glamorgan.

It was now my turn to dwell on those far off times, I saw Mrs. Davies onto the train that was going to Cardiff, or as the Welsh called it Caerdydd. I waved her good bye as the train pulled away floating back to me a few words in Welsh that I must admit I did not understand.

I returned home giving the Welsh lady much thought. In fact a couple of times I nearly caught a train going to Cardiff it was plain common sense that made change my mind. What would I do in such a small village? I did not know any one. The few letters that I had written in the past had all been returned with the remark addressee not known. I have never forgotten Mrs. Davies and often wonder whether she had told anyone of our strange meeting on the Oxford Street and of my inviting her for a cup of tea or coffee in Lyons Corner coffee shop.