“Oh no, it’s no good, I can’t decide between the jacket potato or the panini…”

My attention was roused. Somebody nearby was experiencing a menu-related dilemma and I needed to hear the conclusion. What was it about the jacket potato that was creating doubt? Or, were they simply in more of a mood for bread? Were they going to opt for tuna, or cheese and beans?! I needed to know, and decided to take a pause from the various bits of life admin arithmetic I was scrolling out in my trusty green notebook so that I could listen in and find out.

It was a beautifully hot and sunny Wednesday afternoon in September and I was sat in a pondside pavilion cafe in a bustling and beautiful South London park. As much as people may malign London for being what they perceive to be a giant sprawl of dark concrete, little gems like this help to showcase how green it actually is. There’s a very good reason why it became the world’s first national park city in 2019, and as I take in the landscape around me, I’m full of appreciation for just how much brighter and emerald-like the biodiversity is when juxtaposed against the beige and greys of the ’60’s architecture on the other side of the railings. In many ways, it makes it sweeter.

I’ve plonked myself here because I full-on fancied the shade from the parasols – although – a particularly strong coffee has undone some of the remedial work and a light-headed feeling has come over me. I’m going to be here for a while, so the notebook has come out to accompany my pondside repose.

It’s hard to focus at first. On the table to my left are two screaming babies and their mothers’ ensconced in loud chat about irregular feeding times, toilet trips and somebody else’s “disastrous” engagement party. I’m somewhat relieved when they leave, because the sudden vacancy of sound amplifies the conversation to my right.

It’s this party of people, four older ladies (including the one in a quandary about what to order) who captivate my attention.

Once they have been served their lunches (with jacket potatoes prevailing, by the way), they perform grace. I’m not sure I can remember the last time I heard anybody say grace. It may not even have been within the last two decades, so this really stands out. The lady leading it pays particular homage to “our Tom, looking down and with us in spirit.”

“I really appreciated that part. Thank you so much.” says a lady in a green top and a headband who gives away her name several times during ensuing conversations, but let’s just call her ‘Dorothy’ for now. It becomes clear that she is recently widowed, and that she was very much in love with Tom.

Of the four ladies, it is Dorothy who speaks the most. There is a sense that these ladies go back a very long way, but also that there is a lot about each other they’ve still to learn. Dorothy talks at length about growing up in south east London – in Brixton to be precise – and how six people would routinely share a bed in their family home. Money was very tight back then, Dorothy explains, so much so that by the end of the week, she and her family would often be making a dinner out of bread dipped in gravy (I guiltily acknowledge my thought that this actually sounds quite appealing to me).

This part of the conversation prompts a lively discussion about today’s youth. Each of the ladies agree, that young people today “have it so much easier in comparison”. As somebody without children, who – at this point – is hearing a child in the background wailing loudly about not getting an ice-cream, I find myself inclined to agree, on the back of what I’ve just heard. But then I recall being a young person myself and hearing older generations say similar things back then, too, and they were never particularly helpful comments to hear and nor did I think they were right. In truth, I don’t think any generation has – or had it – harder than anyone else, instead I just feel that different times present different challenges.

Having said that, it’s hard not to feel a real admiration for these ladies and their experiences in life. Dorothy tells a fascinating story about how an older cousin she had growing up turned out to be her sister. The mother had been very young when she first gave birth, so her parents – Dorothy’s grandparents – brought her first child up as their own. It is hard not to notice the parallels with a particularly famous Eastenders storyline, and it is absolutely fascinating. The two ‘cousins’ grew apart over the years and only reconnected after Dorothy researched the family tree. This was the point at which the truth of the relationship surfaced, sadly long after the death of the sisters’ mother. Dorothy and her sister didn’t speak overly often, but would always send one another a Christmas card.

There is a lot of talk around family units and – in particular – the role of the patriarchy in 1950’s south-east London. A story is shared which illustrates this perfectly:

“She would prepare his suit every Friday, so that he could wear it to the social club on Saturday. She’d send her little daughter, Jackie, to the laundrette in Camberwell Green to collect it. One time when she was running this errand, little Jackie was struck by a car, and when the Police broke the news to her mum, she just replied, ‘But what about his suit?’ “

Another lady at the table talks about her grandparents. Nan and grandad. They never went on holiday together, because they didn’t actually like each other, but they stayed together:

“People did in those days, women were too financially dependent on their husbands to leave.”

“The husbands would sometimes leave the wives, though. My husband’s granny… her husband left her with nothing and she had to put the two boys into a home because she couldn’t afford them. People seem to think that kind of thing didn’t happen in those days, but it did. And then there were the workhouses, that’s where a lot of them ended up…”

Workhouses. A well-known characteristic of Victorian-era Britain in which those unable to support themselves financially would spend 12 hours a day carrying out the most monotonous and grueling labour, like breaking stones and crushing bones to extract the fertiliser, in exchange for a roof over their head, albeit a very cramped one with residents consisting mostly of the elderly and sick.

Though I maintain that different times present different challenges, I’m hugely relieved these things were abolished long ago.

After a fascinating fifteen minutes within this south east London time portal, the conversation shifts back to the present. They’re about to head off. They pull out their phones and share despondence that none of them have received any messages, except for Red Top, she’s had twelve, but most of those are from ‘Carol in the group chat‘. And there are some new pilates classes coming to the centre that they feel will be just as popular as the chair yoga, but it’s the impending electronic bingo machines that really excite Dorothy.

I feel so sad when they leave.

People often speak of eavesdropping like it’s a dirty thing to do. I’ll agree, there are times when it’s clearly not appropriate. But, in comparison to the talk of nappy habits and disastrous engagement parties that made my initial coffee a slightly testing experience, I know which conversation I’d prefer to overhear. I don’t think it does us any harm to sometimes sit and listen to people who we may never otherwise get to meet, to hear their stories and thoughts, to learn about different lives in different times. Different struggles, different joys.

As the ladies leave they excitedly remark about a heron on the opposite side of the algae-strewn pond:

“There he is, in his usual place!”

Thank you for letting me stay for this short and most memorable while in yours.