The Man Who Knew Me

      “You’re from England,” the man in the line at the supermarket informed me.

        “Yes, I am,” I agreed, because I am.

       He nodded in satisfaction and smiled. I nodded back and smiled too, because it’s always nice to make someone happy.

Photo by Thomas Kelley on Unsplash

       “And you’re from Yorkshire,” he continued, confidently.

       “Well, no, I’m not,” I said, because I’m not. “I’m from London.”

       He shook his head firmly.

       “No, you’re not,” he said. “You’re from Yorkshire.”

       One doesn’t want to be rude; but facts, after all, and even in these baffling and tumultuous times, do remain still facts.

       “I’m from London,” I said.

       “No, you’re not,” he explained. “I know this stuff. I have a friend who’s from Yorkshire and you talk the way she talks.”

       I very possibly do. A mildly depressing aspect of twenty-first century life is that, for all the infinite benefits provided by mass media and widely available education, a side result has been the noticeable erosion of England’s once colorful array of regional accents; and while my new friend’s friend’s grandfather may well have been nipping oop-stirs to the ba’-throom while my own grandfather was making his way up-shtaihs to the bah-froom, it is altogether likely that she and I these days speak in markedly similar tones. Except for the uppermost upper classes, who still speak, as they always have, in a non-regional strangled yelp peculiar to themselves alone, we more and more of us do. But the enduring fact also remains that the fair county of Yorkshire is situated in the north of England, while London, from where I quite distinctly remember coming, is in the south.

       “Your friend might not have a regional accent,” I said. “The regional accents of Yorkshire and London are very different.”

       “I know they are,” he confirmed. “And her regional accent is from Yorkshire. Just like yours.”

       Without aspiring to claims of divine omniscience, I do remain reasonably confident that, if anyone would know where a person had grown up, the chances are excellent that it would be the person who had grown up there.

       “I’m from London,” I told him.

       He shook his head sadly.

       “You’re not,” he reminded me, patiently. “You’re from Yorkshire.”

      Now, Yorkshire is a glorious region of the British Isles. Set proudly in the stern and storied north of England, it has thriving cities and meltingly lovely countryside: it is where Bram Stoker had the vampire Count Dracula first set foot on English soil, in a little whaling town called Whitby set spookily between the ruins of a medieval abbey and the waves of the North Sea; it is the home of the Roman city of Eboracum, whose name the Vikings changed to Jórvík, which was later co-opted by the new world to bestow on the city of New York; it has given us Captain Cook, the Brontë sisters, David Hockney, Michael Palin, Dame Judi Dench, Dame Diana Rigg (oh, be still, Mr. Los Angeles’ heart), the Society of Friends, many famous cricketers, Taylors of Harrogate tea, and After Eight chocolate mints. Several of my own dearest friends in the world are from Yorkshire.

       I, however, am not.

       “I’m from London,” I said.

       He smiled indulgently, and winked as he picked up his groceries to go.

       “That’s OK,” he reassured me. “If you want to keep telling yourself you’re from London, you go right ahead.”

       And went on his way, humming a merry tune.

       Why do I find it impossible to imagine having had this conversation with a woman?