YEARS AGO, when winter in Great Britain was first described to me, I’m certain the words damp and cold were emphasized because, when packing for a 6-months study abroad program in Oxford, England, I included a rain slicker, duck boots, and multiple fair isle wool sweaters (jumpers). I was a sophomore in college so, up until then, weather hadn’t featured prominently in my daily list of concerns. Of course, this was because I was used to things like central heating and warm water, two things I became very grateful for after my winter in England.
Getting to Great Britain was a novel experience because prior to that flight my air travel consisted of a plane trip to Houghton, Michigan from Iron Mountain, Michigan – the relative distance of which makes it more efficient to drive rather than fly. Back then, air travel was exciting and had a new frontier feeling to it; this was the era of the Concorde aircraft and the introduction of Boeing’s 747.
I flew to England by myself and arrived with my ears completely blocked from the change in air pressure during the flight. I was groggy from jet lag and nervous about finding my way around Heathrow Airport, claiming my backpack at the baggage claim, and figuring out the train system. I needed to travel to Oxford, which was 51 miles outside of London.
I followed the stream of passengers exiting in front of me as we wound our way through myriad hallways towards (I assumed) the baggage claim. Suddenly, I saw four students from my college who were doing a study abroad program in London. They had just arrived as well. One of them taught me how to clear the pressure from my ears, then they helped me to decipher the subway (tube) schedule and before I knew it, I was on my way to my new temporary lodging on Ellesmere Road in the suburb of Iffley, Oxford.
I was to board with the Elliot family. Upon arrival, I met the mom, Marion, her husband Giles, and children, Lisa and Gary. Also, there were four other boarders attending Warnborough College and living in the home: Denise, who was actually from my same college in Michigan, but whom I didn’t know, Maureen, who was from out east, Cipheon from Iran, and Lucy from Wales.
I shared a bunk bed with Denise. As we got settled, I was grateful I had brought a sleeping bag with me as my mattress featured sheets and only one blanket. It was chilly in January. Oxford was damp with a lot of precipitation – rain, not snow. In fact, January 14, 1982 is the coldest night on record within the last 50 years (counting back from 2020) and was also the date I arrived.
After we got settled, Marion explained the hot water system to us. We were invited to shower every day, but, she pointed out, we would need a token to insert into a three-minute timer that would automatically start and stop the flow of water. Marion said she would give us one token every day. She suggested we should be “efficient cleaning ourselves.” We looked longingly at the lovely clawfoot tub in the family bathroom next to ours. However, there would be no sneaking hot baths because Marion would sprinkle the bottom of the tub with powder cleanser before going to work every day, thereby ensuring her boarders’ compliance with the 180-second hot-water-bathing-rule.
Of course, we were young and excited on our first day in England and so it wasn’t until evening that we noticed a chill in the air that wasn’t going away. At home, we would expect the heater to kick in once the temperature of the house dropped to a certain level. We went downstairs to ask Marion about warming up our room upstairs. She ushered us into the living room and showed us an electric meter attached to a heater in one of the walls. She invited us to feed pence (coins used in England before euros) into the meter anytime we needed to “warm up.” Of course, this would mean enjoying the heat downstairs and then going back upstairs to the cold. Needless to say, as poor college students, we spent a lot of time in our sleeping bags and fair isle sweaters.
She was a good cook, and of course we were starving – especially, because we were utilizing so much energy trying to stay warm. She served us breakfast every day, dinner 5 days a week, and lunches were on our own. If we were home in the afternoon when she got back from work, she would offer us some tea and 2 McVities Biscuits (cookies). When she was at work, the pantry cupboards were locked. I fondly remember the roasted vegetables she would serve with her pork roast. Her husband was a vegetable grocer so we always had fresh fruit and “veg,” as they called it. The fried tomatoes served with our fried eggs, and her pizza, salad, and mashed potato dinners were memorable.
Marion was nice enough, but she definitely upheld the English Landlady archetype. As a boarder, I was very aware of my boundaries and, given Marion’s strict policies, never felt like this was a home away from home. She had been hosting students for years and, no doubt, some of them gave her trouble and tried to take advantage of her. I understood the need for rules. It was the severity of the rules that was off-putting. However, when I left, it was with a fond goodbye to all. I was grateful for the experience and had been safe and in good company.
When I got back to the States that summer, I quickly realized I had forgotten my jewelry at Marion’s house. Among the items missing were a set of pearls I had inherited and a beautiful sapphire ring I received for my graduation. I called Marion, asking her to send the box to me, telling her I would pay for the mailing.
She said she was going to keep the box until I sent back her two missing towels.
“What? Marion, I don’t have any towels,” I said.
“There are two towels that went missing when you all left,” she replied.
“Marion, there were four other boarders living there at the time. Don’t you think it’s possible that one of them has your towels?”
She allowed that it was a possibility, and that if I tracked them down she would return my jewelry.
I was incredulous. First of all, I couldn’t believe the value she placed on her towels, which I recalled as being unremarkable. Second, it seemed odd that she attributed their theft to me. Third, that she was going to keep my jewelry, which was worth hundreds of dollars, to compensate for her two ratty towels.
I wrote her letters, called again, and heard nothing in return. Back then, there were no cell phones and if you shipped something, it was usually by sea. Both were expensive. When I got back to school in the fall, I reported the whole incident to the Dean of International Education. He assured me he would look into it.
Weeks went by and I heard nothing until one day I got a note to stop by the Office of Off-Campus Programs. When I arrived, they presented me with my box of jewelry. I was overjoyed! When I asked how they managed to get it back, they said Marion had been resistant to entreaties from Warnborough College and that they had eventually involved Scotland Yard. Fans of Sherlock Holmes, Inspector Rutledge, and Cruella De Vil are familiar with the famous British Metropolitan Police referred to as Scotland Yard, one of the oldest police forces in the world.
My jaw dropped with this revelation. I was so impressed with my school. Involving Scotland Yard sounded very serious. I wondered what had transpired and what had happened to Marion.
It was later, when I was sorting through my jewelry that I noticed everything was there except for my sapphire ring. I couldn’t believe it! Imagine the moxy of a British landlady who is comfortable deceiving Scotland Yard? And that she kept the most valuable item for herself in payment for her two dumb towels! It was breathtaking to me.
The Dean discouraged me from pursuing the matter further. It had already taken a lot of time and stretched the jurisdiction of the school. Also, it would be hard to prove she had
the ring. This ensured my memory of Marion would include feelings of hunger and cold, but also awe. She will remain the recalcitrant British landlady who balanced her household ledger with student rent and stolen jewels.