Idyllic Squares, by Peter Morford

 In the 1770s when General James Oglethorpe cleared the swamp and laid out the city he set aside 26 blocks which would never be built upon. These squares would become little woods of live oak, festooned with liana; parks and gardens for shade and serenity. Today, Savannah is like many another modern city which, with an eye to tourism, has retained its heritage area.

We three had “done” DisneyWorld and Miami and were heading north when we stopped at Savannah because a friend said we should. Passing quickly through the modern part of the town, we parked in the heritage area and emerged from our cool car into 100degree late afternoon heat. It was as quiet as a Spanish village at siesta time.

Old ginger-bread houses overlooked the square. Country and western music leaking from an open window was almost the only sound until a one-horse buggy with an 18 th century lady and gentleman trotted by. We walked through the square and on to the next, and the next. We all sat on a bench for a rest.

Somebody was saying, “I said, I know a British accent when I hear one.” I looked round and saw an elderly woman, her silver hair pulled into a topknot and dressed for the heat in cotton dress and

sandals. “Yeah,” she went on, “My guess is that you sir - and is it your son?- are British but you, ma’am come from these parts.”

Nell admitted that she was a southerner. “We’re on our way north to my parents but we live in England.”

The woman sat down on the bench facing us. She told us that her late husband had been in the Air Force, stationed in Lakenheath and Mildenhall Air Bases. They had lived in England for ten happy years. Some day she hoped to go back on a visit.

This was just the sort of chat which Nell loved. For half an hour they talked about themselves, their families, friends already. We told each other our names – she was Mrs Hetty Clay, we were Tom, Nell and Jake Robinson. Halfway through her reminiscences about her air force days Mrs Clay leaped to her feet.

“You must forgive me, folks,” she said, “But I’m forgetting my Southern hospitality. I’d bet you could do with something to drink, a little cake perhaps. English tea – I know how to make it the proper

way- or something chilled?”

We hesitated. “It’s no trouble – that’s my house there. We can have a nice little drink on the veranda, relaxing on rockin’ chairs.”

“We’d love that,” Nell said.

“Follow me,” she said, leading the way across the road and up the steps to her porch.

“It’s so peaceful here.” Nell said.

“It wasn’t yesterday. I could’ve been killed. I was reading my paper in this very chair when I heard a car racing down the street. Two men were standing outside my house. I heard two pistol shots. The car rushed off and the men scrambled up and ran the other way. Look –here are the bullet holes in my wall. I’m sorry to tell you that this town as bad as Miami sometimes.” 

Jake looked carefully at the holes, put his finger in them in a Doubting Thomas fashion.

“But I’m supposed to be getting your tea,” she said, leaving us to think sombre thoughts.

“I don’t believe it,” Jake said. “I’d bet she’s just trying to scare us – like they did in New York when we were there.” 

Nell said we would take her warning seriously, even politely. Jake was looking for Savannah crime figures on his smart-phone.

As Mrs Clay put a tray of drinks and cakes on the table a police car made a squealing stop. Two officers jumped out.

“We’ve got a few other things to ask you about yesterday’s shootings, Mrs Clay. There’s been a development.”

He seemed to notice us for the first time. “Perhaps you can help us. Your names please,” he said to me.

Knowing from experience it is not a good idea to be truculent to officers, I introduced us.”

“British eh. What is your reason to be in the USA at this time?”

“Holiday.”

“Are you driving?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s your car?” I told him.

“Plate number?”

“I don’t know, It’s a Toyota rental.”

The cops looked at each other. “How will you recognise it?

“I tied a flag to the aerial.”

He made a note and his partner raised his phone to take pictures.

“Why are you photographing us?”

“Just routine, Sir.”

Mrs Clay offered them a drink. He shook his head. “You had a lucky escape ma’am. There’ve been a lot of drive- by-killings this year. You’re free to go, Mr Robinson.”

We finished Mrs Clay’s dainty cakes and English tea and thanked her.

On the way back to the car I told Jake that he should believe what elderly black ladies told him about crime in Savannah. He laughed. “I thought the cop was going to arrest us on suspicion.”