Lucille's

 …… If Teacups Could Talk…….

 This is a story that I wrote during my TeaRoom days, for the amusement of our customers.

            I wouldn’t say I’m the prettiest teacup necessarily, but I do have an interesting shape.  At least that’s what Mom always said.  And I’m pleasant enough, almost perky, I’d say.  Sometimes a person just needs that bold splash of yellow to lift them right up out of their socks.  Know what I mean?

            I suppose I have lived a bit of a sheltered life up till now, most of it tucked away on the bottom shelf of Doreen Souter’s big old cherry china-cabinet. Talk about dust!  We were all choking on it, even the chintz tea set, pedigree and all.  It had been so long since I’d seen the light of day, I couldn’t even have told you what Doreen looked like now.  To me she would always be that soft, sweet-faced young bride, perched on the edge of her sister Gertie’s green fortrell side chair, cheeks flushed and oozing oohs and aahs as she pulled yet another box from scotch-taped umbrella-strewn paper and held me up, proud and glowing.  “Another teacup and saucer!”

            Sometimes that picture was all that kept me going during those hard years, that and the hope that sprang up in my heart every time I heard the tea-kettle whistle for tea.  “Pick me!  Over here!  Remember us?”  But all I ever heard was the clunk of a pottery mug on the counter.  How she could enjoy her cuppa in that, I’ll never know.

            Well anyway, a couple of months ago I was minding my business, curled upon my saucer, dreaming of tea parties in some far-off fairyland, when a weathered hand reached in past the cut-glass butter dish and the silver mint tray to the corner where I was dozing.  I couldn’t believe what was happening.The hand scooped me up, rather lovingly I felt, and brought me squinting into the chandeliered light of a dining room.  Soon I was joined by other china cups and saucers and before we knew what had hit us, we were up to our necks in hot sudsy water.  Oooh, it felt good, that kind hand stroking and rubbing my smooth skin.

            I sat upended on the dish rack and positively sparkled with anticipation. My mind fled to fancies of afternoon teas and baby showers, events I had only heard of but knew I was destined for.  I would coddle a fine lady’s tea with all the poise and grace and dignity of a royal tea service. I glowed.  I know I did.

            While I was still daydreaming, the hand grabbed me by the handle and I don't know if I was more nauseous because of the somersaulting or the horror of what was happening.  I was crammed with other cups into a mandarin orange box, separated from my saucer for the first time ever.  I can’t put into words the things that went through my head, the awful ache of hopes and dreams once again dashed. I repeated over and over, “Not the thrift store, please not the thrift store.”

         When I came to, there was another bright light and the sounds of rustling paper as a different hand unwrapped me and held me up to the light.

            “Oh look at this one,” she said.

            “Oh stop it,” said the other one, “I can’t stand it.  It’s just too sweet.”

            “It’s Aynsley,” said the first.  “Look inside.  There’s a flower on the bottom.”

            “My stars.  Would you look at that.”

            I tried not to puff myself up, but I won’t deny I was enjoying the attention. I sat proud as the Queen of England on my saucer as I was carried into------you’ll never guess.........the most charming little tearoom.

            The lady set me on a vintage floral tablecloth, draped over an old treadle sewing machine table.  A sweet silver teaspoon was nestled against my handle and a hand-embroidered napkin tucked under my saucer.  I wanted to pinch myself.

            Before long, a chubby little hand was adding spoonful after spoonful of coloured sugar into my bowl and then pouring lovely cold milk and just a bit of hot sweet vanilla tea on top.  The hand stirred round and round.  It tickled.  Not just my tummy, but my fancy too.  The little girl giggled and held out her pinkie just so. She wore a big old floppy pink hat with the veil dipping to her turned-up nose.  Her older companion stared at her with an achingly sweet look that said she’d never seen anything so precious. 

                    

            After they left, it was off to the kitchen for another bubble bath, and then before I knew it, I was sitting at a different table, this time by the window.  I was basking in the sunshine, humming along to the old hymn playing in the background when a gnarly hand hooked into my handle and then turned me bottoms up to look at my markings.  The old woman cradled me with her other hand, before cupping me against her flowery dress, then put me back on my saucer and traced my petals with a bony finger.  Then she sat, vacationing in a far-off place.  The younger woman with her poured her tea......  Earl Grey, steeped exactly two and a half minutes.

            “There, Mother,” she said, “Just as you like it.”

            “Yes, I suppose I do,” said the old woman, taking a sip, her lips lingering on my fluted rim.

            Well that was just the beginning.  There were lots more after them: the chatterbox teachers, the sticky-fingered boy, the love-sick teenagers, then the journal writer, the nervous Nellie and the portly man with his whisper- thin wife.

            I don’t mind telling you, I was about worn out by the time the lights finally dimmed at closing.......not so much by all the handling, but by the feelings playing out across those tables, feelings of promise and wonder, of friendship and yearning, of gratitude and remembering.  I’m sure I could happily die now and go to cup and saucer heaven, but another day awaits.  There are stories yet to be told, new hearts to console, new teas to savour.  So much to share.

            If only teacups could talk.

           

            Yes, pity.