……If Teacups Could Talk…the
continuing saga
Well, it’s been a long six months. Don’t get me wrong. I love the TeaRoom. I
mean, who wouldn’t? Pretty things all
around, peaceful tunes, nose-tingling
aromas...and something new everyday.
You
wouldn’t believe the mixed bag we get in here. There’s your regulars for
starters. Young and old, readers and
talkers, singles and gaggles. They all think this is their place. And it is really. They’re what makes life go
round in here. I know all their names
now and who likes to sit where. Kind of comforting really. The unknown can be so...well...frightening.
Case
in point. Last Tuesday, it was a little
on the sleepy side, everyone at the
beach, I guess. We were all just lazily
sunning ourselves on our tables, when a couple came in, all hoity-toity.
He was dressed in a pin-striped suit. On a Tuesday afternoon. In North
Delta, mind you. It was white linen, and he had topped it off with a white
straw panama, slung a little low over his left eyebrow. He made a big point of removing it with what he must have thought quite a flourish and then
pulled out the chair for his lady friend. She was stunning, at least I suppose those are the words she mouthed to her reflection in the Ladies’ Room
mirror. “I am stunning....and don’t I know it.” She wore a black couture
dress, almost a ‘40’s look, soft tucks on the bodice, pencil thin to mid-calf and
I must admit she had the hips for it. The seamed stockings put the whole thing
a bit over the top I thought, as did the feathered cloche she wore tilted
to accommodate the long French roll curving up the back of her head. She held elbow- length kid gloves (it was July!
in North Delta!) She set them down
ceremoniously by her plate and began
fussing at an imaginary speck on her napkin.
“Charles.”
she said. “Charles, I don’t care for this teacup.”
“Of
course you don’t lovey. It’s not
you. Let me see what I can do.”
He
sprang from the table. It’s the only word that aptly describes the motion. I looked to see if perhaps there was a thin
elastic cord connecting the two. She yanks---- he jumps, but could detect
none. I surmised it was a movement he had perfected over the years, no stimulus
required. He held one up for her approval. Apparently it did not satisfy. He
tried another and another.
Thus began his desperate yet tenuous foray
around the TeaRoom. It was obvious he longed to please her but it wasn’t entirely
clear whether the motivation was undying love or unmitigated
terror. By the time he approached our table, I must admit I was hyperventilating. " Don’t pick me. Don’t pick me."
He had barely made a move toward me when she let out
howl. Yes it really was a howl…of disgust. “Don’t even think about it
Charles. It is just too revolting.”
Okay,
so now I was mad. I never pretended to be Wedgwood or Winton. I’m thick and heavy-set. I know that. But I can keep a cup of tea warm
twice as long as my dainty cousins with their wide tops and
whisper-thin sides. Why some of them are so curlicued on the handle you can’t
even get your finger in there. But around here, we don’t show favouritism.
We’re all just delighted to be here, to be used and loved.
Charles
continued to sputter around the tea tables, flinching with each new barb Daphne flung his way. It wasn’t nice I know, but we were all hoping she would choke
on her tea…if she ever got some.
Well
I was so transfixed on the drama surrounding her ladyship, that I hadn’t noticed two (plump would be too kind) ladies
sit down at our table. They wriggled into the chairs, their bottoms ballooning
over the sides and banged the table with overly zealous breasts, sending salt
shakers and flower vases in all four directions. They were quite indistinguishable,
except one had long wiry grey hair, loosely pinned up with wide
old-fashioned pins, while the other had been recently dyed and ‘Brillo’-ed.
The latter produced an interminable stream of tissues from her bosom and mopped her face
and neck, the struggle to be seated obviously taking a rather large
toll. The other kept a hanky secured in the garter of her roll-down stockings and
nearly upset herself, chair and all, trying to retrieve it.
Finally,
they had more or less settled in when the curly one, Enid burst out crying. She
picked me up. She turned me over. She set me down. Picked me up, all the while dabbing at her eyes and
exclaiming. Oh no, I thought, not twice in one day. I’m going to get a complex.
Her
companion, Mildred tried to get a handle on what was going on, but Enid Enid
“It’s
just a cup Enid
“It’s
not just a cup Millie. I can’t believe
it. It’s so beautiful.”
“No, this
is beautiful.” And she proffered the
delicate black one with pink cabbage roses sitting at her place. “Cecil
bought me one just like this when we were courting. He knew how I loved my tea in the evening. It was all he could afford, but to me it was the loveliest thing I’d ever seen. I drank my tea out of it every night for fifty-two years. Oh what comfort it gave me, especially
after Cec passed, just having that bit of him
with me.”
“Oh Enid
“I don’t know. It wasn’t there when I got home from the hospital when I had my hip
done. I guess Alice or that homemaker lady threw it out. How could they know they were tossing out my memories?”
The
two of them chatted on, Mildred’s round hand now placed firmly on Enid
It
was an exhausting afternoon, but a reminder once again about things like appearances, and things not always being as they
seem, about pretences and heart-felt sentiments. I had let myself go from
despair to elation in a matter of moments because I forgot for a while who I was. I
am sturdy and clean, and functional and pleasing to look at. I forgot how proud
I am to be me and that I don’t need to
impress anyone to be happy.
Well,
tomorrow’s another day. Yes tomorrow I promise to behave better, to be the best little teacup I can be. You’ll see. If you come in for tea, I’ll show you.
Oh, and I know I’ll like you…just the way you are.
P.S. Pick me! Pick me!
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