The way she made tea

Richard
The way she made tea
Starbucks, January 23, 2009

It was in Leicester, 1970 or thereabouts. I’d left Marylyn and was staying with Chris at his place. Only later did I learn that he was skipping classes in the afternoons and driving over to Syston to fuck Marylyn, while I was trying to set up life with Meg. I couldn’t blame him, really. It was Chris I’d invited into our bed that night when we’d all come home late from the pub. I fell asleep wondering if he and Marylyn would get up to something, half hoping they would. Some time in the night, I was roused by heavy breathing next to me and the soft rocking of the bed to the rhythm of a samba.

I got up and took the bus to work and didn’t return to the house. That’s the truth of it, although the truth has a way of drifting into obscure corners that casual recollection brushes past. In these writings, all details eventually show themselves, like the fact that Meg was originally Chris’s girlfriend and I’d gotten to know her by spending time with them. Eventually I’d taken his place, so no wonder he felt okay accepting Marylyn’s invitation to take mine—a symmetry that was all around in the late '60’s and '70’s. In the spirit of incestuous coupling, he’d had the decency to invite me to share his small flat on the London Road in Leicester when I was facing homelessness.

On one of those afternoons, Chris’s mother, Mrs. Jacobson, was up to visit from Golder’s Green. I’d never met such a jumble of coarseness and sophistication. She wore flamboyant, Dame Edna sunglasses and drove a red Rover recklessly. She called her son “Baby” and would grab him as he passed and clutch him in a strong embrace. An enormous diamond embedded in a thick gold band glittered on one of her tapered fingers, and her manicured nails announced she did no manual work. I must have seemed equally alien to her—a thin, long-haired, shambles in full hippy regalia of flowered shirt and beads.

“Would you like a tea, darling?” she asked.

“I’ll make it.” I jumped up, glad of something to do while we waited for Chris to return.

“How polite he is,” she remarked to no one, “a perfect gentleman, he is.”

I knew how to put the kettle on, but I have to say I’d never actually made a cup of tea the way Chris did in his small galley kitchen. I only knew how to spoon loose leaves into a teapot; tea bags were a mystery. I found a packet of them in his cupboard with only a half dozen left. I took down two mugs from hooks and dropped a tea bag into one. When the kettle came to the boil, I poured water in and swirled the bag around with a spoon. Chris’s mother came up behind me as I placed the tea bag into the second cup and poured in water.

“Oh my God,” she shouted, making me jump. “What the hell are you doing? You poor boy. Don’t worry, we can spare a tea bag. You’re not at home, now. Some of us can afford not to hang up our tea bags.” And she broke into laughter and pulled me to her and laughed and laughed and laughed.

I felt burned by the way she used the words poor and home, and I immediately began to hate both her and Chris. I hated they way they saw me. I hated how she’d interpreted what I’d done, and it was many years before I felt confident enough to use one tea bag for two cups. I’m still a bit self conscious about it.