Tea Rose
I can still see it now - a large,
proper china tea cup sitting on its saucer ever so gently shaking in her grasp.
Her thin, spindly fingers are absent-mindedly caressing the flowers which
encircle the cup. Interlaced folds of delicate petals surround the tight bud, blossoming,
spilling outwards to unravel in an ordered chaos. Slightly shiny, crepe-like
skin, so sheer I can see her veins. There is a small side table nestled up
against the armchair but she is so focused on her tale that I think she has
forgotten she is even holding the tea cup.
It is a day like any other in our
house. My two young daughters are running around the garden picking flowers,
chasing butterflies or something equally bucolic. I am pottering around my
kitchen, baking biscuits for school lunches and getting a head-start on the
week’s meals. The sun is streaming in the long windows, filtered through the
over-hanging trees making it a place I’m very content to be.
It is through the kitchen door at
the side of the house that people entered. In fact, when new people came to the
house and approached the front door, they were stranded there for quite some
minutes before we knew anyone was there. The wires to the front doorbell didn’t
lead anywhere useful so it never rang even if someone managed to find the
button.
The house had been extended
multiple times over its almost one hundred year history, more than fifty of
those with one couple, so that its direction and focus had changed. With almost
more hallways than rooms, the concept of good design had been bypassed as rooms
were added one by one to accommodate the many guests.
It is her firm rasping knock on the
window, by the back door, that draws my attention. I hadn’t been expecting any
visitors. Drying my hands on my apron, I shuffle to the back door. It is the
weekend and I’m wearing weekend at home appropriate clothing. She isn’t.
‘Hello?’ I say upon forcibly
sliding the reluctant door along its tracks.
‘Hello there.’ I’m sure she would
have introduced herself but more than ten years later I have no recollection of
her name. For the purposes of neat story-telling I could have called her Rose
but there’s no indication that was her name. I do, however, still remember
being slightly mesmerized by her appearance.
Multiple strands of pearls hang
down from her neck, nestling into her rich velvet scarf. Layers of clothing in
dark, gemstone tones jar at the bright sun in which she stands, leaning heavily
on a walking cane. For a few moments we watch each other. I am wondering where,
or rather when, she has come from. No doubt, she is sorting through her memory
files trying to reconcile the many times she had stood at this door to be
ushered in by her dear friend of many years – Nina. Not today though.
Although she knew the house had
been sold, my strange face is still a disappointment. I don’t even have a chance to invite her
inside. However, I can see her now, stepping past me and into the kitchen as
she explains how many years she has been visiting here. Not pausing in either
the kitchen or the dining room, she steps deliberately and determinedly, her 90
year plus body onwards, so I have nothing else to do but follow.
As we arrive in the lounge room,
she looks up and after a few moments, smiles. I can only imagine this room
hasn’t really changed too much. The cherry wood panels that lines its walls,
the large fireplace and mantle taking up an entire corner have not changed;
only the furniture and its arrangement. Standing beside her, I can only wonder
what she sees. I take the opportunity to offer her the armchair, its commanding
position ideal to survey her domain.
Like a lady in waiting, I offer her
some tea. She nods her approval and I disappear back into the kitchen to
fossick for the supplies required – teapot, creamer, leaf tea, tea cup and
saucer, a small plate of biscuits luckily still warm from the oven. As the
electric kettle slowly boils, I wonder who is this woman seated in my lounge
room.
Returning triumphant with my tray
of tea supplies, I‘m unsure where to start but it turns out that doesn’t matter
as I’m not the one directing things here now.
‘I have been coming here for many,
many years, you know.’
I didn’t know but had figured out
already my role as silent adoring audience.
‘Yes, I’ve known Nina and Clem
since the early days. Stanhope was always such an exciting place. The Russian
Ballet would always visit when they were in town. The parties they would have,’
she pauses and then points out through the west window. ‘Out there, under the
cherry trees looking over Eltham. Tables laden with all sorts of food, they
would play music and have outrageous arguments. So much life, so much
laughter. I never saw Nina smile so much
as she did then.‘ Her own smile slowly fades.
I hand her the cup of tea which is
not so full that she will spill it with her trembling hands. I don’t want to
interrupt her but I want to know who she is and what is she doing here in my
house. Hopefully, we will get to that at some point.
‘How did you come to know Nina?’ I
ask trying to steer the conversation somewhat.
‘My first husband and I moved in to
the street behind ten years or so after the war. We knew everyone in the street
back then. Stanhope used to be quite a
large estate. It stretched all the way down the hill to the railway line. Being
academics they never really had any money so they would sell off a block here
and there when they needed to. I can still picture them running down the hill
to the station to catch the train into Melbourne University where they both
worked. The driver would blow the horn giving them time to race down. Nina was
head of Russian Studies and Clem edited the literary journal Meanjin.‘
She looks down at her left hand as
if noticing for the first time that she is holding a cup of tea. I offer her a
biscuit but she declines with a slight wave of her right hand. I feel obliged
to take one as though that is the reason I presented them in the first place. Squealing, the girls are a blur as they run
past the windows.
‘Nina couldn’t have any children of
her own but she would host birthday parties for the neighbours’ children. She loved having children around. She would
be very happy to know that there is a family living here now.’
‘We’ve only been here a few weeks
but we really like it here,’ I say trying to assuage any concerns she has. I
bring the side table a bit further in front to make it easy for her to place
her tea down. She pays it no heed.
We both sit in silence and I think how
to explain to this woman what I already know. I have met Nina in my own way. I
could feel her over my shoulder, keeping an eye on me. “Just watching, darlink.
Just watching.”
Nina was short with her long hair pulled back
tightly in a bun. Always smartly dressed, she enjoys the company of me and my
daughters. At times, she sits in the corner of the kitchen on the low wooden
bench next to the girls as they attack their afternoon snacks. In fact, both of
them love the life and energy we brought to the house.
Nina
became ill and with her strength ebbing day by day, she soon never left her
bed. Clem would sit near her bedside reading as Nina dozed. She was grateful
for the exciting lives full of love and laughter that she and Clem had shared.
Sadly, too soon, she passed away.
Clem couldn’t cope with the great weight of
sadness he felt at this enormous loss. He drank more and more whiskey from his
favourite crystal low ball to help blur reality but upon waking each morning,
the house was still cold and empty without her. Not too long after, Clem moved
out and died months later. His colour had been gradually draining out of him
without his Nina around.
I understand that our family moving in,
with all the noise and light that a family with two young girls bring with them,
stirred Clem and Nina.
It is only a few seconds between the
sound of the back door slamming and my six and eight year old daughters
bounding into the room, puffing and laughing. The spell is broken. My guest
straightens up, placing her tea cup roughly on the table and starts her ascent
out of the chair. I go to assist and get stuck not knowing how to help so stand
beside watching.
Picking up the teapot, cups and tray, I
resume my role and follow her to the back door. She knows the way. I say goodbye as she disappears down the path
and around the corner. I look down and see her still full cup of cold tea,
untouched.
