The Tea Writers' Collective

Ed. note: “The Tea Room” was created by a group of writers known as the Tea Writers Collective. It was written “round robin” style — each author adding as much as he/she wished before passing it along to the next. What that means is that the story ends up being a mash-up of ideas and writing styles and occasionally takes some wild turns. We think it’s safe to say that none of us predicted the direction this story would take, but it is with great pleasure we now share it with you. We hope you will enjoy the first installment of our tale…

 

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THE TEA ROOM

Installment One

 

This was the most difficult time of year; a time when most people are joyous she knew she would sink into the quagmire of despair. One consolation, she knew it was coming. Of the depth of the darkness, she had no clue.

The trigger this year was a visit to her friend’s teashop, her friend “on vacation” as was communicated in small talk exchange with the manager. She knew they were together. She had introduced them to each other.

The group relationship became estranged three years ago when the annual invitation for holiday celebration and New Year’s Eve Tea did not come. After questioning why, she was told they did not think she would be interested. “How could she NOT be interested in something she helped to create?” The second year, she was told since she was recently unemployed, they felt she could not afford to go.

So many excuses, so much left unsaid.

They had been connected by long earned friendship and “love of the leaf,” now she felt cast away, like an expended tea leaf. The novelty of her presence became a parlor game, they went on and formed their own bonds and new friendships. This was one of the reasons she chose to retire, her job training got in the way of many relationships. She had discovered though people were always curious, they were uncomfortable being reminded of accurate truth. It became a threat to their current existence.

At least with the anticipation she took action to lessen the pain. This year she would spend the holiday at a lovely bed and breakfast, one that was noted for exquisite tea service. As she entered the room she was comforted by the décor. The walls were adorned with small floral patterned wallpaper. One large window faced the courtyard garden, now depleted of summers floral visual display, and provided good light for the large armchair with ottoman that was perfect for reading. The lush high post bed filled with plump pillows looked inviting.

Another feature of this distinguished pied à terre was the tearoom adjacent to the residence, a guest could saunter down at teatime and partake of afternoon tea. She could scope the environment and entertain herself listening to the conversations of others and imagining what their lives were like. As a voyeur, she could place them in countries, constructing imagined stories of places she had only read about whilst she savored the warm brew of her choice.

This would be her escape for the days ahead: great books, great tea.

She unpacked her small bag of books, bath items, clothes, tea and Gaiwan and headed downstairs for her afternoon tea.

 

***

 

Taking a seat in the furthest corner from the door; she placed her much-thumbed copy of Wuthering Heights on the table and picked up the menu. There were cakes and scones and light meals and doorstops and petit fours and chocolates and wines and breakfasts and beers and pancakes, but she skipped all of those sections; they would come later once she had decided upon her tea of choice.

She noted The Devotea’s Lord Petersham – a favoured blend – and was excited to also see a Taloon from Java, a tea she had never had, one that conjured up visions of exotic lands. She decided to go with the Taloon.

The waiter approached – an odd man, none too tall and none too young, who seemed to be wearing an evening suit, a top hat and burgundy-coloured velvet boots. Like one of Santa’s elves off to a Mozart recital, she thought.

“Before you order, m’lady”, he offered in a surprisingly high and light voice, “Would you care to hear about today’s special teas?”

“Special teas? Oh yes.”

“Well, we have a maté from Argentina, but to be honest m’lady, it is both vulgar and unpleasant. We have a cheeky little Nilgiri from Rambunctious Hill, but again, I fear it does not have the refinement a lady of your elegance requires. We had a Genmaicha, but I thoughtfully flushed that down the lavatory before my shift. And then there’s Mimsy, if you’re interested.”

“Mimsy?” She looked at him intently. “What’s Mimsy?”

He looked astonished, peering over his previously unmentioned glasses with what she now realised were eyes of differing colours.

“Mimsy? It’s the tea of life, m’lady. The tea of life.”

 

***

 

“Oh, it’d be really unfortunate if she had the Mimsy,” muttered a voice behind her, but as she turned, she realised she wasn’t being spoken to directly. A man a few tables over was scribbling intently on a sheaf of paper while in agitated discussion with himself.

“Tea of life, my arse,” he rattled on. Plenty of people were rather fastidious about their surroundings when having tea, but this individual wasn’t one of those sort. It was as if he’d taken up residence in the corner, and his belongings were strewn about the place as if he had no intention of leaving. Not any time soon, anyway.

He went on under his breath, “Every time they order the Mimsy, and they’re simply not prepared to accept the consequences. It’s not as if you can blame them, really. You tell someone, ‘Oh, it’s the tea of life,’ and what’re they supposed to do? Turn it down? That’ll sit well with the authorities, I tell you.”

Briskly, the waiter swooped down on the dishevelled troublemaker bearing a container of fresh hot water. As he poured the contents into the cast iron pot sitting on the table, he hissed under his breath, “Mr. Castleton! How many times have I told you that you daren’t harass the other patrons of this tearoom? You’re welcome to sit here quietly and drink your tea, but I must implore you to keep to yourself.”

As he seethed with nervous irritability, Castleton fidgeted with his teapot. It clearly took all of his wherewithal to stop himself from saying anything more. Though he refused to look the waiter directly in the eye, it was clear by his muteness that he’d meekly accepted the terms of his being allowed to stay. It was a tense silence, but it was silence nonetheless.

This allowed the waiter to drop off the empty water container at his wait station, and return to the woman who had recently arrived. “Have we decided what tea we’ll be enjoying this afternoon?” he asked while continuing to watch out of the corner of his eye that unpredictable Castleton was keeping up his part of the bargain. “Is there anything that’s caught your fancy?”

 

***

 

“Oh Lord, here he goes again,” fumed Beatrice. “Why does that Castleton character have to ruin every afternoon tea with his foolishness?” She flopped back in her chair with her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for her husband George to agree.

After nearly thirty years together George knew that arguing would not only be futile, but it would also flame Beatrice’s rage and, more importantly, further delay the arrival of their tea. That was simply not acceptable and so he met her piercing blue eyes and nodded at her with a very grave expression. “I’m sorry he’s upset you, dear,” he said as he quickly swept a few locks of her silvery hair behind her ear.

That seemed to satisfy her and she began to look around for the waiter.

A little smirk rose up on George’s face. “Up for a little Mimsy, Bea?”

The glare he received in return let him know that she was not in the mood for joking. It made him wish he had brought a book. He knew that Beatrice didn’t like him to read at the table. She said it was “uncouth.” Apparently sitting there glowering at that poor old fool Castleton was not rude, but finishing his book on the history of British teaware was unforgivable.

The waiter noticed Beatrice and made his way to their table swiftly. “Yes, m’lady? May I help you?”

“We will have our usual,” announced Beatrice.

George shrank in his seat a bit. They had only been here a few days. How could this poor soul know their “usual”? He knew that Beatrice would be outraged if he did not. Since she knew they would be staying several weeks she had already placed them in the role of well-loved patrons, that endearing elderly couple that always seemed to crop up in Agatha Christie mysteries.

“Certainly, m’lady. Earl Grey with milk and sugar for the lady and the Kenyan for the gentleman. We also have those lovely cream scones that you love so much,” the waiter responded with a warm smile.

George exhaled quietly as he saw a broad grin stretch across Beatrice’s face. She had been remembered. It was the one thing she always craved, acceptance, and she had found it in this funny little tearoom. It then occurred to him that she also seemed to thrive on her small moments of righteous indignation. Castleton had already provided her with that opportunity as well. Perhaps this inn had been the perfect choice after all. While Beatrice’s moods and desires were sometimes a bit tricky to predict, it gave him satisfaction when she was happy.

It was then that he noticed someone peeking around the edge of the kitchen door. It was a youngish woman, perhaps in her twenties, with an arresting shock of fuschia hair spilling down.

Her emerald eyes that seemed to be searching for something. She saw Beatrice and stopped scanning the room. She paused, smiled, and closed the kitchen door. George felt apprehension wash over him. He had no idea why, but he just had the feeling that something was going to happen and it wasn’t going to be something pleasant.

The waiter dove back into the kitchen with a sigh. The moment the push-door shut, he let out an undignified sigh. “It’s only noon, and already they have us rushing about. Dreadful couple, the Helmsmiths.” He passed the order ticket to his younger, female compatriot.

The emerald-eyed girl gave him a quizzical look, “You don’t really like anyone, do you?

The waiter appeared taken aback. “Quite the opposite! I like people aplenty! At least…those that don’t milk a perfectly good Earl. Who does that?”

“The British?” the girl countered.

“Dreadful people, the British,” the waiter returned with a mutter.

“The new woman by the window, did she order?” the girl said, brushing her hair from her face as she readied the Helmsmiths’ pots.

“Not a thing,” he shrugged. “She simply said, ‘Whatever is fine.’”

“Should we Mimsy her?”

“I would say, let’s not,” the waiter returned. “A drinker of that needs to know what he or she is in for. Especially tea from that garden.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Bad, no. Unexpected, yes.”

The emerald-eyed girl gave the waiter a hard swat on the derriere. He yelped a soprano surprise. Rubbing his “cheek”, he gave her a glare.

“Farny, you are far too somber sometimes,” she said, pushing the kitchen door open slightly.

“And you, dear sister, are far too flighty.”

She didn’t respond as she stared through the crack in the door – out the large bay window behind where the new woman sat.

“Farnsworth…do you think he’ll show?” she asked, shakily.

The water put a hand on her shoulder, peering through the crack as well, “I don’t know, Mena.”

 

***

 

With all the commotion, she had neglected to place her tea order. She rested assured that whichever brew placed before her would be satisfactory, as the establishment had never failed in this department. She hoped it would not be one with a floral note for her mood nor the current atmosphere exuded whimsical notes.

She scanned the room in her usual fashion of observation. That Castelton fellow was extremely loud and uncouth but something about him piqued her interest. She watched as he sat muttering to himself about “Mimsy” she could barely decipher the words but caught a few, lost, never ending, fragile, brave. She could not connect the dots in any cohesive fashion.She hoped she would not be presented with this brew for her first afternoon tea experience as she had descended down that rabbit hole before and although the flavor may be pleasant going down the aftertaste was always bitter. Castleton is someone she would like to approach on the topic of Mimsy before her “tea of life” experience.

The British couple were a hoot; their attire cast the impression of wealth and opulence. Each item that adorned their person placed with purpose, not a hair out of place: his, vested suit and ascot, complete with a gold tie pin; her, garish hat, appropriate for elaborate parties for the queen or at the track on King George Day. It was surprising to see a similar gold pin adorning her headdress. It was an elaborately scripted M. She could see how tense and uncomfortable the man seemed watching every word that was uttered from the mouth of his female companion. It was as if he stood at the ready to make corrections or offer apologies for her demanding outspoken behavior.

Then there was the waitress who, hiding behind the kitchen door, scoped the room as if preparing for some occurrence…“En attendant Godot”.

She realized she had not asked the name of her waiter and made mental note to do so as she always preferred calling someone by their given name.

He approached with the tray on which sat a lovely ornate porcelain teapot with a matching cup and saucer the style of works by Thomas M. Jelinek circa 1900. Her limited knowledge of such items caused her to question her identification of the piece. The pot with its rose floral design and ornate roman gold trim, and the cup adorned with rare molded footing, reminded her of the female form of the day, heavy on top and ending in a sleek wide finish.

He set the saucer with cup down in front of her along with a small plate of madeleines, then leaned in to pour her tea.

“Sir, may I inquire? What is your name?” She asked tentatively, attempting to hide the faux pas, not asking earlier.

“Farnsworth, m’lady, just Farnsworth, at your service m’lady. Is there anything more that you require?”

“Farnsworth, sir, may I inquire what leaf you have prepared for me at this sitting?“

“Of course, m’lady.  I thought you might enjoy Taloon from Java today”. He went on: “The Taloon is a little different. It’s of an ilk with the stronger Indian teas – for example, a lighter Nilgiri or a heavier Assam. Nice aftertaste. Really pleasant black with no sugar…“

She wondered had he read her mind; she did not remember placing the order.  So much of today was off kilter and getting curiouser and curiouser by the moment. She dismissed the thought and went on to enquire, “That gentleman you were addressing on the topic of Mimsy…?“

He cut her off abruptly. “Gentleman…? Gentleman! I assure you Mr. Castleton is no gentleman. He is an abrasive eccentric who writes about tea and if you ask me m’lady, tea is better drunk and experienced than words on a page. I am sure you would agree that each person has his own preference when it comes to the leaf.“

She was somewhat taken aback by his immediate response and brought the conversation back directly to the tea.  “What is this Mimsy “Tea of Life”?”

He hesitated, his odd eyes widened, he then swung around towards the direction of the doorway. “Excuse me, m’lady” he said. She noticed a chatty group of people standing in the portal. Farnsworth headed toward their direction and proceeded to arrange for their seating.

The tearoom was filling up with the transient set, those who were there for afternoon tea then departing to other adventures of the day.

She thought as she sipped her incredible brew, looking through her tattered pages for the last withered earmark, Mimsy would have to wait.  If the answers were not forthcoming today, maybe tomorrow.

After all tomorrow would be another day.

She found the earmarked passage and began to read:

“Last night, I was on the threshold of hell. To-day, I am within sight of my heaven. I have my eyes on it: hardly three feet to sever me!” (Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, Ch. 34)