Storm in a teacup: memoirs of a tea lady. Chapter 5

Chapter 5.

Friday nights were dedicated to playing poker. Mother said it was essential for anyone working in the hospitality industry to be able at times, to appear poker-faced.   So, to that end, mother and I played poker at the kitchen table for teaspoons. I learn the art of hiding my hand, of not showing whether I was happy or sad.

          To this day, I still play poker every Friday night, but now with dear friends and other tea ladies. And I’m happy to report that I’ve won an awful lot of teaspoons.

Storm in a teacup: memoirs of a tea lady. Chapter 4.

Chapter 4.

Despite my mother being a self-proclaimed loner, she managed to get around, and was an active member of the C.W.A., the volunteer fire and ambulance brigade, the hospital and football committees, and in her spare time she knitted beanies and tea cosies for charity. ‘Child,’ she would announce, her knitting needles clicking tunefully. ‘A cosy will allow you to keep the tea hot while serving it in style.’

Storm in a Teacup: memoirs of a tea lady. Chapter 3.

Chapter 3.

On Sunday mornings, mother and I would go walking in the Jarrah forest which surrounded Wattlebird.

          As we ambled along a track, mother would often point out a red robin or a family of blue wrens to me.  She also   instructed me on the finer points of becoming a tea lady. “Patience is a virtue, keep it if you can. Found seldom in a woman, never in a man.”

          So that now, when I’m jostling my tea trolley up and down the gigantic skyscraper where I work, and asked a staff member if they would like a cup of tea and they answer with a distracted, “yep.”

          I gaze out the window, past the freeways, out towards the hills and beyond where the red robins and blue wrens dwell, and I’m reminded of my mother’s wise counsel— be patient.

 “Milk?” 

          “Yep.”

          “Sugar?”

          “Yep.”

          And I, tempted to weep with frustration, give a gracious smile instead, before asking, “will that be one teaspoon of sugar? or two? or three?”

         

Storm in a Teacup: memoirs of a tea lady. Chapter 2.

 Chapter 2.

My mother taught me how to be a tea lady.  With admirable patience she trained me in every aspect. From boiling water to reading tea leaves.  I have such fond memories of sitting alone with my mother at our kitchen table, late into the night, dunking biscuits into teacups brimming with hot milky tea, radiant warmth coming from the old Metters stove, the soothing sound of the radio in the background. In hushed tones mother would tell me about her life.  She told me with great understatement, how she represented not only our home town of Wattlebird, but also Western Australia in the State finals which she then went on to win, thus becoming — Australian tea lady of the year.

          And as I sat and sipped my tea, mother would feed me one, or more, of her secrets.  ‘Warm the pot, always warm the pot, child.’

          Mother also had firm ideas on marriage. “Marry the dullest man you can possibly find, child.That way no woman will ever take him away from you.”

 I’ve since had much time to reflect on this pearl of wisdom. You see, my father, as I was later to find out, had many years before when I was still a babe in arms, run away with a Cabaret singer, never to be seen again. I suspect my father was a bit of a livewire and a ladies’ man that could charm the birds out of the trees. But he broke my mother’s heart.

          And so not wanting my own heart, broken, I vowed to my mother that I’d marry the dullest man I could possibly find.

Storm in a Teacup: memoirs of a tea lady

Chapter 1.

I was born with a sugar spoon in my mouth and a tea cosy on my head.  So it seemed inevitable that my mother, a tea lady herself, should teach me how to be a tea lady from early childhood.  I have fond memories of standing next to my mother by the old Metters wood stove in our weatherboard and iron cottage in the country town of Wattlebird where we lived.  Winter and summer, my mother chopped wood for that insatiable stove.  I can see her now by the mountainous wood-heap, poised with an axe lifted high above her head. Which she’d then swing down hard with all her might to chop a huge log of wood, and as she did, she’d cry out me, “child, always remember the operative word in tea lady, is lady.”

          So whether I’m chopping wood, cleaning out the gutters or serving cups of tea at a rock concert, my mother’s words come back to me.  

Dear Twits

Dear Twits
My mother and father couldn’t speak a word of English when they migrated from Holland to Australia in 1951. It was enormous fun to hear them learn to speak English. There is something very attractive about people speaking in incorrect English. Like when Mum, bless her, got it into her head, somehow, that the word — Twit— was a term of endearment. Suddenly visitors were being greeted with, “Hello Twit.” “Is that you Twit?” Fare-welled with, “Bye-bye Twit.” Comforted with,” there-there Twit.”
I’ve come to love the word — Twit.