Storm in a teacup: memoirs of a tea lady. Chapter 14

I met my future husband-to-be at Royal Perth Hospital where I   had already been working for a number of years, pushing my tea- trolley from ward-to-ward, morning, noon and night. Dishing out endless cups of tea to all those sick people was a huge responsibility that I saw as a privilege.

            Early one morning while doing the breakfast teas on the orthopedics’ ward, I spied a new patient in a hospital bed but the poor man’s entire head and body were encased in a white plaster cast, and his limbs were strung up and pillows were propping up his head.  All I could see were his twinkly eyes, smooth mouth and the pink tips of his fingers and toes.

            “Tea?” I asked.

            “Yes please,’ he uttered as if from far away, which I suppose he was.

            “Sugar?”  

            “Yes.”

            “Milk?”

            I made him a cup of sweet milky tea with a straw which I inserted into the hole where his mouth would be. He slurped up the tea. He wiggled the tips of his fingers as if to say, “Good.”

            As I stood there steadying the straw for him, our eyes met. It was love at first sight.

 I discovered from one of the nurses that he’d been in a terrible accident; that he’d fallen asleep on a mountain path and how a runaway steamroller had rolled straight over the top of him.

Next day, I read his bedside notes.  My plaster-man’s name was Edward— “Teddy”—Oxwell— and he was twenty-five years old.  And his vital signs were” Pulse rate 72, Blood Pressure 110/60, Respirations 18 and he weigh 72 kilograms. How could I resist him?  I loved him. I loved every broken bone in his crushed body.

I knew Mother would adore Teddy, so I asked my plaster-man to marry me and in his own funny plaster-man way, he nodded a slow but definitive yes.

Storm in a teacup:memoirs of a tea lady. Chapter 13

 Chapter 13.

Mother kept to her bed while I continued to work as a tea lady.  I was beginning to become quite skilled at serving tea.  In each hand, I could now carry three cups of tea on saucers.  As a special party trick I could even balance a teacup, filled with tea, on my head! Things were looking up.  People were no longer asking after my mother.  Buoyed by my success I began to juggle teacups and plates into the air.   I entertained thoughts of going into show business.  But in the dead of night, away from the limelight, the voice of commonsense spoke to me, “pack it in.”

                So I packed away my dreams.

                I focused on my career as a tea lady.

 But in a spirit of defiance I became a closet crockery juggler, and a pretty good one, if I do say so myself.

Storm in a teacup:memoirs of a tea lady. Chapter 12

 Chapter 12.

Although my predicament was frightening, I was determined to prove to the world that despite my tender years, I could be an accomplished tea lady.     

My first gig was fast approaching —the Wattlebird Ornithological Society’s Annual General Meeting at the Town Hall—at which a new president, secretary, treasurer and committee was to be elected.

Mother, still in her bed, sheltered by a mountain of bedding and books, chirped, “Take birdseed.”

“Birdseed?” I squawked.

Mother craned her head upward as if to say, “You’ll find out why.”

So I packed a bag of birdseed onto the tea trolley and the scones I’d baked that morning and made my way to the town hall where the raucous sound of birds greeted me.

The president, secretary, treasurer, committee and members of the Wattlebird Ornithological Society were a curious lot, for they all bore a striking resemblance to birds of one kind or another. On seeing me they all took flight and perched themselves onto chairs, and commence whooping, warbling, twittering, as they presumably elected office bearers.

                The president, who looked like a kookaburra, laughed uproariously throughout the meeting. I swear I even saw bird feathers on the floor as I doled out cups of tea and scones. But it was when I scattered some birdseed onto a table that things quickly got out-of-hand, as suddenly the many decent law-biding citizens of Wattlebird began to peck at it.

                That night as I sat next to my mother, who was nestled in her warm bed, I recounted my debut in minute detail to her. Mother listened attentively , nodding slightly before giving what I believe to be, a small hooting sound, like that of an owl.

                Afterwards, much later that night, I studied my image in the bathroom mirror, concerned that I might be turning into a bird, (an owl), as opposed to being a tea lady. I saw nothing. No beak, no feathers, and I certainly didn’t have a bird’s eye view or possess wisdom.  I flapped my arms in an attempt to fly. Nothing. I scattered birdseed onto the kitchen table but the urge to peck at it eluded me.  My research proved beyond any reasonable doubt that I was not a bird. No, I was a tea lady.

Storm in a teacup: memoirs of a tea lady. Chapter 11

 Chapter 11.

Mother loved to read books and would often ask me to take out books for her from the Wattlebird community library. In particular she loved local authors such as the brilliant Felicity Young, a writer of historical crime, although Mother insisted that Ms Young’s latest novel —The Insanity of Murder —was a thinly veiled account of her own life.

        ‘Does Ms Young murder people?’

        ‘Not quite, child, but I do think there are some people she’d like to murder.’

        Suddenly mother started writing book reviews. And it no time at all, she was writing reviews for The Australian, the New Yorker and Paris Review.  Again, mother was famous, but insisted on living the life of a recluse while I fed her books and cups of tea.

Storm in a teacup: memoirs of a tea lady. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

I was merciless in my attempts to get mother out of her bed, where she’d taken refuge since winning the Tour de France.

          ‘I’m too young to be a tea lady,’ I argued.

          ‘Ten is a grand age to start being a tea lady,’ mother mumbled from beneath the bed-covers pulled over her head.

          Not relishing the idea of becoming a fully-fledged tea lady, I did handstands and cartwheels and pulled funny faces to try and cheer her up.  But it was to avail.

So I tried threats. ‘I’ll call the police.’

‘What good will they do, child?’

‘Lock you up,’ I heard myself say, realising that this course of action was inappropriate and foolish. It became apparent that I had no option but to follow my destiny, and become a tea lady at the tender age of ten. The youngest in Australia and, perhaps the World.