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.

Storm in a teacup: memoirs of a tea lady. Chapter 9

  Chapter 9

On winning the Tour de France, Mother, inexplicably, lost her joie  de vivre. Mother was never, ever, quite the same.  She refused all interviews and gave her yellow jersey to me, and her prize money to charity .

        Mother took to her bed. And I took over the reins as Wattlebird’s tea lady. I was ten years old at the time, and the weight of being a full-time tea lady weighed heavily upon me. 

        On becoming an official tea lady—the youngest ever in Australia— Mother gave me gift, a sterling silver tea strainer, with the following engraved along its handle, ‘the journey is everything.’

Storm in a teacup: memoirs of a tea lady. Chapter 8.

 Chapter 8.

Mother, never one for sitting around, went hiking when not serving tea or volunteering for the many causes she belonged to. Together we trekked the countless bush-tracks near our small country town. And when tramping, Mother would often burst into song.

          She possessed a great singing voice, and a  knack for mimicking artists such as Elvis Presley, Dusty Springfield and Janis Joplin.  Her favourite song though was —Rehab— by the late, great Amy Winehouse. I can see mother now, gyrating   in the middle of  a bush-track, doing those very distinctive  Amy Winehouse moves, hands cutting the air , snake-lidded eyes, while protesting in a soulful voice that no-one was going to put her into rehab.

          But after, once we were further along the track, mother would murmur softly, ‘damn shame.’