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.