What’s the first thing that comes into your mind when you think of England? Lots of people would say The Beatles or the Rolling Stones. Other lots of people would say Charles Dickens, William Shakespeare, Jane Austen or Bridget Jones. Angelina’s mother, who worked for an English family when she first got to America, would say that the first thing she thought of was how the English are very polite and never shout, not even when they’re so angry they want to stuff feathers up your nostrils. Mr Young would say good suits, great gardens and lovely accents. My gran would say stuff like the Clearances, Bloody Sunday and the Peterloo Massacre. Mr Scutari would say rain and an appalling lack of citrus fruit. Mrs Scutari would say bad food and the Queen. Barbee Scutari would say that they speak English. But I figure that most people would probably say tea. Everybody knows that tea’s the national drink. According to Jake, the English believe that there’s no problem – big or small – that can’t be solved by a nice cup of tea. She even has a song about it on one of her old albums. From what I could remember of the song, tea is a cure for everything from the weather to insomnia. I could only hope it would work as well on post-Pepto-Bismol trauma.
As soon as we walked into the kitchen I spotted the juice container on the table and the dirty dishes left by the sink. I was pretty sure Caroline hadn’t left them there.
Caroline spotted them, too. “That’ll be Xar.” She shrugged philosophically. “At least I know he ate before he went out.”
The phone started ringing before she could start cleaning up.
Caroline gave it a wary smile. “That’ll be my mother.” She hesitated for a second, looking at the phone like she was wondering whether her mother knew that she was standing a few feet away from it, and then decided that she probably did. “I’d better answer it. You make yourself at home, Cherry. I’ll only be a minute.”
I looked around the kitchen. It was no wonder I noticed the juice and the plates as soon as I walked into the room. Our kitchen in Brooklyn is the Chaos Theory given substance, form and a stove. But the Pitt-Turnbulls’ sparkled and gleamed like nobody actually ever used it, they just cleaned it. And it was really organized – like it had been planned down to the last handle. Not just the cabinets but the appliances (which included more than one that you wouldn’t find on Herkimer Street) were all built in. Everything matched. There wasn’t one single thing that shouldn’t really be in a kitchen (no papier mâche trees or anything like that). It would’ve been easier for a polar bear to make herself at home than for me.
“Yes, I know, Mum,” Caroline was saying. “Yes, I am sorry, but we only just got into the house.”
I glanced over at her and she gave me a smile. Her fingers were crossed like a little kid’s.
I decided to give her as much privacy as I could without actually leaving the room. There was a hatch in one wall of the kitchen and I went over and looked through that. On the other side was a real dining room. There was a big, polished wooden table in the middle of it with a vase of roses on it, and there was a carpet on the floor. We don’t have a dining room at home (our kitchen table has everything on it but flowers), and we don’t have any carpet in our house because Bart would eat it and Gallup and Tampa would spill blood and ink and stuff like that on the remains. The Pitt-Turnbulls’ carpet looked like no one had ever walked on it, never mind dropped a quart of cranberry juice all over it. It was definitely a room where you dined, not a room where you ate. There were French doors that led into the garden. But what dominated the room was an enormous painting of a large black and white cat sitting in a box. In one corner of the portrait it said Mr Bean 1995, and under that Caroline had signed her name. So now I knew what kind of artist Caroline was. When Jake does a portrait she makes it out of bottle tops or labels.
“Yes, Mum, yes, I know, but there was a bit of a delay…”
On the wall next to the hatch there was a photograph of the Pitt-Turnbulls in the snow. They were all wearing sunglasses, knit hats and parkas and holding skis. They could have been in a breath-mint ad. I studied the Czar. The photo looked like it was a few years old, so it was before he went to India and changed, and it was hard to make out his face with the glasses and the hat and everything, but he looked kind of interesting.
“Of course, Mum…” Caroline’s voice was soothing like a hot bath. “How could I forget about you?”
There wasn’t much more to see (a refrigerator’s a refrigerator even if it isn’t twenty years old and covered with photographs) so I sat down at the table by the window to wait for Caroline to finish apologizing to her mom.
There was a blue and white checked cloth on the table and another vase of roses.
I looked out the window. In Brooklyn we have a backyard, but the Pitt-Turnbulls had a garden. Mr Young would have been ecstatic. The garden looked like it was melting in the rain, but you could still tell that it wasn’t the kind of garden where you throw a few seeds down and hope for the best. It looked as planned as the kitchen.
Caroline sighed. “Yes, I’ll be over after lunch. Of course I will. Yes. Yes, I’ll ring when I’m leaving the house… Of course I will. I promise.”
I looked over as Caroline hung up the phone. “Your mom giving you a hard time?” I figured this was something we could bond on. My mother’s always giving me a hard time.
Caroline looked surprised. “Pardon?”
I nodded towards the phone. “It sounded like your mom was giving you a hard time. Jake’s always on my case about something. It’s really wearing.”
Caroline shook her head and her smile went with it. “Oh no, no, she wasn’t giving me—it was nothing like that. Poor old Mum, she’s been in constant pain since she hurt her back. It’s made things very difficult… For her. Very difficult for her.”
OK, so mothers being stress machines wasn’t going to bond us but maybe bad backs could.
“That’s a real bummer,” I sympathized. “My gran – Sky? – she threw her back out jive dancing a couple of years ago. She said it was like the tenth circle of hell, only she couldn’t even say that she thought she deserved it.”
“Really? Jive dancing?” Caroline gazed at me vaguely for a few seconds, probably wondering what jive dancing is, and then she turned up the smile. “Well, now,” she said. “How about that tea?”
In my house you help out or you starve to death. I automatically got to my feet. “What can I do?”
“Do?”
You’d think nobody ever offered to help her before, she looked so surprised.
“Yeah. You know. Get out the mugs or put the milk on the table – something like that?”
“Oh, don’t be silly, Cherry. You just sit down and relax. You’ve had an arduous journey.”
Arduous? Sitting in a plane? In Brooklyn you have to break sweat for something to be counted as arduous. But I didn’t argue. Being waited on was something I totally wasn’t expecting either. I sat back down. I might have trouble getting used to sleeping in Barbie’s bedroom, but I figured I wasn’t going to have any trouble getting used to not having to do much.
Caroline filled what looked like a plastic pitcher with water.
“Oh it’s not a pitcher,” said Caroline. “It’s an electric kettle.”
An electric kettle? What would they think of next?
Then she put a bright yellow teapot on the counter and took a canister that said tea from the cabinet.
I was fascinated. “I’ve never seen anyone make tea in a pot before.”
“Oh, we never use bags.” She smiled at me kindly, the way the Queen does in those pictures of her being given bunches of flowers by small, barefoot children. “I’m afraid we’re a bit fussy about our tea. My mother always says it’s one of the most important symbols of our civilization.”
“Really?”
Sky always told me that the most important symbols of English civilization were colonization and genocide.
Caroline nodded. “She says you can tell a lot about a person from the way they make a cup of tea.”
“Really?”
I guessed it made as much sense as being able to tell what people are like from the shoes they wear.
If you come from Brooklyn you pretty much think making tea is only slightly more complicated than opening a bag of potato chips, but British ingenuity had obviously given the world more than the steam engine and the electric kettle. Caroline took me step-by-step through the intricate and mysterious process of tea making that had been developed over centuries as an important symbol of English civilization.
First of all, you have to make it in a pot. Then the water has to be absolutely boiling. If it’s not absolutely boiling all is lost. After the water’s boiled, you have to warm the pot. There’s no sense putting absolutely boiling water in a cold pot, is there? I said I guessed not. And then, after you’ve warmed your pot you put in four perfectly equal scoops of tea.
“One for each cup and one extra,” Caroline instructed.
I asked if the extra one was for good luck.
“For the pot.” Caroline smiled and put a quilted cover that looked like a cat over it. Mr Young was obviously right. Only a really advanced civilization would clothe its cooking utensils.
“Now what?”
Caroline looked at her watch. “Now we have to let it steep for precisely seven minutes.”
What happened if it only steeped for six? Did the world come to an ugly end? Did we give up and reach for the cyanide?
Caroline got three cups and saucers from one of the cabinets and put them on the table. They were as sparkling and clean as brand new.
“Holy schmoly.” Would my fascination never end? “We don’t even own any cups. We just have mugs.” And they’re all chipped or broken and have other lives as paint pots and things like that.
The phone rang twice while we waited for the seven minutes to be up.
The first time I said that Jake never answers the phone when she’s busy. “Why don’t you just let the machine get it?”
“Oh no, no… I couldn’t do that.” Caroline’s smile seemed to have got stuck on apologetic. “It might be important.”
It was her mother. It was her mother the second time, too. She sure seemed determined that Caroline wasn’t going to forget about her.
Robert came in as if he’d been summoned just as Caroline started pouring out the tea.
“For God’s sake, Caroline, what are you doing? Milk first, Caroline.” He sat down across from me. “You know that. Milk first. We don’t want Cherry going back to Brooklyn not knowing how to make a proper cup of tea, do we?”
“God, no.” I laughed. “Nobody’d believe I was really here. They’d think I went to the Jersey shore and just said I’d been in England.”
Robert nodded. “Precisely. There’s a proper way to make tea and a wrong way. So don’t forget, you must always put the milk in first.”
“Only I don’t see how it would taste any different,” I said. Maybe it was the jetlag, but I couldn’t stop myself. I’ve been raised by a woman who regards sell-by dates as a suggestion. “I mean, it doesn’t really make sense that it would taste different, does it?” Did it?
Apparently, it did.
“It may not make sense,” Robert informed me, “but it’s true.” He handed me a cup. “You just taste this and see if it isn’t the best cup of tea you’ve ever had.”
I put the cup to my mouth and took a big swallow. From the major deal they made about it I guess I was expecting something that tasted like the nectar of the gods – or at least something drinkable.
“Oh, dear! I am so sorry!” Caroline rushed over faster than a speeding bullet and slapped me on the back. “Is it too strong?”
“Oh, no … no … It’s delicious … it … it just went down the wrong way.” I wiped the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand. “I guess I drank it too fast – you know, because it’s so good?”
“There you go,” said Robert. “What did I tell you?”