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Authors: Lizzie Lane
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fruitcake?’
Polly slammed a piece on her daughter’s plate. ‘There you are.’
Carol inspected it, turning it this way and that. ‘It ain’t got no cherry.’
‘No,’ sniggered Polly and whispered close to Charlotte’s ear, ‘an’ neither have I.’
Edna heard her and looked shocked. ‘Polly!’
Charlotte pretended she hadn’t heard. Polly liked to shockpeople. It was part of her armoury. Instead she turned to Edna’s parents who were sitting in the armchairs, tea plates balanced on knees, tea grimly raised to unsmiling lips. They were strangely quiet, Edna’s father glancing nervously at his wife as though waiting for her to stand up and put a stop to the merriment. At one time she might very well have done. Her sharp eyes never missed a thing.
If something odd was going on between the old pair, all those gathered took little notice. This was the children’s time.
Charlotte asked them if they’d like more tea. Edna’s father held out his cup. Edna’s mother looked at her as though she was speaking a foreign language.
‘There you are.’ Charlotte handed Mr Burbage a piece of cake and tried again with Edna’s mother. ‘What about you, Mrs Burbage?’
‘I think she’d like a piece,’ said Edna’s father, his eyes darting nervously from one woman to the other.
Up at the table, Polly’s Aunty Meg, who had just come in from washing dishes, raised the lid on the teapot. ‘We need a fresh brew, I think.’
Edna’s mother pushed past Charlotte and snatched the teapot from beneath Meg’s nose. ‘That’s my job!’
Taken aback, Meg asked, ‘Are you sure?’
Mrs Burbage was adamant. ‘It’s my turn to make tea now. Mother did it this morning. Now it’s my turn.’
Meg frowned and muttered, ‘Mother? Your mother’s been dead for years.’ She raised her eyebrows in Edna’s direction. Edna purposely ignored her. Meg shrugged her shoulders. Who could blame her? Ethel Burbage had always been a cow.
‘Silly old bat,’ said Polly, who was refilling the empty dish of a little lad with a very large appetite.
Looking anxious, Edna’s father got to his feet. Aunty Meg placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him gently back intohis chair. ‘You sit there. I’ll go out an’ give ’er a hand.’ She turned to Edna. ‘Your gran died ten years ago, didn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so.’
Meg made her way to what she still called a scullery where a pale green kitchen cabinet stood to the right of the draining board. Ethel Burbage was bent over the sink ladling tea into a dark brown teapot. ‘One for Mum, one for Dad, one for Uncle Stan and one for the pot.’
As Meg watched she became aware that Charlotte had joined her. They stood silently as Edna’s mother tipped the slops into the pot and promptly filled the whole thing up with cold water from the tap.
Meg whispered against Charlotte’s ear. ‘I think she’s going doolally.’
‘She would choose today,’ Edna said angrily as she came out into the kitchen for a fresh tray of cake.
Meg took the brown pot gently but firmly out of the other woman’s grasp and said, ‘Ethel! What the bloody ’ell are you thinking of? This pot’s cold. P’raps the gas is gone. We’d better make another then, ain’t we?’
Edna turned her back on the scene and went back into the living room. She swallowed her anger and exchanged a brief look with her father. His anxious expression aroused her sympathy though did nothing for the simmering resentment she’d felt for her mother all these years.
‘Aunty Meg’s giving her a hand,’ she said matter of factly. She just couldn’t bring herself to talk about her mother in soft, gentle tones. Selfish and spiteful suited much better. Turn away, she told herself, dish out some more cake.
Polly gave her a hand. ‘Not right, is she?’ she said, making no effort to be tactful.
‘It’s been going on a while,’ said Edna and described thefirst time she’d realized that her mother
Polly slammed a piece on her daughter’s plate. ‘There you are.’
Carol inspected it, turning it this way and that. ‘It ain’t got no cherry.’
‘No,’ sniggered Polly and whispered close to Charlotte’s ear, ‘an’ neither have I.’
Edna heard her and looked shocked. ‘Polly!’
Charlotte pretended she hadn’t heard. Polly liked to shockpeople. It was part of her armoury. Instead she turned to Edna’s parents who were sitting in the armchairs, tea plates balanced on knees, tea grimly raised to unsmiling lips. They were strangely quiet, Edna’s father glancing nervously at his wife as though waiting for her to stand up and put a stop to the merriment. At one time she might very well have done. Her sharp eyes never missed a thing.
If something odd was going on between the old pair, all those gathered took little notice. This was the children’s time.
Charlotte asked them if they’d like more tea. Edna’s father held out his cup. Edna’s mother looked at her as though she was speaking a foreign language.
‘There you are.’ Charlotte handed Mr Burbage a piece of cake and tried again with Edna’s mother. ‘What about you, Mrs Burbage?’
‘I think she’d like a piece,’ said Edna’s father, his eyes darting nervously from one woman to the other.
Up at the table, Polly’s Aunty Meg, who had just come in from washing dishes, raised the lid on the teapot. ‘We need a fresh brew, I think.’
Edna’s mother pushed past Charlotte and snatched the teapot from beneath Meg’s nose. ‘That’s my job!’
Taken aback, Meg asked, ‘Are you sure?’
Mrs Burbage was adamant. ‘It’s my turn to make tea now. Mother did it this morning. Now it’s my turn.’
Meg frowned and muttered, ‘Mother? Your mother’s been dead for years.’ She raised her eyebrows in Edna’s direction. Edna purposely ignored her. Meg shrugged her shoulders. Who could blame her? Ethel Burbage had always been a cow.
‘Silly old bat,’ said Polly, who was refilling the empty dish of a little lad with a very large appetite.
Looking anxious, Edna’s father got to his feet. Aunty Meg placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him gently back intohis chair. ‘You sit there. I’ll go out an’ give ’er a hand.’ She turned to Edna. ‘Your gran died ten years ago, didn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so.’
Meg made her way to what she still called a scullery where a pale green kitchen cabinet stood to the right of the draining board. Ethel Burbage was bent over the sink ladling tea into a dark brown teapot. ‘One for Mum, one for Dad, one for Uncle Stan and one for the pot.’
As Meg watched she became aware that Charlotte had joined her. They stood silently as Edna’s mother tipped the slops into the pot and promptly filled the whole thing up with cold water from the tap.
Meg whispered against Charlotte’s ear. ‘I think she’s going doolally.’
‘She would choose today,’ Edna said angrily as she came out into the kitchen for a fresh tray of cake.
Meg took the brown pot gently but firmly out of the other woman’s grasp and said, ‘Ethel! What the bloody ’ell are you thinking of? This pot’s cold. P’raps the gas is gone. We’d better make another then, ain’t we?’
Edna turned her back on the scene and went back into the living room. She swallowed her anger and exchanged a brief look with her father. His anxious expression aroused her sympathy though did nothing for the simmering resentment she’d felt for her mother all these years.
‘Aunty Meg’s giving her a hand,’ she said matter of factly. She just couldn’t bring herself to talk about her mother in soft, gentle tones. Selfish and spiteful suited much better. Turn away, she told herself, dish out some more cake.
Polly gave her a hand. ‘Not right, is she?’ she said, making no effort to be tactful.
‘It’s been going on a while,’ said Edna and described thefirst time she’d realized that her mother
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