by Milena Schaller

 

       He leaned against the hot brick wall and surveyed the passers-by. It was not quite noon, and his shadow hung limp behind him, like oil oozing out from underneath a sausage. He tipped his hat at the ladies as they passed, and was pleased to note that their expressions betrayed a certain appreciation and couched admiration. Anyone else watching might have said that they were entirely ignoring him, but he was oblivious and therefore quite content. He did this every Sunday without fail.

       Around two o'clock, he turned smartly on his polished black shoes and slid home, lounging on the cobblestone like an overgrown and sickly lizard.  He had a curious way of swinging his foot forward from the knee and falling forward onto it, so that his torso tilted back and forth like a broken marionette. At one point his top hat dropped from his head, and he bent over and fished it out of the gutter with his cane. From the look of both the hat and the cane, this had happened more than once.

       Tea. That was his first thought as he entered the room. It was a yellow room, a bit ragged around the corners, and there were no doors to close it off from the bedroom and the kitchen. Paint was peeling in the kitchen, and a tarnished kettle squatted menacingly on the stove. It looked resentful. Tea, he thought, with great effort. Tea, tea, tea. He could not entirely remember what time it was that usual people had tea. He was amenable to tea at any time, if there was food. He reflected proudly on the fact that he could make a tea out of anything. He could arrange half-a-dozen biscuits on a plate to look like a meal for a king. He could make lemon curd last for years. The amount of sugar in his tea was accurate to a gram. He frowned. Tea. He didn't know if he had any, anywhere. He slunk to the pantry and wrenched open the door, then almost as quickly slammed it shut and retreated to the opposite end of the room, grasping the kettle for support. It wobbled wildly under his weight and he felt the handle bend.

       He scowled at the tea-kettle and left the room to flop down on his moth-ridden sofa and ignore the rustling and squeakings of mice below him, deep in the stuffing. Thinking hard on the subject of tea, he fell asleep.

       Tea. He woke up with a start. He consulted his pocket-watch (stolen), and saw that it was five o'clock. Tea. It must be time now. He swung himself off the sofa, then quickly threw himself into the bedroom and emerged, after much difficulty, with a battered and ancient shilling. He collected his hat from where it had rolled to the corner, and violently grabbed for his cane. He had to buy tea, dammit, and buy tea he would.

       He made it to the grocery store by five-thirty, and, fumbling in his pockets, managed to produce the bedraggled shilling and a request for ceylon and biscuits. In the back of his mind, he noticed a faint noise coming from the window, a jumpy half-tune that sounded a bit like a catfight. Keeping careful hold of his tea and biscuits, he headed out the door.

       There was a parade. An unscheduled, too-loud parade of horses and people and pickets and something about women's suffrage -- he broke for it and ran, but was caught by a woman in a bottle-green dress (why are they always bottle-green? he thought to himself hopelessly), wearing a hat at least twice her height. Several birds seemed to have died on it. He tried desperately to break loose, but she had a tight grip on his arm and was shoving pamphlets and signs towards him, stuffing them in his pockets and yelling exclamatory statements he could only try very hard to ignore. He was done for. He was stuck here forever in this gorgon's grasp. And then he saw her.

       She was dressed in light pink and stood near the front of the crowd, holding an enormous sign like most young ladies would hold a parasol. It read, in neat, charming letters, WOMEN HAVE RIGHTS, and he imagined that the poor dear had been cruelly forced into this mass of governesses and old ladies in bottle-green, that she had innocently agreed to help them, feeling sorry for them, that -- he woke from his reverie to find the gorgon still there, waving letters and pictures in front of his nose. He was beginning to lose the feeling in his arm. With great effort, he wrenched himself free of the indignant harpy and precipitated himself towards the pink darling. Already he was thinking of her as a darling. He reached her and offered her his arm, gallantly and with an expression that he was sure came across as pity and deep understanding.

       "Allow me to escort you, madam?"

       She stared at him, her blue eyes widening, and he saw her mouth part into what he was sure was a perfectly angelic smile. And then, looking down at him with a most favourable glance, she said,

       "No thank you, sir."

       He was stricken. How she, a poor young thing like her, entrapped in this crowd of buzzing flies, could refuse his gentlemanly offer, completely escaped him. He thought perhaps she had not heard him correctly, and was about to try again when he noticed that she had gone, was pushing through the crowd in quick little steps and getting farther and farther away. He ran through the crowd like a giraffe losing control of its limbs, shoving green dresses and bird hats aside as he chased her. Finally, squeezing in between a matronly woman with a partridge hanging off her head and another who looked as though she had not eaten in days, he caught her. She turned around and her eyebrows shot up. She is charming, he thought to himself, utterly charming.

       "Excuse me, madam," he heard himself say, "I was wondering if I might have the honour of escorting you?"

       She looked at him in exasperation and turned away, but he again thrust himself in her path.

       "Do you like tea?" He added desperately.

       She, the perfect angel, did not reply, only held her sign a little firmer and pursed her lips.

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       He strode home whistling , twirling his cane and holding the tea and biscuits in his hat. It was quite dark now, and the cobblestones were deserted. He had extended an invitation, she had accepted. It had taken a while. At first she had pretended to be shy, to be averse to such things, but then she had agreed. And it was tea. Not any drab luncheon, but a full tea. He stopped with a sickening lurch. A full tea? He had agreed to pay for a full tea? He sprinted home, his hat bobbing wildly up and down in his hand and his cane flying out behind him. He threw the door open and ran to the bedroom. He heaved the mattress onto the floor, filling the room with dust, snatching up a small glass jar so old that its label had lost all semblance of letters. With trembling fingers, he opened the lid and peered in. He thought he could see something down there. His eyes shut tight, he upended it over the mattress. He sneezed and opened one eye to look down at the two small coins below. Two small coins. He almost didn't want to know how much he had, but he picked them up and held them in his shaking hand. Looking at them, he knew beyond a doubt that a full tea would not be affordable. He had told her to meet him at

Snatterly's, the only tea-place he knew of that didn't know him well enough to refuse him service. It would have to be a half-tea, he decided firmly, and tucked the two coins into his breast pocket. Half-tea wasn't so bad. Perhaps he could bring some tea and biscuits in himself and have them provide the scones and cakes and things. Or maybe she could have a full-tea for herself and he would go without.

He could imagine the scene, she gratefully and daintily eating her scone with jam, he with a polite murmur refusing any food. No, no, he would say, you go ahead. I am quite content. And she would smile prettily and think what a perfect gentleman he was.

       Except that he did like scones. Perhaps she wouldn't mind giving up a scone or two. In fact, she might feel lonely and out of place, eating by herself. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do to keep her company during the meal. He could see how it would upset her to see him sacrifice himself for her, how it would disturb her lady-like sensibilities. A half-tea was the only way to go.

       It occurred to him that he hadn't eaten today. Now that he had decided on a half-tea, there was no reason to save his biscuits or ceylon. In fact, the more he thought about it, the less appropriate it seemed to bring in his own biscuits and tea. They wouldn't match the rest of the meal, and he wasn't sure the staff would be willing to bring out hot water to pour over his ceylon. They'd probably insist on taking it to the kitchen, where they would brew it far too long and ruin it. No, his ceylon and biscuits were too good for that place.

They wouldn't appreciate them.

       It was ten-thirty by the time he got the kettle boiling, and he had already eaten five biscuits. He had no milk, and he had placed the sugar in the pantry when he had not been in his right senses. But as he poured the boiling water into his chipped and yellowed china, he realised with a satisfied smile that there were not many people in this world who could truly appreciate tea by itself. He sipped his ceylon and nibbled another biscuit, looking forward to the next day.

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       He was late, but when he strode through the door with his legs swinging like puppets and his hat tilted at a thoroughly unbecoming angle, she was not there. He sidled up to the front to talk to the waiter.

       "Table. For two.In the name of Silkes." He came down with a heavy thud on the Silkes. He was hoping that they would think he was someone important, someone who needed attention and service immediately. The waiter, with the bored look of a man who has never even heard a name that wasn't underlined and in italics, motioned him to a table and brought him a menu printed in letters with so many loops that they all looked the same. The loops from one letter got caught in the loops from another, and ended up scrambling themselves up into new words and symbols of which he found himself more than a little nervous.

       She walked in five minutes later, wearing canary yellow and carrying a handbag so frilly it was more a cake than a receptacle. He waved her over in a broad expansive motion that narrowly missed knocking a vase onto the floor, and stood up in a jerky  sort of a way as soon as he remembered that was the correct thing to do.

       "Madam! I am so glad to see you. I believe we did not have the chance to be introduced?"

       She looked slightly bewildered, but remained silent. He got the impression she was shy. Reserved, perhaps.

       "My name is Silkes." He thought about bowing, but decided against it.

There were too many vases in the vicinity. There didn't seem to be much more to say. He couldn't very well force her to say her name -- but then the rose lips parted.

       "Mathilda. Mathilda Mattoxeley." She spoke quickly and decisively, and looked him straight in the eyes. He pointed out her chair and then sat down himself. She, gripping her handbag and perching lightly on the edge of her seat, stared intently down at the white tablecloth. He found himself examining the fluffy yellow feathers on her hat.

       It was a minute or two before he realised that the menu still rested before him, and that she was waiting patiently for him to look at it and order. He picked it up and searched for something he could read.

'HGAgin TGA,' it read. 'EhveMGs for TnnO'. He put it down again and looked around for the waiter. He had, predictably, disappeared.

       'HGAgin TGA

               a supmrb cnyloh sewed wtth mnlk, fhest sugnr, dnnpets, scones, lnmon

curd, dehctous cncmmber and brud&bnHer sandniiches, and choice of

stnawbeniy or nospbeniy gm.'

       There was no price. And he knew, with a sinking feeling, that this was not because it was free, but rather because it was so expensive that if one needed to ask the price, one did not have the money. He had begun to try to decipher 'EhveMGs for TnnO'  when he heard a faint cough from the other side of the table.

       "I think the Elevenses for Two would do quite nicely," she said, pulling out a small change purse and placing it firmly on the table.

"Don't you?"

       And he did.