Cherry Blossom Tea

‘Pâté!’ Exclaims Sylvie, clattering a plate of neatly cut sandwiches in the centre of the table which clanks noisily against Judith’s best porcelain. Judith winces but manages to turn it into a gracious smile, eyeing the thick, greyish filling. 

‘How lovely,’ says Judith. 

‘Who eats pâté anymore, Sylvie?’ I ask. 

Judith has her little round table set with all her finest, as is tradition in an event such as this. Her thin, porcelain teacups with the cherry blossom design, the silver tray of her old mothers. She’s even baked a quiche. Gosh. 

In comes Evelyn with a plate of lamingtons, the kind with jam and cream, and a packet of shortbread fingers, Cole’s home brand. Not quite a high tea fit for a queen but none of us are royalty, I suppose. Just an odd bunch, a group of old biddies collecting dust. And a pension, which doesn’t stretch far, hence the home brand I expect. 

Twelve years I’ve known these ladies, I count the years as we take our seats. I remember meeting Evelyn on the very day I moved in.  

‘I’m Gloria,’ I said, ‘nice to meet you.’ It wasn’t nice to meet her, that was a lie. I felt utterly wretched that day and didn’t want to move into an estate for “old people” at all.  

‘Welcome to the estate, Gloria!’ she had said, and she, at least, was true to her word. She had made me very welcome that day and every day after, as is her nature. 

Today the mood is gloomy. It’s always like this when someone died. We all wander the estate on tip-toe, with a sense of guilt, talking softly and uttering the useless, empty phrases that are expected of you, all the while feeling a sense of morbid relief that it was someone else.  

We tip-toe around it now. 

‘Gorgeous cardigan, Sylvie,’ Judith says. 

‘Thank you. Gloria said I should wear bolder colours.’ 

‘I did,’ I say, ‘and doesn’t it look nice?’ 

‘Beautiful,’ murmurs Evelyn. 

The small talk peters out again and it is unbearable.  

‘Oh, for heaven's sake,’ I say. ‘This is not the first death on the estate, we are all very well practiced. Pull yourselves together!’ 

Judith opens her mouth to speak but thinks better of it. She picks up the teapot, then puts it back down. ‘I wonder who will have her villa?’ She blurts out, before she can stipe herself again. 

‘Judith!’ gasps Evelyn. 

‘Ah-ha!’ I cry. Here we go, we’re getting to the real agenda now. ‘Come on then, ladies, out with it, let’s not beat around the bush.’ 

There is silence around the table as everyone avoids each other's gaze. Sylvie clutches her cardigan to herself, Evelyn’s hand trembles as she reaches for a shortbread finger. Is that old age, Evelyn? Or a guilty conscience? 

Finally, Sylvie breaks. I knew she would. 

‘Such a beautiful view she had,’ she says. 

I knew it! I knew this was what it was all about, those damned bay windows. The envy of all the estate. 

‘I for one would benefit from better lighting,’ says Judith, ‘you know, with my bad eyes and all.’ 

‘Oh please,’ I say. ‘There was nothing wrong with your eyes when you caught Evelyn out at coffee with him from number seven. That was an uproar we all could have done without, wasn’t it, Evelyn?’ 

Evelyn doesn’t say anything, just stares down at the embroidered tablecloth looking glum. I wish she would stand up for herself, she is always so passive is Evelyn. Mind you, she did lose her Howard last year so I suppose I shall let her off. A time like this tends to dredge up old memories.  

I sigh. Judith shrugs and picks up the pot again, pouring tea all round. ‘I’m just saying, I’m sure lots of people would like bay windows.’ 

‘You have a corner block, Judith,’ says Evelyn, ‘you’ve the biggest flower bed of all of us.’ 

Judith sniffs, the dimensions of a flowerbed irrelevant to her cause, apparently. I remember the first time I met Judith, too- it was her puffy ankles sticking out from under her azaleas. A strange body part for a first impression. It made me think of the wicked witch of the east.  

‘I’m Gloria,’ I had called, wondering whether to grasp the toe of her slipper and shake it like a hand. It just goes to show, doesn’t it? You can have the biggest flowerbed and the finest porcelain, but when you’re bottom-up in your azaleas waiting for assistance you’re just like any one of us. 

‘Anyhow,’ says Sylvie, ‘I heard it could be a new tenant altogether moving in. From what I heard it’s one of those... you know...’ 

Judith thumps the teapot down, sploshing a drop of dark tea on the tablecloth. Her mouth gapes in horror. ‘A foreigner?!’ 

‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ I say. 

‘No, you know. One of those...’ Sylvie leans in close and drops to a whisper, ‘... lesbians.’ 

Evelyn, who had leaned in close in anticipation, slumped back again. ‘Well, it’s certainly no interest to me if they were a foreigner or a lesbian.’ 

‘Quite right,’ I said, ‘or indeed, both.’  

Sylvie nods at Judith, ‘It’s true. I heard it at the front desk when I was collecting the paper.’ 

‘I don't see how that's possible, you're as deaf as a bat,’ said Judith. 

‘Rubbish. I heard it clear as day. They said she was unmarried, a spinster.’ 

Evelyn scoffs, pouring her milk, ‘Well that could mean any number of things. Let’s not jump to conclusions.’ 

I see her gaze flick toward Judith. Aha! So she hasn’t forgotten or forgiven. They weren’t on a date, Judith, he at number seven was stuck on fourteen across in the daily telegraph and Evelyn just happened to be passing. Of course, Evelyn doesn’t say any of this, instead she taps her spoon vigorously on the delicate edge of her teacup making Judith wince again. 

Poor Judith, she won’t be able to rest until this tea set is locked up safely in the cabinet again.  

‘Anyway,’ says Sylvie, ‘I suppose her villa will be offered to a newcomer first, us long-termers shall have to make do with what we’ve got.  

‘Make do indeed, Sylvie, yours is a three bedroom!’ I say. 

‘Now, now,’ says Evelyn, ‘let’s not forget we are all very lucky to be here.’ 

Does she mean here in the estate? Or here, here? Hard to tell. Oh, of course I’m grateful to have spent the last twelve years here, but would I have rather stayed home? It goes without saying. I feel a shameless pang at the thought of my old house.  

I miss the shift of the loose tile under my feet by the front door. I miss that one cupboard under the sink that you had to lift as you pulled. I miss knowing a place so intimately, all its quirks and downfalls, and loving it anyway. It reminded me of marriage.  

Here all the cupboards are soft close, it’s all open-plan and assistance alarms in all the bathrooms (none under the azaleas, unfortunately). There are absolutely no loose tiles- trip hazard, you know. There’s no character. No echoes, no memories of lives that had lived and passed through, the chaos and the joy of them. 

But, if I had stayed I would have been alone. I would never have met these three ladies who have become my everything, my treasured friends. Twelve years is a short time in the grand scheme of things, twelve out of eighty-odd? A drop in the ocean. But my goodness have they meant a lot. It’s easy to give out love when you’re young and in your prime, it takes a special person to give out love in your twilight years. When you ache all over and you’re all used up.  

‘I suppose I should say I’m very grateful to have met you, ladies,’ I say. 

‘I think we should all just be grateful to have met each other,’ says Evelyn. 

Judith sniffs, ‘I agree.’ 

‘As do I’, says Sylvie. 

I roll my eyes, ‘That’s what I just said.’ 

That’s the thing about being old, no one listens to you. Even less so when you’re dead.  

‘I shall miss her terribly,’ says Evelyn, and I feel my heart soften. 

Judith raises her teacup, the gold rim glinting in the warm morning sun. ‘Shall we toast to her, then?’ 

The ladies raise their cups, and I watch as the three of them come together over the lamingtons. My three neighbours, my three friends. My odd bunch.  

‘To Gloria,’ they say. 

‘To me,’ I say.