Reunion

She rummaged around the back of the cabinet, fingers flitting through pots, pans, lids and strainers until she could hook her finger around the thin curved handle of the teapot, extracting it through the quicksand of aluminum and cast iron, dragging it to freedom.

They really didn’t use the teapot much, preferring the convenience of the individual bags, the quickness of the electric kettle. But his folks were coming, a proper pour was expected. 

He had taught her, after the first time. After she’d scooped in too many leaves, after she had poured much too early. ‘Put some color into that’ his Dad had said, pushing the cup away, eventually, when he thought no one was watching, dumping the pot and doing it right. ‘No one expects a Yank to be able to make a proper cuppa’. They had all laughed.

He had taught her, and she had watched.  ‘You need to prime the pot’ he said, piping hot water into the pot and out again with a swirl, ensuring the waters full heat can concentrate on the leaves. Loose leaf tea, Barry’s, was pulled from the ancient tin jar which seemed to have endless supply, she had never seen it filled. Two teaspoons in, then water. A cozy on top.  A kiss on the top of the head.

She had watched… his mother liked an early pour, his father liked it later, when the liquid flowed in a rich brown stream into the porcelain cup. Seemed easy, but no. Each time, if she made it, the pot was surreptitiously squirreled back for restart.   ‘Yanks can’t make tea’. 

Not much else was said about her background, although she knew she was their disappointment. She was a protestant, he was catholic, although neither were religious. She liked the customs and community, liked the little stories, but didn’t believe. He hated the priests and the church with good reason.   Together, they found their own way.

She hit the button on the kettle and listened to the heating element kick into play.

But to them, she was always just foreign. ‘They only divorce’ his brother warned him. ‘She will leave you in a year’. Not the best engagement gift, but honest in any case. She always knew where she stood with that one.

They came over for the wedding. Tried to put on a brave face, staunchly guarded by his sister in the face of the horror of the day, a wedding, outside, by a minister. ‘This is a hard day for them’ his sister said, sincerely.  She tried not to visibly buckle, they were doing their best after all.

They brought their babies home to meet their cousins. Christened the kids in the parent’s church, to ‘prevent them dying in sin’. She hated the horrible things the priest said about her kids, refused to believe they were evil. But this is what family does for each other, when they are doing their best.

Eventually, she stopped with the tea. Recognized that they preferred her as the guest.

The kettle clicked off. She pushed the pot under the tap, a quick rinse to clear the cobwebs, a hot splash straight into the pot. She let it sit as she pulled out the green tin jar, scanning the shelf for the biscuits.

It was strange, that she was living through it but also couldn’t imagine it. What was it like for your child to move half-way across the world? To marry there? To see your baby, who you cuddled and sang to, who you kissed and cried for, leave? Again, and again, and again. Taking your grandbabies away. Again and again. She couldn’t help but feel the guilt, that she was the cause of the great divide, that it was all her fault. Of course, that wasn’t actually true, it was just how things played out.  Where our opportunities were.  He didn’t want to go back. His life was here, with her, with their family.

She lit the back burner, putting the tea pot on warm for the final steps. 

Until it wasn’t. The night he went out, and didn’t come back. The night the police called, so kind and gentle. It was an accident. It could have happened to anyone. Wrong place, wrong time. Blah blah blah.

But not really, she thought. Her fault he was there. Her fault he was so far from his parents, his family. It was a certainty she would carry forever.

The doorbell rang. They were early.

She hits the button on the kettle again, and looks around.

 The house seemed so cold, so empty.  He had had such exuberance. He filled up a room the second he came in ‘Where are my hairy muppets!!’ they would run, laughing and tripping over whatever they wanted to show him, before he could get in the door. Today, they lay together in their room, stuck like Velcro to each other as they had been for days, as if unable to stand on their own. The quiet was so loud now.

‘C’mon kids, they’re here’. 

I crack open the door. His mother is thin lipped, I see the tears awash in her eyes and my vision is blurred. It is the same face that stares back from our wedding photos. Yes, this is a hard day. His father gives her hand a squeeze, then stoops and lifts the smallest grandchild into the air.  His lyrical chatter coaxes smiles from the kids, they hold onto him tightly.

‘Come in, come in, the kettles on!’ I yell above the racket, pulling and pushing us all to the table in the kitchen. I scoop two teaspoons of Barrys into the teapot, give it a stir, pop the cozy on and bring it, together with the biscuits, over to the table. I am not sure why they came, I am not sure how they were able to. I am not sure if I will ever see them again after today, these people who I have come to view as family, the people who so selflessly gave him to me.

I place the milk and sugar in the center of the table. As the kids flutter around him, my mother in law covers my hand with hers, my father in law picks up the teapot and fills his cup.

“Now that’s a good pour” he says.