August, late afternoon, 1959.
The house sleeps. Its floors are damp with the sounds of rain and the beams holding the ceiling sigh, shifting the weight of the house to ease their shoulders. Angry clouds spit rain at the windows and the panes rattle in retaliation. The light is switched on and the house, in its ochre glow, comes alive.
The house is loved, as carefully as a rolled leaf unfurling and as essentially as the stars that awaken with the moon. Soft carpets and curtains envelop the tea room, whose chairs and nesting tables are turned towards the settees and sofas as if a tea party had been interrupted, forcing its guests to retreat into the walls. Sometimes you hear this company talking amongst themselves- characteristic creaks in the wall when a joke is tasteful or when an argument erupts. But when the rain knocks on the wood of the walls too loudly, as it does today, they come out to the soft songs of the fireplace flame, for tea and ginger.
The kitchen is always warm. There is always bread in the basket and cream in the jars. Delicate rays or earthy perfume are always welcome through the rose, canary and aubergine stained window. The stove is black and brown with age but its service remains unwavering- hot water slowly steeping the rose petals and tea leaves in it. And the old kettle always whistles at half past four and the ginger lies in a tray on the small counter.
The house is a soft orange in the grey and mud. Gaps in the gravel of the driveway pool with water and the rain unsheathes the greens and pinks of the rose bushes in the garden. The rain is harsh, beating down on the crown of the house. The snails and slugs inch their way out, akin to the spirits settling down in the tea room. The wind pulls back the leaves of the young trees that grew up with the house and the air is perfumed with clay. The tea kettle whistles.
The house will always welcome you for tea.
*Published in my school’s magazine, 2022