Issue 19 - April 2012 (PDF) - Chipping Norton Times

LOST FOR WORDS
By Nicholas John
Another short story featuring the members of Wordplay, a creative-writing group.
Melanie decided that she didn’t like peppermint tea. It hadn’t
taken her long. She’d grown up in a family that drank mugs of
tea; builders’ tea, proper dark brown, stiffened with several
spoonfuls of sugar. Lavender only seemed to have tea with funny
names. She sipped tentatively again at the pale liquid under her
nose, then took a second chocolate finger to compensate.
Lavender Pettigrew was beaming happily at the small,
assembled throng. When the decorators working at St. Andrew’s
had unsurprisingly failed to finish the painting by the start of
term, the delay had necessitated the need for Wordplay to find
pastures new, for a few weeks at least. Marjorie had been
frantically keen to get everyone along to The Fairway, but it was
outside town and, as most of them liked to walk, the offer had
been politely declined, which was not what Marjorie had
wanted at all. Lavender had happily invited them to her cottage
in Merriweather Avenue and it seemed the perfect choice:
Marjorie might have the biggest house, but, judging by the ooing
and coo-ing, she’d have to go some to match Lavender’s
Royal Doulton.
“Do look Marjorie, a lovely design, Old Country Roses if
I'm not mistaken? Quite, quite exquisite!” Felicity Batchmore
was in raptures, twittering like a caged bird. There were two teapots,
an array of cups and saucers, a huge plate of assorted
biscuits and a vast Victoria sponge, all neatly arranged on the
low, rectangular coffee-table that stood in the centre of the
sitting-room. Lavender had, like her cake, risen to the occasion.
Melanie had been relieved no-one had yet suggested
that they took turns in hosting the weekly get-togethers - the
idea of Wordplay descending on 27 Worrell Close for tea and
creative-writing didn’t bear contemplating.
“Fellow scribes, to order!” boomed Roland, in his usual
parade-ground fashion. “Thanks are certainly due to Lavender
for this lovely spread. Didn’t really need my breakfast!”
The room filled with murmured agreements and
Melanie discreetly placed her cup and saucer on the floor by her
feet, where it hopefully wouldn’t be spotted.
“Now, have we some mouth-watering morsels of prose
to entertain us this morning? Some delicious diction to tickle our
palettes?” continued Roland, warming to his theme. “But, before
we begin, I had an email from David last night: he’s taking the
car for its annual once-over this morning and will be here as
soon as he can.”
Melanie could have sworn that he glanced at her as he
said this, but she was distracted by Lavender’s whisper from
beside her.
“More tea, dear?” She was beaming, nodding at the tea cup by
the side of Melanie’s chair.
Melanie felt herself colouring, but managed a weak smile. “No,
no thank you, I’m fine at the moment.”
Roland rumbled on, waggling his sheaf of papers with one hand,
flicking crumbs from his Tweed with the other. “We’ll press on
anyway. If everyone’s got something to read and we’re all
topped-up, we should get things started I think. OK with you,
Lav, old thing?”
“Oh yes, Roland, up and running! Thank you all for coming,
please do help yourselves to more tea, whenever. It’s lovely to
be able to get the best china out.”
Marjorie wasn’t one to let a golden opportunity pass by. “Now
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then, Lavender,” she admonished with mock severity, “you really
shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble for us. Your kitchen set
would have been quite acceptable.”
Lavender sagged visibly and even Felicity, who usually viewed
Marjorie’s hectoring lightly, glared. Melanie winced: 27 Worrell
Close only had non-matching mugs. For best or otherwise.
Roland let out a long-drawn wheeze, like the air-brakes on a
lorry. “Yes, well, um, any volunteers to start?”
“I have a few lines, if I may, Roland.” Marjorie didn’t intend it as
a question, certainly not one that required an answer. She was
primed for action, papers in hand, attempting to stir her ample
frame from the armchair into which she seemed rather snugly
wedged. She braced her feet firmly, pushed down hard on the
arms of the chair and heaved, but it wasn’t letting go without a
fight. For a minute, the struggle was evenly matched, then
Marjorie broke free like a cork from a bottle and lurched against
the coffee-table with a crash, catching it shin-high and toppling
forward like a felled oak, arms outstretched.
“Steady on, old girl!” Roland was half on his feet, offering a
supportive hand, but he was too late. Marjorie had, as in life,
swept all before her.
As catastrophes go, it probably didn’t rate that highly. Except to
Lavender. Felicity shrieked theatrically, Roland remained in his
adopted pose, half-sitting, half-standing, arms a-waving and
Melanie did nothing much, save fight with every nerve to keep
from laughing out loud. She kind of snorted, but hoped it came
across as concern. Lavender just stared at the debris on the
carpet. Three cups and two saucers in pieces, assorted
teaspoons and the sugar bowl. A tea-pot without a spout.
Marjorie had both hands firmly entrenched in the Victoria
sponge, like an ageing movie star leaving her mark on Hollywood
Boulevard.
A pitiful gasp escaped Lavender; so quiet, yet timed
perfectly to fill the sudden and complete silence that had fallen.
It said all that really needed to be said and so, for a moment, noone
said anything. All the colour in Lavender's face had drained
away.
"My tea set. My beautiful tea set." She looked at
Marjorie accusingly, her voice rising. "It was my mother's."
Everyone moved at once, in different directions:
Marjorie sank back into her chair with a thump, Felicity dashed
to the kitchen for a cloth and Melanie dropped to her hands and
knees to help Lavender gather up broken pieces of best china.
“Bless me! You alright, old thing?” Roland looked
startled, but resumed a seated position. Marjorie waved him
away.
“Yes, yes, quite alright. Don’t fuss. The chair caught me by
surprise that’s all. I was just going to give you my Ode To A Fallen
Hero.” The irony appeared lost on her; she busied herself wiping
jam and cream off her hands with a napkin, before rubbing her
shins vigorously.
“You must let me pay Lavender, but, really, what an awkward
chair……”
It was an apology of sorts, but one largely untroubled by
culpability. Lavender appeared not to have heard, she was