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Tea Cosy

Posted on | July 30, 2010 | 1 Comment

“Give the spout a drink,” Gramp would say, sloshing a spurt of hot water through the pot before he filled it. Then he’d bring the pot in on a tray with the cups, wearing the tea cosy on his head.

Gran did all the food; banana sandwiches, coffee-cream éclairs, fruit cake. Gramp was in charge of tea. That was his thing; that, and putting the tea cosy on his head. Sometimes we’d pretend not to notice. Everyone would go on talking, reading the paper, watching telly, and Gramp would have to put the milk in the cups, pour the tea and hand them round, all with the cosy on his head, his face grim. He couldn’t take it off until someone laughed.

It wasn’t just at their house. He’d do it at ours too. In photos of us opening presents on Christmas Day, Gramp lurks in the background with our tea cosy on his head. My aunt’s cosy was black and gold; Gramp wore that one tall and proud as a Bishop’s mitre.

Gramp found retirement hard. He liked to be up and doing. He worked part-time as a bearer at a funeral home for a while, and then at Tesco, collecting trolleys. Then he didn’t work at all. He talked less. When he got Parkinson’s, he stopped making the tea.

The last time I saw Gramp laugh was when we played cards at Christmas. He’d played Rummy on the bonnet of his staff car in the desert near Alexandria in the war. He knew this game at least, he said. Wasn’t half bad at it. He told us the rules, twice.

These days we make tea in mugs, plopping in a bag and scrunching it round with a spoon. I bought a cosy once, a while ago, but it’s never been worn.

Category: Flash Fiction

Comments

One Response to “Tea Cosy”

  1. Koworld
    August 3rd, 2010 @ 9:59 am

    God Em, that’s lovely.

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