Mother and I were sitting in our dining room
enjoying our afternoon tea. I do so
enjoy a cup of Darjeeling when it is properly brewed. Mother does it exquisitely. She preheats our English Brown Betty teapot,
carefully measures one teaspoon of tea for each cup and one for the pot, and
pours the hot water over the cup just as it comes to the boil. She never makes the mistake of waiting until
the water has already boiled. Four
minutes later and the tea is perfect.
Even though the
Brown Betty is not fancy it does make a proper cup of tea; but tea, to be truly
savoured, must be sipped
from fine English bone china. This
afternoon Mother had picked the Staffordshire tea cups with the little purple
violets. She was in a purple violet
mood, which is a good thing if you know Mother.
Last night’s
dinner with the Whittingtons and their church group had gone quite well even
though we had approached the event with some trepidation. One never quite knows what to expect from church
people. The French Restaurant Bistro
Watel had acquitted themselves marvelously and even Mother was impressed. For my part I was relieved; there was not a single
note of gaucherie in dress, demeanor, or conversation.
I took another
sip from my Darjeeling and meditatively nibbled on a whole meal biscuit. There was a ruffling sound across the
table. I looked up to see Mother gazing
at me over the top of morning newspaper.
She had been ruffling it for attention.
“Well, Alfred,”
she said, “What do you think?”
I knew what she
meant. Last night was on my mind as
well, but I was cautious. “Yes, Mother?”
said I. With Mother one never quite
knows what to expect.
Mother took the
plunge, “I did enjoy myself. The meal
was excellent and the people were most acceptable; two doctors, an attorney,
and their spouses. I was quite relieved;
our kind of people, and they invited us to sit with them in Church the next
time we come.”
I felt a slight
chill. Reading Scripture was one thing,
but committing oneself to coming to Church for a second time was quite another.
“Helen
Whittington has invited us to attend the Christmas Carols and Lights
celebration,” said Mother with an unaccustomed note of excitement in her
voice. Their Choirmaster has prepared a
service modelled on the Carols and Lights from King’s College Chapel in
Cambridge.”
“Oh,” said I,
“as long as I don’t have to listen to preaching. The last time we were there the sermon was
too long. All sermons ought to be twelve
minutes long. Twelve minutes is a super
sufficiency of oratory if you ask me.
After all we are not Baptists.”
“Oh,
wonderful,” said Mother, “I’m glad you are willing to come. I’ll call Helen Whittington and let her
know.”
“Again,
the kingdom of heaven is like a net that was thrown into the sea and gathered
fish of every kind. When it was full,
men drew it ashore and sat down and sorted the good into containers but threw
away the bad” (Matthew 13:47-48).
All “Mother and Alfred” stories are written by the Rev.
Canon Dr. Robin P. Smith
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