“Nice to meet you.” I get up to find her another chair. By the time I’ve brought the chair, another lady has also drifted closer. This one is the opposite. She has badly dyed red hair as if she’s done it herself and missed bits at the back.
“Who said you could all muscle in on my visit?” Bill demands in mock affront. “She’smygranddaughter. This is private, family time.”
A clatter behind us makes me turn. It’s a woman pushing a tea trolly. Everyone in the room stops what they’re doing and waits to be served.
The trolley lady wears a dull blue uniform, a dull blue apron, and a bored expression. She fills plastic cups from a large metal teapot the size of a bucket. The tea comes out the spout already milky. She hands everyone a cup, a napkin and three chocolate biscuits which she selects with metal tongues from a large plastic container. It’s all served so mechanically, no words, not even a smile. When she reaches our table, she gives me the same as everyone else.
Waiting for her to leave, I take a quick sip of the tea. And almost spit it out at once.
In my early acting days, travelling on some dismal tour of school halls, I’ve had some terrible meals. But never, ever, have I been served tea like this. It tastes of nothing, unless it’s metal pot, plastic cup and bored expression. Bored tea.
No one else seems to mind. They drink, they dunk their biscuits and eat. All except my grandfather. He just drinks his tea in one long gulp.
“Don’t you want your biscuits, Bill?” Gethin asks.
Bill shoves them towards Gethin. “I hate chocolate bourbons. And it’s been chocolate bourbons every day for a month now.”
“Job lot.” The red-haired woman snatches one of the biscuits almost from right under Gethin’s fingers.
I offer them mine and the three biscuits disappear instantly. My grandfather has finished his tea and is looking at my teacup.
I pass it to him. “Would you like more?” I ask. “Should I ask the tea lady.”
They all laugh at this.
“Let her try,” Gethin says. “You never know. Maybe her pretty face can work miracles.”
I’m already up, so I hurry out after the tea lady. “Excuse me. Can I please have another cup of tea for Mr Jones?”
She turns to glare at me as if I were Oliver Twist asking for more gruel. Considering the quality of tea on her trolly, she has no right to look disgusted by anything.
“They’ve had their tea.”
“I know, I think he’d like seconds.”
She starts shaking her head, but just then, the manager I saw before comes out of a room. “Hello. You must Bill’s visitor.” She offers me a bright, charming smile. “Welcome to The Glyn.”
“She wants more tea,” Trolly Lady complains.
“Mrs Jenkins,” the manager says with an odd expression, as if she’s trying to impress each word with extra meaning. “Can you make a fresh pot of tea and go to the Games Lounge and offer everyone as much tea as they’d like?”
Mrs Jenkins starts to push her trolley, but the manager stops her.
“Leave the trolley here. Just make a fresh pot. Quickly.” Then she turns to me. “I’m Cynthia. I manage The Glyn for our residents. Bill is your…?”
“My grandfather.”
The words are new; I’ve never said them before today. I’ve never had grandparents.
“How wonderful. We’ve not seen you here before.”
Over her shoulder, I can see through the entrance to the main lounge. The glass doors to the terrace are open. Not only unlocked but actually open. Welsh Hagrid is out there standing by the railings, looking over the garden.
“Is this your first visit?” Cynthia asks.
I turn back to her unsure if she’s aware her instructions have been flouted. “I normally live in London.”
My answer makes her smile even more. “How lovely to meet you. Please let me know if there is anything your grandfather needs. My door is always open.”
