We pass a dozen shopfronts with faded and worn signages. There appears to be a distinct lack of shoppers about, though one or two miscreants looking to either commit thievery or perhaps score linger. I had wondered if she was leading me somewhere a little nicer, but now I see her point is the opposite as she begins to slow, pushing on the door of what appears to be a café.
Not like any café I’ve been inside in a long time.
The red paint on the doorframe is faded and peeling in parts, the overwhelmingly pungent scent of fried vegetable oil almost assailing. Inside, a handwritten menu is tacked to the wall, offering the great British staples; a full English breakfast—a heart attack on a plate—plus burgers, and other things, all delivered with chips.Hence the smell.
‘Tea?’ Olivia asks as she reaches the glass counter, the likes of which I seem to recall are usually found in a butcher shop. All manner of sad-looking sandwiches sweat it out in plastic wrap as a singular fly swarms around, trying his luck. ‘Or would you like a coffee?’ She drops a handful of coins against the glass.
‘You can wipe that evil look off your face and order me a black coffee, preferably in a takeaway cup.’
She has the audacity to chuckle. ‘So you’re not worried about the state of our environment, then?’
I glance around pointedly. ‘I’m concerned about the state of the environment I’m currently in. But I’m more concerned for the state of my constitution. And try not to slip anything untoward in my cup,’ I add over my shoulder as an afterthought.
‘The temptation is great,’ she calls back, causing me to turn at her tone. ‘But, according to my friend at the pharmacy, she can only legally offer me laxatives.’
I shake my head before giving one of the plastic-covered tables a cursory glance. I pull out a rickety-looking chair. Olivia follows me presently, sliding a reasonably clean-looking mug my way.
‘Your conscience might not worry about the landfills, but mine does.’ She ignores me as she pours tea from a stainless-steel teapot into a cup balanced on a thick saucer. She then sets about doctoring her tea with milk from a tiny white jug until it’s the approximate shade of the thick brown stockings I recall my nanny used to wear as part of her uniform.
‘I see you’ve embraced the great British tradition,’ I murmur, turning my mug of blackness around until the handle is in the right spot. Or I might be looking for signs that she’s already doctored this one.
‘Tea is mostly Indian, isn’t it? And Sri Lankan? It’s nothing to do with the British, really.’
‘The taking of tea is a tradition.’
‘The taking of anything is a British tradition,’ she mutters almost under her breath. ‘Ask any of the colonies.’
I sigh as though bored. ‘Really? You want to talk about history?’
‘Your fault,’ she grumbles, bringing the steaming cup to her lips. ‘You started it.’
‘I was making polite conversation.’ She grumbles something behind her cup I don’t quite hear. ‘Besides, your grandmother is British, isn’t she?’
She smiles as though she can’t help it. ‘Very. Tea probably runs through her veins. It’s because of her that I drink it.’
‘You were indoctrinated at a young age, I take it.’
‘When I was a little girl, maybe five or six. It started as a treat, a cup of tea in one of her delicate flowery cups, along with a biscuit or two. A very English biscuit,’ she adds with a fond smile. ‘Yet always out of a packet. A bourbon or a couple of chocolate fingers. Sometimes, she’d serve afternoon tea; Darjeeling and delicate sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and little cakes she made just for my visits. But mostly it was just like this.’ She tilts her cup a little to show me the brick-coloured beverage. ‘Builder’s tea, she calls it. Strong enough to stand your spoon in.’
‘She sounds utterly charming.’
‘She wouldn’t say the same about you.’
‘There aren’t many who would.’
‘She’d definitely make short work of you.’
‘Are you trying to charm or annoy me? It’s hard to tell.’
Her body vibrates with her scoff. ‘I’m telling you how it is. She’s got a will of steel, my gran.’
I don’t think she’s ever sounded anything other than American up until now. ‘You must be very fond of her.’
‘I am. She’s the bomb.’ And then very American again.
As she returns to her tea, I peel the bottom of my mug from the floral plastic tablecloth and take a tentative sip, scalding my tongue with the acrid taste of very hot instant coffee. Olivia chuckles at my grimace. ‘You didn’t need to use poison, apparently.’
‘It can’t be that bad.’
