The Tea Series

by Sheila Horgan

  Good pep talk. But I opened the journal again anyway.

  My day to be like these lovely women would come. I was convinced of it.

  At the minute, I had one day free from my responsibilities each week, and cleaning the church (and sometimes the rectory) was how I chose to spend my idle time. My mother, bless her soul, had convinced me when I was but a slip of a thing that idle hands were the devil’s workshop. I was far from home with not a single personage with whom I could tether my heart, and I was convinced the situation did not afford me freedom, but rather, burdened me with a responsibility beyond my years.

  I believed my work for the church would repay the kindness of the parish priest, as he had saved me from homelessness and I owed him all but the lot of it. Further, it would keep me out from underfoot of my new benefactor.

  Father O’Conner had seen to it that I would be safe and warm in a circumstance very close to the one I had originally agreed to. Not with family, but with a lovely older woman who needed companionship and care.

  I knew that my mother had been horrified when she had received my letter describing the situation only days after my arrival. Mamaí wrote back immediately. So concerned she was that she paid for a wire telegram. She was kind but clear. The family regretted my misfortune but was unable to piece together the necessary funds for return passage. The unfortunate circumstances were unforeseen. Mam told me to contact the local priest and see if he might be able to help. I did not need to be told more. The family would scrape together every coin for as long as it took, but for the time, I was without a home or my people.

  I went straight to the church property, summoned every bit of gumption I possessed, and knocked on the big, intricately carved door to the parish rectory. I kept myself dignified and truthful. I explained that I was in need of information. I explained that I was well and truly able to provide a service that would fairly support myself through room and board; I simply required such a station. A simple request, what I needed was the name of a family in need of such service. Simple enough, to be sure, but my very existence depended on the answer. I listed each of the services I was capable of. Cooking. Cleaning. Governess. I had no choice but to sound a bit boastful claiming that I was smart. I learned quickly. Most importantly, I did not shy away from hard work. At the end of it, I swallowed my pride and asked for help.

  Help he had. The kind old priest, who had not lost his brogue in all the years he had been away from home, listened to my sad story, made comforting sounds. Unbeknownst to me at the time, he had a plan before I was finished with my story. He saved me — heart, mind, and soul. His actions would determine my life’s path. I would work in the church for the remainder of my days as a sign of gratitude to his kindness, but neither of us knew that at the time.

  While he sat in his big chair behind a desk in the parlor of the rectory, I, mortified by my circumstance, poured my heart out in a combination of confession and innocent supplication.

  I jabbered on that I was sent to America little more than a fortnight past my sixteenth year celebration to help with the children of a cousin. My cousin had been feeling poorly for some time and was all but bedridden. It was my assignment to come to this magical country to care for the children. This circumstance would lessen the strain of having to support me on the family farm — it was no longer providing the riches it once had — and further, it brought me to a land of opportunity in the safe bosom of my family. It was hoped that I might be able to glean just enough to bring over a sibling or two and together we might be able to bring the rest of the young ones.

  I had always been homely. In my world that was an asset, as it meant that from an early age I had been able to sew and cook and provide all that was needed for a lovely home. I loved children, and they took to me instantly. We had all discussed it. Looked at every possibility. Lit candles. Talked to others who had done the same. It was an ideal situation. I was America-bound and could not be more pleased.

  Until I arrived.

  The man of the house, I will never utter his name, picked me up at the train station. I was quite proud I had made my way from a small village in Ireland to the shores of America, and further, all the way to the south where there were sights and sounds and smells I had only read about in books.

  The problem was apparent almost immediately.

  Even to an innocent like me.

  As I write this, with years of experience in a world that has, at times, been less than kind, the man can most appropriately be described as a letch. I had no experience with such things. Back home I spent my time with family. I had yet to have my first kiss. I was perplexed but far from intimidated. I felt that with a complete lack of encouragement he would find it in his heart to do the Christian thing and honor the vows he made before God and man and be a faithful husband. I would simply fix clear of him until his sense got the better of him.

  It was a good plan. It was the only plan I was capable of inventing in a foreign land, ill equipped and completely naïve. I truly believed it would work.

  I arrived at the house, my virtue intact, my smile genuine, and more than eager to care for the children and my ailing cousin. My cousin, the one who had written so convincingly to my mother about being unwell and the need for familial support, took one look at me, and went as pale as she had purported was her usual countenance. Looking back at myself, I see a girl having stunning blue eyes framed by dark lashes, dark wavy hair pulled back into an intricate design of plaits that showed her graceful neck and flawless skin, not to mention a body any grown woman would be pleased God had gifted her with, but at the time I was ignorant of my appearance or the effect it had on those around me.

  My cousin had a near miraculous recovery. She would not need my assistance after all. That very moment she informed me that I was welcome to stay for a short vacation, but then I was to find my way home.

  I recognized that I was little more than a child in a land far from home without the support or protection of family. My first action was to feed and settle the children. When they were well installed, I sat at the desk in a room that I would never establish as my own and wrote to my mam explaining my predicament. While the children napped, I all but ran to post the letter. The postmaster understood the urgency and assured me that the letter would get to my parents with great speed.

  Every moment between the time I asked for my mam’s advice and the time I received it seemed a lifetime.

  Upon receipt of that advice, when Mam told me that there was nothing the family could muster and to seek refuge from the local church, I understood there was no malice in her words, but there was no help, either. I vowed to build a life for myself in this foreign land and have been doing just that ever since.

  Four thousand miles from home, sixteen, and alone. The thought made me so sad for Bernie. At sixteen, I was spending weekends with a bunch of friends from school. Our house was the house everybody came to because my mother supplied outrageous amounts of food and just the right balance of freedom and promises of death and dismemberment should we cross the line, and that line wiggled just enough to keep us on our toes.

  I got up and hobbled into the kitchen for another cup of tea.

  Part of me just wanted to pack everything up and give it to my mother. I’d had enough of the weirdness that had come into my life since the trunk made its initial appearance, and although I don’t really believe in hexes and superstitions and all that come with them, if there was anyone in the family who could put a little voodoo on you, it was Bernie. For all her church stuff, the woman was an eclectic jumble of mismatched belief systems, and I was beginning to think I didn’t know the half of it.

  I got my tea and shuffled back into the living room. I sat on the floor, in the middle of all of Bernie’s stuff. Put my foot up on the couch so that it would be elevated and drive the poison all those little critters injected me with straight from my foot to my heart. I don’t understand why humans do what we do.

  I figured I’d drink my tea, then lie d
own — under the guise of keeping my foot up, not because I’ve become lazy — and read a bit more.

  It seems to me in times of deep reflection that those decisions, the first made out of desperation, are the decisions that have formed every bit of the rest of my life. Reading this, you might wonder how it is that a girl of such innocence would later do the things that I have done, many I am not proud of, but it was those first days filled with fear and loneliness that would determine my life path. Perhaps it was only the alignment of the stars, but I believe that our lives are our own to mold, and I pray that just like those church ladies had a hand in the molding of my world, I had a hand in the molding of yours, sweet Cara.

  What the hell? Is it just me, or did that sound a little bit creepy? Maybe it is because my memories are still somewhat scrambled. I have lots of bits and pieces, but I don’t remember everything about anything, which, you know I’m not a professional or anything, but I think that if you can’t remember your past, maybe there’s something in there that you don’t want to remember.

  I’ve been complaining about my memory for all my life. My brothers and sisters would remember things that I never remembered. My mom always said that was just the way my brain worked and that it was silly for someone my age — I think I was in high school at the time — to worry about her memory. But I’m beginning to think there’s a reason my memory never worked very well. Maybe I didn’t want to remember.

  My butt had fallen asleep, so I got up, hobbled around for a minute until the pins and needles went away, then positioned myself on the couch so that I had the arm of the couch for back support, and I stuck my foot up on the back.

  When I twisted to get the journal off the floor I was reminded that I’d broken some ribs not all that long ago.

  It’s so hard to keep track of all that has happened. I think that’s why I’m OCD(ish). I keep things in order because I want to make sure I don’t forget anything. It also saves time. Once you’re organized, it doesn’t take any time to stay organized, but if you aren’t organized, you spend all your time looking for things. That’s Maeve.

  Speaking of Maeve, I really need to call Valerie and see how she’s doing. Since she announced she’s pregnant, I haven’t been there for her at all.

  Okay, I know that sounded weird, but Maeve and Valerie are close like Teagan and me, so when I think of Maeve I automatically think of Valerie.

  And speaking of Valerie and Maeve, Teagan should have called by now to let me know she’s calmed down. If she doesn’t call in an hour, I’m gonna need to call her, because she has to know that the whole thing with Honey was not my fault.

  Back to the journal. There was a picture taped to the next page of the journal. I held the book up at an angle to the light to try to get a better look at the detail in it. I flipped several pages, and there was another picture. Obviously, Bernie took a picture of each of the mementos in the trunk and then wrote a little bit about what it was. My guess is she started at the beginning, in the church where the church ladies were, and worked her way to the end. She wanted me to read the timeline of her life. With trinkets to remember each momentous event.

  For some yet unexplained reason, that just made me mad. Bernie trying to control me from the grave. How spooky is that? I flipped pages until a picture caught my attention.

  It was a picture of a pitcher. I think. It looked like it could be brass, maybe. From the picture, I couldn’t tell how big it was, but I bet it would be small(ish) because it was sitting on a white background that looked like it could be a quilt and the proportions seemed to scream small(ish). If memory served, and it has been getting back to normal since the whole Barry thing, the white quilt that the vase thingy was sitting on was the quilt from Bernie’s guest room.

  The pitcher seems to be made out of metal because of the handle. That looks like a welded handle, not a ceramic handle. Right?

  I should probably just go to the trunk and open all the stuff in there and take a look at it, but I haven’t decided if I’m going to do that for myself, or by myself, or at all.

  Reading about one little picture of a pitcher couldn’t do any harm, and there was a tiny little part of me that was kind of happy that the nosey part of me, one of the things I considered to be a really me part of me, was back and biting at me.

  I decided I’d fix myself a cup of tea, settle in, and read just one entry of Bernie’s journal.

  Maybe she stole an altar vessel. That would get her in trouble with God. Stealing is wrong. Stealing from a church, well, that’s just asking for it.

  I remember having glass vessels at church that looked similar.

  Only one way to find out what it was.

  So, I sat down with my cup of tea and read…

  Cassia

  I was frightened that night. It was my first night away from family, although I’d been away from home for weeks. The woman that I was to tend to was a kind soul, but her family was harsh and uncaring. Had they given a moment’s thought, they would have realized that someday they too would be feeble, and they were teaching those younger than themselves how they would like to be treated. I hoped their youngsters would learn those lessons well.

  I spoke to her in hushed tones as she was so ill. Her time was near, and although it saddens me to admit it, I was as concerned about my future as hers. If she were to pass in the night, what would become of me? I, for the moment, had shelter and sustenance, but if this woman before me died, where would I go next?

  Mam had told us from the time we were very young that were we to feel less than whole, we were to eat well, move about, and bathe. Even at the worst of it such traditions seemed best.

  My charge had no schedule, nor did I, so it seemed to me that bathing her, feeding her, and seeing to it that she was repositioned often would be the most I could do to keep her comfortable.

  She had savage sores from her long repose. Healing those would be my first mission. If I could rid her of the sores and put a bit of meat on her bones, I might be able to lengthen her life and, in turn, my current arrangement.

  I searched the little cottage for things that I could use in my quest. I found a bit of red meat. Knowing that protein is needed for the body to heal, I went about preparing a nice stew. It would be soft enough for her to manage, and perhaps the nourishment would be of help.

  While the stew simmered, I went about giving the poor soul a bed bath. Poor thing had been neglected so long that just the repositioning needed was painful and draining. I tended to the sores as best I could and vowed that at the very least I would make her time here on Earth a bit more pleasant.

  It is no secret that the Irish have a rich history. Was it not Sir James Murray himself who used fluid magnesia on the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland so long ago? My kin had been using it for what seemed an eternity. It was a miracle product, to be sure. We found use for it from lesions on the farm animals to upset stomachs of the boys. Applied all the more for skin rashes to antiperspirant, I was convinced if I could find a blue glass bottle at the chemist, I would be on my way to helping my charge in a significant way.

  It was well past four in the morning when we were settled for the night. I allowed myself a weak cup of tea just before I set myself in the chair to her right. I was concerned that the work of the night might have left her in crisis, as unaccustomed to care as she was.

  At first light, I ran to the chemist and asked for fluid magnesia. I was gathering what supplies I thought would be of assistance when she walked in the door — a woman as lovely as I had ever seen. She was exotic with dark eyes and curled hair pulled under a dark wool cloak but escaping all the same. She had a list for the chemist, and although I had come into the establishment first, he set aside my order and went about collecting her needs. I wandered the close-set rows, knowing full well that I could not afford any further purchase. It was the last of the coins that my cousin had provided upon my departure that I used to obtain the fluid magnesia that I was quite certain would bring my charge relief if not compl
ete healing.

  As I rounded the far row toward the dried goods, the woman stopped me and looked into my eyes.

  “Child, you look troubled. How may I serve?”

  She was the first to show me kindness, other than the parish priest, and her voice spoke to my soul. I found myself unburdening all that troubled me. She listened. Kindly. By the time her order was complete, she had promised to come by the cottage and see to my charge. She explained that she had remedies that might help. Although I was not certain of her ability, I was quite comfortable that nothing could make the life of my charge any more dismal.

  I stopped at the grocery, the butcher, and the produce vendor — each had an arrangement with the family of my charge — and while I was careful to keep a budget in mind, I was pleased that those expenses were not mine to bear.

  It was Tuesday just after I had served lunch that Cassia arrived at my door. She carried a huge valise, and in it she had many small vials. She pulled the dark cloak away, and I saw that she was dressed in a flowing gown that reminded me of the gypsies I’d seen often, their caravans bringing them from one village to the next, trouble following close behind. I was concerned that I had happened upon a woman who was perhaps more exotic than I had understood and that there was a chance I’d introduced ill will into the home of my charge. Nothing more than a beautiful woman selling snake oil.

  Cassia asked after my charge — a McCann from the county Armagh — and I shared that with the sores, her frail state, and the challenge of an uncaring clan, it was almost certain that the life of her was ebbing.