Dear Diary, Niece and I arrived the customary ten minutes after the official starting time for the afternoon tea. We were last! There was a silence as we walked into the room of Mrs Over-the-street's living room.
Women, of the mature generation, sat around in oversized chairs, small occasional tables scattered around and pens and paper in an organised pile in the centre of the room. I am not a fan of off-white shag pile carpet. This room had off-white shag pile carpet. A large red rug under the larger table made a blood red blotch to the decor! Chairs were upholstered in apricot chintz, which it must be said, clashed terribly with the red rug. Later I managed a sneak peep under that rug. This house must have had someone with a dreadful flu as I am positive the orange stain, covered carefully by the rug, was vomit that disdained all attempts at eradication.
Niece and I looked around, smiled our welcome, and were directed to a small two-seater couch that stood forlorn under the window. We did as bid, sat down on what was a saggy sofa bed! Obviously the other guests had been there before!
A plate of hors d'oeuvre was passed around. Hester looked at me in surprise. We anticipated afternoon tea with scrummy sandwiches and cream cakes, perhaps a centre piece of mud-cake. Tiny glasses of some alcoholic beverage, we guessed, were to wash the angels on horseback down. We nibbled and sipped.
Conversation, so voluble as we entered the house, was stilted. Dear Diary it felt like a false calm before a terrible storm. I am not physic, but that room had a 'presence'; a presence that did not impress me one little bit.
Not being one to arrive at a destination for a particular reason only to find no evidence of the occasion does not feature in either Niece or my book. In another quiet moment, of which there were several where no one appeared to engage in conversation, I enquired of Mrs Over-the-Street which charity she intended to support.
"My dear," she gushed, "no decision has been made yet. That is up for discussion."
"Really!" Hester interrupted as if astounded. "Then I suggest the local school committee."
A peal of laughter echoed around the room. Hester flushed. She had not intended to be the object of such laughter.
"Oh Hester, we don't support schools!"
At least that outburst loosened tongues. A babble of voices vied with each other for attention. Quite frankly Dear Diary, some of their suggestions were hardly charities! I had no idea that women in our neighbourhood were such snobs.
Miss Smythe-Jones, who lives around the corner pushed her horn-rimmed spectacles up her nose, and in a confidential way queried Niece as to whom her visitor was earlier in the week.
"Such a striking girl! She does so resemble you Hester, but we all know that you and Phil, that is your husband's name isn't it, have no children."
I opened my mouth to reply, guessing at how embarrassed Niece must feel. This afternoon tea party was an inquisition! The nosey old women! How dare they interfere with other people's business!
Before my dumbfounded brain had time to assemble a suitable retort, Niece stood up, picked up her handbag and tugged me to my feet.
"Aunt", she intoned in a hurt voice, "we are going home."
I was not arguing Dear Diary! This afternoon tea was rigged!
Hester continued, "I wish to inform you ladies, though why I use the title lady I cannot imagine, because you are definitely not, the young girl of whom you are so curious is my daughter. She is a wonderful young lass. We may not have had much contact over the years, but blood is blood. Who her father is does not concern you. Now I wish you all a good day, and am sorry that this meeting was convened for the wrong reasons."
Dear Diary we never did find out what the pens and paper were for! Perhaps theyintended playing beetles?
Women, of the mature generation, sat around in oversized chairs, small occasional tables scattered around and pens and paper in an organised pile in the centre of the room. I am not a fan of off-white shag pile carpet. This room had off-white shag pile carpet. A large red rug under the larger table made a blood red blotch to the decor! Chairs were upholstered in apricot chintz, which it must be said, clashed terribly with the red rug. Later I managed a sneak peep under that rug. This house must have had someone with a dreadful flu as I am positive the orange stain, covered carefully by the rug, was vomit that disdained all attempts at eradication.
Niece and I looked around, smiled our welcome, and were directed to a small two-seater couch that stood forlorn under the window. We did as bid, sat down on what was a saggy sofa bed! Obviously the other guests had been there before!
A plate of hors d'oeuvre was passed around. Hester looked at me in surprise. We anticipated afternoon tea with scrummy sandwiches and cream cakes, perhaps a centre piece of mud-cake. Tiny glasses of some alcoholic beverage, we guessed, were to wash the angels on horseback down. We nibbled and sipped.
Conversation, so voluble as we entered the house, was stilted. Dear Diary it felt like a false calm before a terrible storm. I am not physic, but that room had a 'presence'; a presence that did not impress me one little bit.
Not being one to arrive at a destination for a particular reason only to find no evidence of the occasion does not feature in either Niece or my book. In another quiet moment, of which there were several where no one appeared to engage in conversation, I enquired of Mrs Over-the-Street which charity she intended to support.
"My dear," she gushed, "no decision has been made yet. That is up for discussion."
"Really!" Hester interrupted as if astounded. "Then I suggest the local school committee."
A peal of laughter echoed around the room. Hester flushed. She had not intended to be the object of such laughter.
"Oh Hester, we don't support schools!"
At least that outburst loosened tongues. A babble of voices vied with each other for attention. Quite frankly Dear Diary, some of their suggestions were hardly charities! I had no idea that women in our neighbourhood were such snobs.
Miss Smythe-Jones, who lives around the corner pushed her horn-rimmed spectacles up her nose, and in a confidential way queried Niece as to whom her visitor was earlier in the week.
"Such a striking girl! She does so resemble you Hester, but we all know that you and Phil, that is your husband's name isn't it, have no children."
I opened my mouth to reply, guessing at how embarrassed Niece must feel. This afternoon tea party was an inquisition! The nosey old women! How dare they interfere with other people's business!
Before my dumbfounded brain had time to assemble a suitable retort, Niece stood up, picked up her handbag and tugged me to my feet.
"Aunt", she intoned in a hurt voice, "we are going home."
I was not arguing Dear Diary! This afternoon tea was rigged!
Hester continued, "I wish to inform you ladies, though why I use the title lady I cannot imagine, because you are definitely not, the young girl of whom you are so curious is my daughter. She is a wonderful young lass. We may not have had much contact over the years, but blood is blood. Who her father is does not concern you. Now I wish you all a good day, and am sorry that this meeting was convened for the wrong reasons."
Dear Diary we never did find out what the pens and paper were for! Perhaps theyintended playing beetles?
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