Whatever (10 page)

Robin drove an old Honda
CRV
, silver. It had scrapes and bumps on one side and a big dent in the front, but the inside was clean and comfortable.

“Nice ride.” I was being sarcastic, but he took me seriously.

“It works for me. Actually, it's grandma's car. Wouldn't be my choice, but the price was right—free—and she pays the insurance and buys some of the gas. All I have to do is take her grocery shopping once in a while or drive her to visit one of her friends.”

“Doesn't she drive it?”

“She can't with that cast. She wouldn't drive at night even before her fall. After that accident, she gave me the car and put me on speed dial. Now I drive her everywhere.”

Not wanting to talk about the “accident,” I changed the subject. “I don't even have my learner's. You're lucky.”

“Aren't you old enough?”

“Yes, but . . .” I wasn't going to tell him that part of my punishment for the hospital disaster was that I couldn't even think about getting a driver's license for a year. “So, Five of Five, what else do you watch besides
Star Trek
reruns?” (Changing the subject again.)

We talked about sitcoms for the rest of the trip. Safe subject. When we got there, Robin came into the house with me, but Mrs. J. sent him right out again, to rake the leaves on the front lawn.

“Make sure you put the rake back in the shed when you're done. Then I'll tell you where to pick up my guests.”

He saluted. “Yes ma'am. Right away, ma'am,” and scurried back out.

At the kitchen door I stopped and stared. The usually tidy room was a mess; the floor covered with cookbooks, cooking magazines, recipes on loose-leaf paper, recipes on small cards, recipes torn from magazines or newspapers, a paper snowfall blanketing the kitchen.

Mrs. J. made her way carefully through the mess to the tall stool by the counter and perched on it. “What are you waiting for? Start picking them up. You know I can't bend down with this damned cast.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, and began gathering the books. She didn't say a word until I had everything off the floor and stacked on the counter.

“Do you want me to put them away?”

She gestured. “Second cupboard from the sink. Middle shelf.”

I started transferring books. “How did they fall out?”

“Didn't fall. I threw them.”

“Really?”

“Of course, ‘really.' Are you stupid today? Couldn't find
what I was looking for, got mad and flung the whole lot on the floor.”

I giggled. “I wish I'd seen that!”

She managed a small smile. “It wasn't pretty, be glad you missed it.”

“What were you looking for?”

“My Home Ec. book, the red one.”

“
Foods, Nutrition and Home Management
?”

“Yes.”

“It's right here, on the bench, beside the newspaper.”

“What fool left it there?”

“Me. I'm sorry.”

“Never mind, I'm glad it's found. Okay, page 89, gingerbread, let's get started.”

I read the ingredients aloud. “Molasses? What's that?”

“Thick, brown and sweet. Can't believe you've never seen molasses.”

“Mom doesn't bake.”

“Of course she doesn't. Read the gingerbread instructions.”

“It just says, ‘Mix according to the Muffin Method.' Muffin Method?”

“Basically, you try not to stir things too much . . .”

I had found the rules in the book. “‘Make a depression in the flour, pour in egg, milk, then melted fat.' When do you put in the ginger?”

“With the flour and baking powder, of course. You always sift the dry ingredients together. This is dried powdered ginger,
not the fresh root that they use in Chinese food.

“I know what root ginger is. We eat a lot of Chinese.”

“Right, the takeout. I should have known. Now, get out the biggest mixing bowl, and one of the square cake pans from the same cupboard.”

Mrs. J. didn't have me follow the ingredients exactly. We put in more powdered ginger and less brown sugar, and we used plain flour instead of the pastry flour the recipe called for. I didn't know there were different flours for breads and cakes. The molasses was so thick I couldn't get it to pour into a measuring cup, so I stuck the jar, without its lid, in the microwave for a few seconds, then it poured out easily.

“I'll have to remember that. Good idea, faster than standing the jar in warm water.”

Robin came into the kitchen, had a glass of milk, sniffed the baking gingerbread and sighed. “How long until it's ready?”

“Soon. Show the girl where my sterling silver is and get out the teapot and five cups, the good ones from the china cabinet. The two of you can set the table in the dining room, use my lace tablecloth and the napkins that match. Then go pick up my guests while we get the kettle going and whip the cream.”

I'd whipped cream before, for hot chocolate, so I had no problem doing that chore. When I pulled out the beaters, I handed one to Mrs. J. and licked the other one myself.

“Perfect,” she announced. “Not too much sugar.”

I beamed. “Thanks.”

The gingerbread was cut into squares, the cream spooned into a bowl and the silver teapot filled with hot water, warming. “The only way to draw out all the flavour is with a pre-warmed pot,” Mrs. J. said. She didn't use tea bags, just cans of loose tea. The one she had me bring down from the cupboard had a Chinese design on it. I opened the lid and sniffed. “It smells like flowers.”

“It's Jasmine. Usually I prefer Oolong, but I thought you might enjoy this. The cosy is in the drawer with the tea towels, next to the sink.”

I found the “cosy”—a crocheted cover for the teapot which would keep the tea warm. It was brightly striped in a pattern like Mrs. J.'s shawl and cap and topped with a big multi-coloured pom-pom. On each side was a hole (one for the spout, one for the handle), otherwise she could have worn it as a hat on cold days.

“My grandma had one of these, but it wasn't crocheted.”

“I made this one. Can't find cozies in many stores. When you do they're artsy fancy and cost a fortune. These days almost everyone uses tea bags and makes their tea right in the cup. Revolting!”

The doorbell rang, and I was instructed to see the guests in. They were obviously frequent visitors, for they slipped off their shoes and chose slippers from the basket. Once they were ready, I ushered in a short, red-haired woman and a tall older man who walked with a brass-headed cane.

Mrs. J. was already seated at the head of the table. “These are my friends: Karen MacDonald, who helps me keep this old house clean, and David Allen, who is my square-dance partner.”

“Used to be, until a few months ago when both of us had to give up dancing. I'm pleased to meet you, Darrah. Janie tells us you are becoming a competent cook. She shared some of the stew you made last week. It was excellent.”

“Thank you.” They used to dance together and they shared meals? Was this Mr. Allen her boyfriend? Did old people have boyfriends or girlfriends? I'd never thought about that before.

“I'm glad you're here to help Janie, Darrah,” said Mrs. MacDonald. It sounds like a good program your school has.”

Mrs. Johnson grinned. “It's a tremendous program. Now, bring in the tea, girl.”

In the kitchen, I poured out the teapot's warming water, spooned in five teaspoons of the loose tea (one teaspoon per person, according to Mrs. J.'s instructions) poured the hot water into the pot, popped on the cosy and carried it to the dining room table. I set it on the hot pad in front of Mrs. Johnson, but she shook her head. “Let Karen pour, please. Then sit down.”

I moved the hot pad and teapot to Mrs. MacDonald's place and sat down, worried about what I would say to these people. But I didn't need to say anything; everyone else talked. And talked.

Robin talked about his plans for university next year; Karen
about her yoga classes, complaining of a sore back; Mr. Allen about the latest mystery series on
PBS
; and Mrs. J. asked everyone questions. I couldn't have squeezed a word in, even if I'd wanted to say something.

The tea tasted like flowers, like summer sunshine. The gingerbread was still warm and even better than the last time, probably because I was eating it from a thin china plate with roses in shades of pink and red around its edge. The teacup had matching roses on its rim; it was also thin, almost translucent so you could just about see the tea through the sides of the cup. The cream jug and sugar bowl had the same rose pattern as the dishes.

I ran my fingers over the rim of the gingerbread plate; the flowers were slightly raised.

Mrs. J. saw me. “Pretty, isn't it? This tea set was hand-painted by my grandmother for her hope chest.”

“Painted?” I asked

“Hope chest?” asked Robin at the same time.

The adults smiled. Mrs. J. explained, “Those were actual ‘chests,' often made of cedar, and a hopeful young woman, as in ‘hoping to be married,' filled the chests with things she had made or collected, things she hoped to use proudly in her own house one day.”

Mr. Allen took over. “The china was bought already glazed, but perfectly plain. Women spent hours designing and painting patterns with a special kind of paint. I believe the dishes were then put in a kiln or the oven and—”

“Your grandmother painted the flowers on this, Mrs. J?”

“On every single one of the eight cups, saucers, side plates—on everything.”

“Wow!” said Robin, lifting his empty plate up to look more closely.

“Careful with that. It's French china—Limoges. Besides being valuable it will eventually be inherited by one of you five grandkids.”

“Uh . . . no thanks, Gran. I'll pass on the china.”

“Don't be hasty. Your wife may think differently.”

“Wife?” The horrified look on his face made everyone laugh.

“Aha, so there's no romantic interest in your life right now, young man. But wait a few years.” Mr. Allen smiled that superior smile adults use when they think they know more than you do, as if they are saying, “You'll understand when you're older.” Mom uses that smile a lot.

“No problem, I can wait,” Robin said. “Just watch me.”

He carefully passed his cup to Mrs. Smith. “Any more tea?” he asked.

“Lots, but it's getting leafy near the bottom of the pot. Janie, where's your tea strainer?” She started to get up, but Mrs. J. motioned for me to go instead.

“Top left-hand drawer beside the sink,” she said. “It's silver and sits in a little silver dish.”

“I know what a tea strainer looks like.” There was no need to talk down to Robin and me just because we're young. Describing a tea strainer, honestly.

I yanked open the drawer. No tea strainer. But at least four
pairs of glasses, and a dozen magnifying glasses. Some small, some large, some with handles like the one Sherlock Holmes used. One square one was made of plastic, and was large enough to cover a whole page of a book. Another square one was attached to a strap, as if you hung it around your neck and peered through it.

Forgetting about the strainer, I grabbed a couple of pairs of glasses and called, “Mrs. J., I found—”

“Don't shout girl, it's rude. Come in here and say what you have to say.”

I had taken two steps toward the dining room when something made me stop. The glasses were all together, in the same drawer. Mrs. Johnson knew where everything was; how could she not know her glasses were here?

I turned around, went back and slowly pulled open the next drawer. There was the silver tea strainer, right beside the coffee filters. I took it out, shut that drawer, and again pulled out the drawer beside it, the one I'd opened by mistake.

For a moment I stared at the collection of glasses and magnifiers, then I put the two pairs of glasses I'd picked out back and shut the drawer. I didn't know why Mrs. Johnson wanted to pretend she had lost her glasses, but for now, I'd play her game.

“Coming, Mrs. J.,” I called, and went back to the tea party.

Chapter Nine

MRS. JOHNSON SENT
me home early and didn't offer to give me any of the gingerbread. I had hoped she would.

“Don't dawdle,” she said to Robin.

“Don't worry, Gran. I'll be back soon to take your friends home.”

“Do you need help cleaning up, Mrs. Johnson? I don't mind staying longer.” Maybe I'd end up with the left-over gingerbread if I helped in the kitchen.

“Not today, girl. Karen and I will do it. Get on home with you.”

As we headed for the front hall and our jackets, we heard Mr. Allen objecting. “You'll not do dishes, Janie. I will; I know how to clean up a kitchen.”

“Thank you for the offer, David, but I'd prefer that Karen did the washing and drying.”