The Triple Goddess (179 page)

The round tables are laid with bone china cups and saucers, and plates, and starched linen napkins that Mrs Crampton-Bunne’s daughters have folded into sailboats. Mrs C.-B. isn’t concerned about the fate of her china, for although the Aristotles’ teatime behaviour is rumbustious, they are very good about using their forefeet in a delicate manner, so as not to spill their tea, and not to knock the crockery and plates on the floor, as they reach for this and that; which the Aristotles do so frequently that they are never still.

When the tea is brewed, or mashed as they say up north, the Misses Crampton-Bunne, who have very strong arms from the frequent lifting of teapots—the teapots have an additional ring handle on the top in front of the lid—circulate with them and pour; and the Aristotles help themselves to the jugs of creamy milk and bowls of lump sugar that are already on the tables.

After the third cups of tea have been poured, and there has been a token amount of polite conversation, and exchange of gossip, while they stir sugar in their cups, and make a strategic survey to make sure that none of the groups has something that they don’t, and in no greater quantity, the Aristotles get stuck into the sandwiches as if they haven’t eaten since Third Lunch; which is the case.

Starting with the least, or less important, ones, there are cheese sandwiches, and Marmite sandwiches for those who like Marmite, and most do, and peanut butter sandwiches. Then there are egg and watercress sandwiches, and lettuce and tomato sandwiches, and cucumber sandwiches, and anchovy paste sandwiches, and potted shrimp sandwiches. All are neatly arranged on doilies and willow pattern plates, and cut into triangles with the crusts off; not because there’s anything wrong with the Aristotles’ teeth, which grow as fast as they are worn down from chomping, but because Mrs Crampton-Bunne keeps a genteel establishment.

The most popular sandwiches are those of smoked salmon, and chicken, and ham, and tongue, and beef; each of which can be snatched by a hoof faster than the eye can see. They are made with white bread and brown bread, and granary bread, and wholemeal bread, and wheat bread; and some have white on one side, and brown on the other; which, if one had time, and one does not, would make it fun to guess what might be on the side facing down…which it never does for very long.

There is no word for “stale” in the Aristotle language.

There are other breads too, with no filling: Irish soda, sourdough, caraway seed, and dark rye, otherwise known as pumpernickel; potato, laver, malt, raisin, and banana—all sliced and spread with creamy yellow butter fresh from the dairy.

When the sandwiches are finished, which doesn’t take long, and more tea has been poured—actually, it has never stopped being poured, by the C.-B. daughters, who have to boil a great deal of water in the copper kettles to keep the teapots replenished, after they have been rotated through the kitchen to have the tea leaves replaced—and drunk, the cakes are brought out on stands.

It is impossible to exaggerate the importance of
cake
, and its attendant sweetmeats, to Aristotles. Any day that they’ve reserved all the tables at the Tea Shoppe for one of their teas, and they always reserve all of them, Mrs Crampton-Bunne and her daughters have to get up at two o’clock in the morning, three hours earlier than usual, in order to bake enough to nearly satisfy the Aristotles’ appetite for
cake
.

Mrs C.-B. makes Bath Buns. She makes scones, and muffins, and tea bread and teacakes, and Scotch pancakes; she makes rock cakes, and cinnamon rolls, and Danish pastries; she makes custard pies, treacle tarts, parkins, gingerbread, and flapjack, and turnovers; she makes bread pudding, and blanket- or bolster pudding. She spares neither oven nor child in the preparation of Dundee cake, and Madeira and Battenberg and Eccles cakes; of plum duff, and fruit flan; of marble, and simnel, and seed, and sponge, and carrot, and lardy, and date-and-walnut cakes.

Conspicuous by their presence on such occasions are macaroons, and doughnuts; and whipped creams, and brownies, and chocolate éclairs; and Swiss rolls, and brandy-snaps; and jam, and custard tarts, and maids of honour; and malted milk biscuits, and the ones called Squashed Flies because they have raisins in them.

In winter, Mrs Crampton-Bunne produces a magnificent five-tiered wedding cake...whether there’s been a wedding or not has nothing to do with it...with columns supporting each level. The fruit mixture is covered with marzipan and thick white icing, in imitation of a skating rink, and the top layer is decorated with tiny models of skaters in costumes.

“Well, that really takes the biscuit!”, the Aristotles say, reaching for the chocolate digestives while waiting for the cake to be cut; before continuing, “It seems such a shame to...”, after it has been.

As they eat, the Tea Shoppe is filled with animated conversation, for the Aristotles are skilled in the art of eating, drinking, and talking to several people, into and out of several parts of their mouths at the same time, without making it look or seem rude. Many are the exclamations of, “Oh, but this is good,” and, “Excuse my reach,” and, “Would you mind passing?” and, “Don’t mind if I do,” and, “Really I shouldn’t, but I will,” and, “Well, I suppose I could manage it if no one else wants it”; followed by full-up sighs and half-suppressed burps and patted stomachs, and, “O me, O my”s.

The Aristotles don’t believe in stinting themselves, and would never think of leaving anything on their plates “to be polite”, thereby implying that there wasn’t enough food; because although there nearly wasn’t, there was.

After the Crampton-Bunnes have cleared the tables, and swept the crumbs with soft brushes into little silver trays, the Aristotles launch into the “Aunts and Uncles” teatime ditty that they always recite to aid their cast-iron digestions:

“

It’s Teatime—we know, because Lunches

Are over. A nice cup of cha will put

You on your mettle and improve your fettle

No end.

Fill up the sugar bowl, and bring out the

Stained old strainer of your great-grandmother’s;

The Wedgwood milk jug, the one without

The chip; the Staffordshire cups and saucers,

For mugs will never do; and the set

Of rat-tail spoons.

Put the kettle on the fire

To boil for not for too long.

Remember to warm

The pot first to wake it up,

And to pour fresh boiling water onto the leaves—

A spoon for each person, and one for the pot—

And leave it to steep with the cosy on.

Then stir it.

Don’t let it sit so long

That it stews. Fat chance of that!

There are pots of Earl Grey, and of Darjeeling—

No tea bags for us—strong enough to trot a mouse on,

And China or Lapsang Souchong for drinking

With a wedge of lemon; and camomile.

Add milk to the cups
before

You pour the tea, so that the bone china

Doesn’t crack. Besides which, it is unrefined

To do it the other way round.

Boil some more water

To top up the pots for the second round.

You must cut the cake into thick pieces,

But slice the bread as thinly as possible—

Don’t get the two confused—butter the bread

Evenly, and remove the crusts.

Did you remember to peel the cucumber,

And to cut it into wafers, and to squirt it with lemon juice?

Did you put out the dishes of honey, and damson jam,

And the blackberry, peach, and blackcurrant jelly,

And the strawberry and raspberry jam?

Are the sausage rolls ever coming out of the oven?

Where’s that extra bowl of clotted cream for the scones?

When in due course we’re finished,

Meaning that everything’s gone

—Though we know there’s always more

Where all that came from—

Aunts and uncles say:

‘There! Wasn’t that relaxing?’

Well, perhaps for aunts and uncles

Who sit, and drawl,

‘We find it all so taxing,’—reaching for their cups

Of bohea, and drinking with a curly hoof—

Before pouncing on the strawberry shortcake

Because nobody passed it soon enough.

We
say, ‘So glad you could come...

See you again next week!’

”

Everyone laughs at the last part about the aunts and uncles, for as hard as they try to keep their hoofs from curling, they can’t; just like you see people’s little fingers stick out like piglets’ tails when they’re drinking tea.

Then it’s time to say thank you, and goodbye, to the Crampton-Bunnes, and leave them to clearing the tables and washing up and sweeping the floor.

Even by Aristotle standards this has been a large tea, larger than usual, and…here’s a thing!...they are overcome by a desire to take a nap, instead of going on to High Tea when they get home.

So, after checking that nobody is watching outside, which there isn’t because everyone was indoors at Tea, the Aristotles speed home without taking their usual roundabout route; and in minutes they’re dozing before the fire in their comfiest chairs.

What the Aristotles dream about, the zephyr that the Wind sends to look in the Aristotles’ windows cannot tell. But he is able to report that the supper-table is already set for the evening meal: with a mushroom and primrose pie, with hollyhock salad, and dandelion bread; with cherry cobbler, roly-poly, and apple crumble; with violet trifle, and lemon meringue pie; with nutmeg custard, and flummery, and junket and sillabub; with rosehip liqueur, and lavender syrup.

Should you want to know more about the Aristotle diet, traditional recipes, and baking practices...I’m sorry! There isn’t world enough and time, as Andrew Marvell said, left in which to tell you.

’

‘

Occasionally the Aristotles are visited by their cousins the Threeps.

The Threeps are sheep who say and do everything three times, and in threes; and they drink milk, instead of eating grass and hay, because they maintain that consuming vegetation makes one stupid.

The Threeps decided that grass was bad for them when they noticed how clever and playful and friendly the lambs of common or field sheep are, while they’re feeding on milk from their mothers; but as soon as they grow up and start eating grass, instead of moving on to doing calculus as Threep adolescents do, they spend the rest of their days eating in public with an unattractive sideways motion of the jaw, and regurgitating their food as if chewing it once wasn’t enough.

Now, it is indeed true that it’s impossible to converse with ordinary sheep after they switch from drinking their mothers’ milk to eating grass, because all they ever say is “Ba-a”. But although they’re not aware of it, the Threeps have a vocabulary that is similarly limited, the sole difference being that they repeat “Ba-a” twice: “Ba-a, ba-a, ba-a”; and not just because they’re trying to reinforce a point. Whereas a common or field sheep might say “Ba-a” once, twice, or three or more times, as the mood takes it, the Threeps irrespective of circumstances say it thrice.