Too Much Tea
“In some ways, writing a memoir is knocking yourself out with your own fist, if it's done right.” Mary Karr, in The Art of Memoir
This is a bit different to my usual posts.
It was first published in Guts Publishing’s debut Anthology, Stories About Penises.
That serves as a content warning, I think. Still, although it does feature a penis, it’s really not that kind of story.
Too Much Tea: A short memoir piece, by Ann Rawson
Bedsit Land, January 1982
I'm standing in the middle of an unfamiliar room. It's a cold room, even though I've put fifty pence of my own in the meter and turned the electric fire on. I'm twenty-two and I'm the most embarrassed I've ever been.
The room is shabbily furnished, with a couple of tatty armchairs, an ugly oak wardrobe and a big, old chest of drawers. A single bed, half -hidden behind a screen, is neatly made, hospital corners, with a pile of folded blankets on the end. On one side of the window there's a tiny sink unit and a white painted cupboard with a two ring hob and a kettle. On the other, there's a yellow Formica table with two mismatched wooden dining chairs.
A third wooden chair is in front of me. I've put a plastic washing up bowl on it, for want of anything better. Standing next to me, leaning on me, with one arm around my shoulder, and his other hand grasping the back of the wooden chair, is Mr Hatchard, one of my neighbours.
Mr Hatchard is ex-military, traditionally stiff-upper-lipped, always bolt upright, with a shock of white hair and piercing blue eyes. He has one of his blankets draped around his shoulders, but he's still shivering.
He's in a lot of pain. He's fallen in the street and broken his leg, or maybe his hip.
'I'm sorry,' he says, in his cut glass accent. 'I need your help. If I let go of the chair I'll fall again. I don't want to miss.'
Oh God, oh God, oh God. I have to direct his aim.
It's either that or clean it up afterwards.
The poor man. He's probably more embarrassed than I am. He hates asking for help. He was apologetic enough earlier when he was dumped unceremoniously on the front doorstep by the man who'd knocked him over when he was crossing the high street, where the fresh snow had fallen on compacted ice.
'It's okay,' I say. 'I think we can manage this, between us.'
I smile but avoid catching his eye as I undo the button on his trousers. I stifle an inappropriate laugh. He must be, what, in his seventies?
It will be the oldest penis I've seen. The oldest penis I've ever touched.
Everything about him is immaculate, thank God. His trousers beautifully pressed. A clean white shirt. A tie – just to go to the shops. His lace up black shoes are polished to a mirror finish that has survived the morning's disaster.
I fumble with the zip and it's fine, his trousers fall open to reveal perfectly white Y fronts.
I gently push the fabric to one side and find his penis with my hand. It's soft and pale and much like every penis I've ever seen, only with a sagging scrotum and sparse pubic hair. I grasp his penis. I try not to look more than the minimum necessary, but I can feel it. Like a little bird, trembling in my hand.
I pull the chair and the bowl closer, and he stumbles a little but it's fine, and I take aim. I hope my aim is good enough. It's not something I've ever done before. I've helped drunk ex-boyfriends who were throwing up, held back their long hair, and aimed them at the toilet bowl. I've cleaned them up and put them to bed. They might not have had perfect aim but they never needed this kind of help.
'I'm sorry,' he says. 'I'm desperate but I can't relax.'
'It's fine,' I lie. 'We've got ages before the doctor will arrive.'
If only I'd not done as I was told and kept him hydrated. All those cups of tea I'd made.
Eventually there's a tinkle. A few drops, then suddenly, like a dam breaking, a steady stream of urine soars from the penis in my hand into the bowl. A few drips might have missed, but we did it. We did fine. Teamwork.
I grab the wad of toilet roll I'd placed ready and dab the end of his penis dry.
It's not that different to a young penis. He's not circumcised. It's still got that lovely smooth velvety skin which is so soft to touch.
Oh God, why did my mind go there? This is embarrassing enough already without me thinking about sex. Perhaps he is too? I'm blushing now; my cheeks red hot.
I quickly put his dry penis back into his pants and zip him and button him up without looking up. I settle him briskly back into the armchair, and he yelps a little with the pain. I know that means he's hurting a lot. He hates needing help.
'I’ll just go dispose of this lot,' I say, breezily. I keep my back to him – I don't want him to see I'm still blushing. I wipe the few drips up from the chair on a bit more toilet roll, then I rush out of the door with the sloshing bowl and down the corridor to the communal bathroom. Luckily there's no one in there. I lock the door behind me and quickly empty the bowl down the loo and rinse it out in the bath. I dry it with yet more toilet paper.
Finally I put the loo seat down, sit and relax for a moment. Now I can let myself laugh.
I could never, ever handle being a nurse.
Back in his room, I reassure him that I've washed his bowl properly and I put it back by his little sink unit.
I manage to look him in the eye without blushing. Without thinking, I ask him if he'd like another cup of tea.
He barks out a hearty laugh, and I blush, but I laugh too.
'Better not, perhaps,' he says, when he stops laughing.
'I know,' I say. 'I just wish the doctor would hurry up. I know you're hungry, but they did say not to let you eat.'
'I'm sorry,' he says, not for the first time. 'I should have let that young man take me to hospital. I wanted to believe I could manage, but...'
'It's alright,' I say. 'I understand.'
The driver of the car he'd walked into on the snowy high street – he'd known better though. He'd had a choice. It was just quicker and easier to drop Mr Hatchard back home than to take him to the nearest Casualty, where no doubt he'd have been questioned about the accident.
There was probably a legal duty to report it.
Lucky for Mr Hatchard I'd been in. If it hadn't been snowing, I'd have been down at Claremont Road, cleaning Mrs Banerji's other properties and collecting the meter money and the rent from her other tenants. Instead, I'd been polishing the tiled hallway and singing along to the radio when the doorbell had interrupted me. I'd gone to sleep with the Pretenders and found my way home with Jon and Vangelis. When I opened the door the Birdie Song came on and formed the most inappropriate soundtrack as I talked to the driver.
'You should have taken him to hospital,' I said.
'He didn't want to go,' the baby-faced young man said. I believed that part of his story.
'He's one of your residents,' he went on. 'He's your responsibility now.'
'I just live here,' I said. 'In the back bedsit.'
The driver looked at me with the floor polisher and ignored what I said. He thought I was lying, or he didn't care.
I looked at Mr Hatchard who had his eyes closed with pain, waiting for him to back me up.
'At least help me get him upstairs to his room,' I said. But the driver had gone.
I'd suggested to Mr Hatchard that he could sit in my room, which was on the ground floor, while we decided what to do next, but he was determined to get to his own room. Somehow, with him hanging on to the bannister I'd just polished on his left, and with his right arm draped around my shoulder, we made it to his door.
I opened up with the pass key and helped him into his armchair. He finally groaned with the pain and I realised that in spite of all his denials, he had probably broken something. His leg, or his hip.
He wouldn't let me call an ambulance, and anyway, the nearest telephone kiosk was only a few yards short of the doctor's surgery, so he agreed to let me go and arrange for his doctor to make a home visit.
We wait.
Every so often I run down the stairs to check the front door. I need to escape. It's a little tense and uncomfortable. We can't find anything to say - we've long since exhausted the topic of the weather.
At last the doctor arrives. I take him up to Mr Hatchard's room explaining what happened. He laughs, saying there's no way we'd have made it upstairs if there was anything broken.
Five minutes later, with me waiting outside the room to give Mr Hatchard some privacy, the doctor calls me back into the room. He's not laughing any more. Mr Hatchard has a broken hip. It's a good thing he's not had anything to eat and he shouldn't have anything else to drink while we wait for the ambulance. Mr Hatchard manages a rather strangled sounding laugh.
The ambulance arrives surprisingly quickly. I say goodbye to Mr Hatchard and wish him good luck. He asks me to explain to our landlady Mrs Banerji that he will pay all the rent later and insists that I tell her he will be coming back as soon as he can.
'I don't want to stay in hospital, and I don't want to go into a home,' he says, over and over. I promise I'll tell her.
Two weeks later, early on Saturday morning there's a knock at the back door of our flat. It can only be Mrs Banerji. No one else comes to that door.
It seems ironic that we moved here because Ryan's mother had a habit of walking into our room at six in the morning to wake us up to go to the garden centre or do some digging.
'Come in,' I call, and she uses her pass key.
'I'm sorry,' she says, sounding not very sorry at all. 'I didn't expect to find you in bed at this time.'
It's not quite eight. Still, not as bad as my mother-in-law.
'I wondered if you'd like to earn some extra money this week?' she asked.
Of course I would.
She sits in the armchair and I think, if only I was wearing a nightie I could sit up and talk. I can't even reach my tatty old dressing gown. She's sitting on it.
I drag the covers up and hold them carefully in place as I sit up. Ryan groans and turns over. He's still asleep or doing a fine job of pretending.
'It's Mr Hatchard,' she says. 'He's ready to be discharged next week, but there's no way he can handle those stairs on crutches.'
'Oh no,' I say. 'He so wanted to come back here. There must be a way.'
I feel honour bound to fight his corner.
'I have a solution,' Mrs Banerji says, proudly. 'I've persuaded Albert to swap rooms with him. All we have to do is sort everything out. Just Mr Hatchard's stuff, of course. Albert's daughter will help him to move.'
Albert lives in the big sunny room with the bay window at the front of the house. It's a room I have lusted over, even though our little flat at the back of the house is more spacious, it's so dark in comparison.
'Albert's willing to give up that lovely room?' I say, enviously.
'Oh yes,' Mrs Banerji says. 'The rent for the room upstairs is cheaper, so he's happy. Mr Hatchard is so pleased to be coming back here, and so he's happy to pay a bit extra.'
I see how pleased she's looking and I have a feeling she's charging 'a bit' more for both rooms. They'll never know. I will though. I hate this part of the job.
We need to sort through all Mr Hatchard's things, before Monday. If we pack everything into boxes and clean the room up ready for Albert to move in, Tomachevski will move the boxes down on Monday and help Mr Hatchard arrange his room when he gets back.
Tomachevski, call me Tom, is Mrs Banerji's regular handyman. He's absolutely gorgeous and he knows it, and he flirts shamelessly with Mrs Banerji. She might be sixty-something but she enjoys it. I wouldn't blame her, but he creeps me out.
I am doubtful. I'll lose all my weekend.
'I'll pay you twenty five pounds,' she says.
Of course, I say yes. Ryan grunts. He's not asleep.
'I'll give you half an hour to get up and get some breakfast,' she says. 'Then we can get started.'
Ryan grumbles at me a bit but he feels the lure of the cash as strongly as I do. And he can just have a lazy weekend.
Mrs Banerji is back just as I'm eating my last bite of toast. I'm in my oldest jeans and pullover. I collect the cleaning gear from under the stairs and follow her up to Mr Hatchard's room. It's even more cold and unwelcoming now it's been empty for so long.
Tomachevski has left a pile of cardboard boxes ready to be made up outside the door.
'We'll go through all his stuff first,' Mrs Banerji says. 'There's not that much. Get it into the boxes and get them down to the storage cupboard and it can all be locked up down there until Albert's out of his room. His daughter's coming to move him tomorrow, so if we make a big push today we can have this room all ready.'
Ah. I was going to earn my wages in one very long and exhausting day. I suppose at least that would give me Sunday to recover.
We have a quick look round the room.
'It doesn't look as if he has any kitchen stuff of his own,' Mrs Banerji says. 'Just the basics that come with the flat. We can leave those for Albert, unless he wants to bring the ones he's used to. Just wash them and make sure none are cracked and chipped.'
That leaves the contents of the wardrobe and the chest of drawers.
I make up half a dozen boxes and we start on the wardrobe. There isn't much, but it is all well cared for. A couple of overcoats. Three suits. Several pairs of trousers and a blazer. Three pairs of black shoes, all beautifully polished. A row of white shirts. There's an old silk dressing gown hanging on a knob inside the wardrobe. Mr Hatchard had come down in the world.
As I fold everything carefully and placed it all in the boxes, Mrs Banerji talks.
'I visited him in hospital a couple of times, just to get all this agreed,' she says. 'It's as well I did. He had no other visitors at all, the nurses said. He must have no family. I asked him, but he was quite rude. He just didn't answer.'
I make a noncommittal noise. She doesn't really want me to carry my share of the conversation. An occasional nod is all that is needed to punctuate her soliloquy.
We pile the boxes of clothes by the door for Tom to deal with later.
Now, the chest of drawers.
Old fashioned shaving stuff, brush and everything and his washbag and folded towels are neatly arranged in the top drawer.
'What has he been using in hospital?' I ask.
'Oh, I offered to collect some things for him but he refused. He was oddly insistent. The nurses bought him things and they even did some washing for him. He was quite a favourite with them.'
I pick up a couple of small boxes. Curious, I open the smaller one, feeling mildly guilty. Gold cufflinks in that one. The other, a larger flat box, contains a collection of medals. I don't know what they are, but I know they are special to him. He has so little. I am suddenly very sad for him.
Mrs Banerji catches my eye.
'He probably bought them in a junk shop,' she says, mocking me.
I don't think so. Underneath there's some papers too. A certificate confirming an award. A letter in his name about long and honourable service. An old black and white photograph of him in uniform. He was a handsome man.
I consider speaking up for him – but what's the point? Mrs Banerji has already told me her opinion of her tenants.
'Bedsits are fine for younger people like you,' she'd said. 'You're at the start of your lives. Everyone has to begin somewhere. But these are people who should have done well for themselves. There's a reason why they're here. Everyone finds their own level.'
The second drawer down is easy too. Pyjamas and underwear, all clean and neatly folded. That's another two boxes ready to go into temporary storage.
The bottom drawer. I pull it out and gasp.
It's crammed full of magazines. Top shelf magazines. Fiesta. Men Only. And more. They are all very well read.
Mrs Banerji steps back.
'Dirty old man,' she almost spits.
'Rubber gloves,' she says. 'We should have been wearing them all along.'
She's afraid she might catch something. As if suddenly all his perfectly clean and laundered clothes had become retrospectively contaminated.
'We'll get these all into one big box and then Tomachevski can have a bonfire tomorrow.'
'Is that right?' I ask in a small voice. 'They belong to him.'
'This is disgusting,' she says, pausing between each word for emphasis. 'I don't want them in my property.' She gloves up and reaches gingerly into the drawer and takes out the top magazine. It falls open at a Readers' Wives spread. 'Look. The pages are stuck together. Ugh. No wonder he didn't want me to fetch his wash things.'
I'd tried. I should have tried harder maybe, but I needed the money. Rubber gloves on, I empty the contents of the bottom drawer into a big cardboard box.
Mrs B leaves me to it. She's seen everything there is to see. She has a dinner party that evening to prepare for and there isn't much left to do. Just fill the last box, and then give the room a good top-to-bottom clean.
She strips the bed – still in her rubber gloves - and takes the bedding with her. She'd deal with that in her washing machine at home.
At the bottom of the drawer, underneath the magazines, there's an even more secret stash of literature. A small collection of romantic Mills and Boon novels. Another wave of sadness for him washes over me. Mr Hatchard is an old man, all alone in the world. He's served his country. Like all of us, all he wants is some human connection, some warmth. Those sweet romances.
I imagine myself into the future. Sixty, seventy, maybe. Perhaps one day I'll be in the same position, old and alone, longing for some romance. For someone to want me. For someone to touch me. For someone to sleep next to me, body touching body.
I consider secretly keeping some of them for him. How would I choose? How would I give them to him without embarrassment – mine and his? I pile all his collection into the box for Tomachevski to burn.
Then I thoroughly clean the room, top to bottom. I dust, wipe and polish. A final vacuum clean. I wash up all the crockery and cutlery. Finally I wash the bowl again. That bowl.
The following day Tomachevski has his bonfire out the back. He sees me looking out of the window and calls to ask if we have anything to burn. I ignore him.
The smoke brings a tear to my eye. Poor Mr Hatchard. How will he feel when he realises all his collection has gone? Angry? Embarrassed? I can't imagine him asking Mrs Banerji where it is. Something else she will just get away with.
A couple of days later, there's a knock at the door of our flat, just ten minutes after Ryan has left for work.
I open the door and Mr Hatchard is standing there, leaning on crutches.
'You're home,' I say, stupidly stating the obvious. 'Good to see you looking so well.'
'I'm glad to be back,' he says. 'There's just one problem.'
Oh my God, I think. He's going to ask about his collection. I blush.
'I can't manage to tie my shoelaces,' he says, apologetically. 'I wonder if you could help?'
I am relieved.
'Of course,' I say, and without thinking I sink to my knees.
This is me, shortly after the events in this story. Mrs B helped me make the pinafore dress I am wearing. Half feral cat, Dis, is on my shoulder, and my lovely pup Elektra is sitting in my lap.
I hope you enjoyed reading this short piece. I am contemplating starting a Substack later in the year specifically to share some of my memoir writing, so I’d appreciate knowing if that might be of interest. Perhaps it would be even more useful to let me know if it really wouldn’t!
Do let me know, in the comments, by email, or on the Facebook Page.
Ann
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More reading
Truth in Fiction and Memoir is a short blog post I wrote for Guts Publishing before the publication of the anthology.
Thanks so much for posting this. I absolutely loved it, on all sorts of levels.