The Silver Teapot

by Emma Styles-Swaim

The tearoom at the London Imperial Hotel was not a place American gunnery sergeants went to spend their free time. The crystal chandeliers, delicate piano music, and plush carpeting did not mix with scratchy green wool, however flattering, and heavy boots designed for traversing battle-torn landscapes. Sergeant Donald A. McGowan, however, found himself outside of the hotel one breezy afternoon, leaning over a planter of red geraniums to peer in the window at the splendor that was afternoon tea.

            Around him a wicked wind blew, stirring leaves, bits of paper, and geranium petals like lips into the air. A particularly strong gust blew his cap off, and he started, running after it until he managed to stomp on it with his booted foot. When he returned to his spot, he saw a waitress with brown curly hair and plump freckled arms looking at him through the window and laughing. He caught her eye and smiled, tossing his cap up in the air and catching it, as if daring the wind to snatch it from him while he was on guard. The pretty waitress laughed again and dutifully began clearing the table in front of her. Donald broke off a geranium and made his way to the door.

            Once inside, the tearoom did not look quite as splendid as it had through the window. The chandeliers were dim, the carpet worn, and the ancient pianist’s fingers seemed unable to bring anything more than a forlorn tinkling from the keys. Donald, however, didn’t notice the decay. His eyes caught the sparkle of rows and rows of silver teapots on tea trolleys standing against the far wall and he smiled to himself at the elegantly hushed conversations of the tea-goers. He thought of his mother, tired and lonely in the small house in Sacramento, and what she would give to have afternoon tea in a London hotel.

Donald stood in the doorway against a column until the waitress noticed him. He tucked the geranium into his buttonhole as she approached.

            “Are you here for tea, sir?”

            “Well, I guess so, and have you got anything to eat? Food?”

“Why yes, of course, sir. Sandwiches. Butter-and-cucumber, liverwurst-and-cress, and there’s paste.”

“Paste,” he repeated as she led him to a table.

“Yes, I can give you two of each, if you like.” She smiled at him and left to fetch her trolley.

“What the hell is paste?” he muttered.

She returned and began pouring him a cup of tea from a small silver teapot.

“Do you fly a plane, then?” she asked.

“Yes, a B-24 Bomber. It’s a newer model than the B-17, more modern. Smoother, faster, an all-around better machine.” He paused. “Well, actually I don’t fly it, I’m a gunny. I sit in it and shoot. But I can still be proud of my plane, can’t I?” he grinned.

“Yes, sir, I’m sure you can.” She set the teapot down in front of him. “Sugar?”

“Yes, please.”

“Cream or lemon?”

“Oh, cream I guess. Say, that’s a nice teapot. You got a lot of those?”

“Yes, we’ve got scores of them in the kitchen,” she said confidingly, giving him a plate of tiny triangular sandwiches that she took from the curtained shelf of her trolley.

“Silver?” he asked as he picked up a sandwich with a goopy brown substance inside. “Paste?”

“Plate, I think, and yes, that’s paste. I like it,” she said, seeing his doubtful expression.

 “Can I have it?” he asked, grinning at her through a mouthful of sandwich.

“I suppose you mean the teapot, and no, I don’t suppose you can, can you? If I gave it to you, where would I be with my boss, you see?” She smiled prettily and began to wheel her trolley away, the ties of her apron swinging as she walked.

“Hey, paste isn’t all that bad,” he called after her.

He looked at the teapot and ran his callused fingertip over the swoop of the handle and down to the swirl at its base. He could see his square, ruddy face reflected in it, the curve twisting his mouth into a grimace, wide open like a scream. Donald quickly downed the rest of his tea and poured the contents of the teapot into his cup. He added two spoonfuls of sugar and some cream and tossed it all down his throat as though it were whisky.

“Damn,” he panted, stuffing a butter-and-cucumber sandwich into his mouth to ease the burning. He saw the pretty waitress on the other side of the room and caught her eye. He lifted his hand and waved softly at her, smiling. She smoothed her apron and approached him.

“Have you finished, sir?” she asked.

“Well yeah, just about. I could eat another sandwich. How’s this one—what was it? Liverwurst and something?”

“Liverwurst-and-cress, sir. It’s good. Personally I prefer a nice cheddar-and-tomato to anything we’ve got here, but for tea you’ve got to have daintier things, really.” She smiled at him and at herself for divulging this bit of disloyalty.

“Hmm,” Donald chewed thoughtfully and gazed into the waitress’s eyes.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Helen, sir,” she replied, biting her lip. “Helen Farmer.”

“Well, Helen, are you sure you won’t let me have the teapot? I’m shipping out for France tomorrow. I could get shot down in France and you won’t give me just one little teapot to send to my old mother at home?” Helen just smiled at him and bit her red bottom lip. In the background the piano tinkled and people talked softly through their noses about the opera, the price of furs these days, and their neighbors’ affairs.

“Helen,” Donald almost whispered. He reached out and laid a callused fingertip on her smooth freckled wrist. She bowed her head and was quiet. Nothing moved except her shoulders, rising and falling with her breath.

“How would you hide it?” she whispered, her eyes shining out at him from gaps in her hair.

Donald slowly took his cap from his knee and held it in his right hand while pretending to pour himself another cup of tea with his left. Then, after looking around to make sure the few others in the tearoom were completely engaged in their own conversations, he quickly transferred the empty teapot to his right hand, behind his cap. He secured the whole bundle in the crook of his left elbow, with his cap facing out so the teapot wasn’t visible.

Helen exhaled and smiled at him.

“Well then,” she said. Donald stood up, put some coins on the table, and pushed his chair in. He looked down at Helen and she raised her eyes to meet his.

“Walk me to the door?” he said softly. She nodded, and they walked away from the table, away from her trolley with the silver teapots and plates of sandwiches on the curtained shelf, away from the posh murmurs and the tinkling piano, over the thick carpet until they stood under the arch at the entrance to the tearoom.

Donald took Helen’s hand and kissed her fingers and then took the red geranium from his buttonhole and tucked it into her hair. Then he pulled her into the dark corner on the other side of the arch and kissed her sweet red lips. He turned and went out the door. When he stopped at the window and pulled his hat carefully from under his arm and raised it to her, her eyes glistened and her eyelashes were damp and pointed like stars.

Two and a half months later a tired brown-eyed woman bent her knees to pick up a stamp-plastered package from her doormat in Sacramento, California. When she saw her oldest son’s name written on the label in his quick swirling handwriting, she sat down on her stoop and put her soft freckly old hands to her face. Rays of sunlight penetrated the gaps in her fingers and the insides of her eyelids glowed pink. For several minutes she sat there, her bones and her heart held hard against the feelings she didn’t want to feel, and then she straightened her spine and set to work to unwrap her son’s gift to her.

            She opened the box and let the crumpled leaves of brown paper fall away. A beam of light caught on the silver of the teapot and lit up her face. She felt her breath tug in her chest as she turned the teapot in her hands, mesmerized by the sharp sunlight glancing off its curves. When she held it close to her face she noticed four smudgy fingerprints blurring the surface near the handle. She saw a note lying in the bottom of the box and unfolded it and read it to herself in a whisper.

            “To My Dear Mama. I got this from the tearoom at the Imperial Hotel in London. Don’t ask how! A pretty fancy place, though their sandwiches are nothing like yours. I’ll take you there someday. For now you can have this silver teapot and my love. Your son, Donald.”

            The brown-eyed woman stood slowly up and walked slowly into her house, clutching the teapot shining against her breast, the note tucked safe in her apron pocket. She walked down the hall to the small dining room, the rough wooden floors sighing under her and a breeze blowing thoughtfully through her dark hair. When she stood before the white-painted hutch she stopped and looked at the photograph on the shelf in front of her, a picture of a handsome square-faced young man standing smiling in the wind next to a silver airplane. She set the teapot gently on the shelf next to the photograph and then took the note and another folded piece of paper from her apron pocket. She unfolded this and held it up to her tired brown eyes. This time only her heart whispered the words; her voice was silent.

Mrs. Margaret McGowan

Greetings. The secretary of war expresses his deepest regret that your son Sergeant Donald A. McGowan was shot down on twenty four August nineteen forty four in an airborne mission over France.

                                                                                                J A Franks

The Adjutant General.

            She carefully folded the telegram back up, lifted the lid of the teapot, and put both papers inside. She stood there only long enough to catch a glimpse of her face, square and ruddy, reflected in the teapot’s shine, before she turned around and left the room, walking slowly down the hall on tired, tired legs.