Jane set the china teapot down on the little glass table in front of us. She sat herself down on the lounge next to me, teetering on the edge, getting ready to pour the tea into the cups. She leaned over and placed one sugar cube in each, poured the earl grey tea and topped it up with a swirl of milk. She turned to me and handed me the dainty, floral cup and saucer and smiled at me as she picked her own up and settled back into the lounge to get comfortable.
“So”, she said facing me. “What's all this about?”. She took a sip of tea and the rim of the cup covered her mouth and nose but her eyes were staring straight at mine. They were piercing blue and matched the daisies on the cup. She reminded me of a barn owl sitting on a perch, silently stalking her prey, or in this case, waiting for me to speak.
“Well, you'll never believe it Jane. I was so embarrassed, I was. I felt like I just wanted to disappear", I said as I paused for a sip of my own tea. "It's Mrs Whitlam you see. She's accused me of stealing whisky from the drinks cabinet in Mr Whitlam's private study!”, I continued, speaking quickly as I watched Jane's face for her reaction. She was my best friend in London and had known me ever since I moved here 5 years ago. She knew I was a good, respectable nanny, I was one of the best.
“Oh Katherine! I'm utterly shocked. What on earth is she thinking? Surely she knows you'd never do such a thing?”, Jane said with a hand placed dramatically over her chest in shock.
“Well I'd hoped she'd never think so but Mr Whitlam arrived home from his station in France. He injured his foot and can no longer fight. He called me into the study at 5pm last night after I'd gotten the children settled and ready for dinner. I was just on my way out the door when he called me in. I knew it must've been important, I half thought he might be raising my wages, but no. Do you know he even had the local policeman there”.
“Oh heavens Katy! What did you do? What did he say?”
“Well he just blurted it out as if he already believed it to be fact! Two whole bottles from his personal collection – gone, stolen. Of course I vehemently denied it. I was in such shock and embarrassment. I may not be the best nanny in England but I’m a good worker and reliable and I would never steal anything from anyone”, I said in my own defence, Jane nodding her head in agreement.
“Of course not! How dare they accuse you of that in such a way. How hurtful to your reputation as well. If they fired you you'd never get another job and then what would you do with your William still away at war. I'd like to know what he'd say about all of this. Are you going to write to him to tell him?”
I shook my head and sat up straighter on the edge of the lounge.
“Well, this is the best part. I went home so upset and angry that I thought I must write my resignation. I mean I didn't want to leave Jamie and Sarah, they're such good children, but my reputation was at stake. So I wrote it up on my finest writing set, went to bed early and rose early so as I could be at the house to speak to Mr Whitlam before the children woke up”, I took another sip of tea.
“Yes, go on”, Jane encouraged.
“Well to my surprise, Mr Whitlam was waiting for me in the entrance hall. He motioned for me to go into the study and as I entered the room I looked to the desk and saw an open, half drunk bottle of whisky. I suddenly thought 'Oh no, not again' but he asked me to sit down and started to apologise to me. He said he was very sorry for the terrible accusations and that he had found Mrs Whitlam in the kitchen late last night with the bottle on the desk and she was so drunk that she admitted it was her that had been drinking them all along! She blamed me as there was no-one else!”.
“Oh my Katherine, how shocking! He must've been terribly sorry and embarrassed himself by this stage. Why on earth was she hiding it from him?”.
“Well he said that she had been so stressed out that he was away in France fighting the war, she hadn't had any letters or telegrams from him and she needed to escape all the realities in her life for a while. I can't blame her for that I suppose, but she should never have said it was me. I suppose it's going to be quite difficult for her to see me on Monday morning. Perhaps she'll stay out of my way for a little while”.
“Oh my, yes I suspect she may! And they say we lower classes have all the problems! How common! Come now Katy dear, have some more tea. I've to tell you all my gossip now”.
About the Creator
E M
Hey there! ☺️ Thanks for stopping by. Hopefully you enjoy some of my work!
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
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