30
30
F ROM THE OUTSIDE, BOBBY’S house looks like every house around here: a well-built, well-insulated, double-glazed, three-up, three-down property. From the inside, though, Bobby’s house looks really nice. The rising Sun is filtering through the east-facing windows, shining a light on the house’s interiors. Bobby’s mum has painted the walls all manner of colours. At one end is a mural featuring a jungle scene. At the other end is a wall that features various shades of pink.
Bobby dumps his backpack on the floor, flings his body flat on the sofa, grabs the remote, and turns on the TV. The faffing with the police took so long that it’s tomorrow already. It seems he wants to put on some breakfast TV and flake out.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Bobby’s mum asks.
Bobby rubs his eyes. ‘What does it look like?’
‘It looks like you’re not getting dressed for school.’
Bobby looks at his mum, says nothing.
‘Don’t go thinking you’re missing today just because of your shenanigans. It doesn’t work like that.’
‘I just, um…’ Bobby makes a face.
‘You just what?’
‘What about her?’ Bobby points to you. ‘Does she have to go to school?’
‘Who’s she, the cat’s mother?’
‘The cat’s mother?’ i
Bobby’s mum lets out a big sigh. ‘I’m losing my patience a bit, Bobster. I know you’re annoyed at me but I’m annoyed at you too. You need to skedaddle upstairs pronto, please. Go get ready for school. C’mon.’
Sensing he shouldn’t linger at the waning end of his mother’s patience, Bobby obliges, makes his bouncing way upstairs.
Bobby’s mum turns to you, pressing the back of her hand against your forehead and cheeks.
‘Clammy,’ she says, peering at you wide-eyed. ‘Ever so clammy, ever so pale.’
You gulp. You don’t know if Bobby’s mum will further diagnose you with thinness, peakiness, or wooziness. You’re not a medical professional, but you fear you may be suffering from all of the above.
In the end, Bobby’s mum just says she thinks you need some herbal tea. According to Bobby’s mum, your paleness and clamminess suggest that you are lacking in the essential vitamins and minerals only herbal teas can provide.
‘Vitamin A, vitamin B, a little zinc, a little iron,’ she says, beckoning you to the open-plan kitchen area.
You make a non-committal sound, wondering if the herbs in the herbal tea feature in the Voynich Manuscript, then thinking about tea. From your reading, you know that some languages call tea ‘tea’ (or something that sounds like ‘tea’ ii ) but that other languages call tea ‘chai’ (or something that sounds like ‘chai’). iii You know this has to do with trading routes. If the tea was transported from China to another country via a boat, it was called ‘tea’ (or something that sounds like ‘tea’). But if the tea was transported from China to another country via land, it was called ‘chai’ (or something that sounds like ‘chai’).
‘Did your mum ever give you herbal tea?’ Bobby’s mum asks, pounding cinnamon and cardamom with a pestle and mortar.
You are confused by Bobby’s mum’s use of ‘did’. ‘What?’ you say.
‘Herbal tea. Does your mum ever give you herbal tea?’
‘Oh, no.’ You shake your head. Bobby’s mum shakes her head too. ‘Your poor mum,’ she says, before adding: ‘And poor you.’ She squeezes honey into the mixture.
Upstairs, you hear a bang. Bobby is making a lot of noise as he gets ready. Downstairs, Bobby’s mum finishes making your herbal tea and places it before you. You sniff it. It smells like grass. You take a sip. The sip tastes interesting – like mint sprinkled with urine, sweat, and Christmas all mixed together. It tastes so interesting that you know in your bones you can neither finish it nor retain what you have just imbibed.
‘I need the toilet,’ you say, getting up a little too abruptly.
You take the cup of tea with you to the downstairs loo. Once there, you pour the tea down the sink. At the bottom of the mug are dregs of the herbs and spices Bobby’s mum said would do you so much good. Brown and green, green and brown.
A sudden wave of nausea hits you. You open the toilet seat and vomit. When there’s nothing more in you, you find yourself overcome by light-headedness.
When you come to, you are propped up on Bobby’s shoulders. You are in his room. You see his bed is like a bunk bed, except it has a desk for a bottom bunk instead of a bed. What a nerd, you think, vaguely. Who has a desk instead of a bed, instead of a bunk bed with two beds?
‘How is a desk a bed,’ you mumble incoherently. ‘What is a desk bed sleep for.’
It is difficult for Bobby and Bobby’s mum to hoick you into such an elevated bed. In the end, Bobby gets onto the bed before you, lifts you upwards as his mum gives you a push on the bum. Once there, you flump yourself down in a sideways manner. Bobby’s bed smells nice – like roses and lemon and lavender. The sheets seem clean and feel cool. You are vaguely aware of Bobby climbing back down the ladder, vaguely aware of him saying something to his mum.
Moments later, you are asleep.
Further reading:
A History of Chai, Otherwise Known as Tea
A History of Tea, Otherwise Known as Chai
Footnotes
i This is another idiom about cats that has nothing to do with cats. ‘Who’s she, the cat’s mother?’ means, ‘Why are you employing the feminine singular third-person pronoun when you could be employing your friend’s name?’
ii For example, ‘te’, ‘té’, ‘thé’, ‘tee’, and ‘teh’.
iii For example, ‘cha’, ‘chá’, and ‘sa’.