Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer
She left me a teapot. In her will, a teapot. I was never under any illusion that she would leave me anything of financial value – her house, that collection of Russian Eggs that I had always admired as a child or Granddads war medals – ‘Hannah gets the teapot’, like it was a prized possession that would have be fought over otherwise. At least I got a mention, which is more than can be said for Aunty Marg – her own daughter.
We had shared many cuppas with that teapot over the years. I remember running over to Nanna’s when I had fought with Mum as a teenager, again and again. Nanna made tea, with leaves, in that very teapot. It wasn’t just a soothing beverage, it was a ceremony; spooning in the tea leaves, waiting for the whistle of the kettle being brought to life by the wood stove, the bubbly sound of boiling water being poured into the teapot and then we would wait for the water to turn the perfect shade of reddy brown. In that suspended time, there was only silence. My day of noise and chaos was quietened, my rant about Mum dissolved. My Nanna in her apron and perfectly set hair taught me patience, tolerance and love of all things simple without ever saying a word.
There was history in that teapot. It was given to my Nanna by her Nanna. It had survived the Great War, the civil war and family wars. It had endured horse rides, boat rides and car rides. It had to be over 100 years old and despite the fading of the little pink flowers, the delicate, pale blue, china teapot had survived. I carefully marvelled the antique bequeathed into my care. I turned it upside down to read the faint markings of its maker, when a letter fell out. Folded neatly and some pages in length, it was addressed to me. In shaky cursive blue pen, Nanna had started the letter with ‘Dear Hannah, I thought now might be the time to tell you a few truths about our family. The things we were never to speak about’. Looking back, I wasn’t ready for what was about to be revealed.