History of the Unseen
I awoke knowing I had to finish with Ella. She no longer filled the vacant space left by my wife. Over time, she had been imposing her will on my memories. My young niece once asked if I could take her on a boat trip to the place where I proposed. That place on the canal would always be for my wife, Joan – no one else. Ella suggested that maybe my wife wanted her ashes sprinkled on the canal - I know she meant well, but either she made that up, or she was trying to erase my wife. The canal was sacred to me. I would not share it with anyone.
It was another work day, another solitary coffee, and yet another attempt in which Ella intruded into my consecrated space. Like an overripe grape that soured the wine, her days were numbered. The empty, glaring sugar bowl reminded me that Ella took two teaspoons. Perhaps poison the sugar. I could make scrambled eggs, cherry tomatoes and toast. It would have to be brown toast and served on the blue dishes with the white napkins - a gift that Ella had kept because they reminded her of our many meals together. A poisoned Ella no longer smiled; I would search for something more pragmatic. A simple break up would not do the job.
Ella’s desires took on a life of their own, something I had not anticipated. While still obedient and kind, she became unpredictable.
After telling me, ‘Uncle, we never see you, and you always look so tired,’ my niece made me realise Ella had taken much of my time, leaving me emotionally drained and isolated from my family.
Unlike my family, the bond I shared with riders to and from work had grown stronger. They supported me with smiles, kind words or remarks about the weather; they didn’t remind me of what I had lost.
So, on that bleak London morning, I waited for the No.133 bus. Henry, the conductor waved gleefully as I ascended the stairs making my way to the front seat. Glad to have left the rain on Streatham High Street, I lit a cigarette. As the bus meandered through the city I watched people, hoping their hustle and bustle would inspire me for a way to erase Ella.
When my wife died, the heartache never truly left me. The motion of the bus lulled me into memory. Her scent lingered on the mattress; her soft touch cradled the sheets. As the bus drove through a puddle, splashing up over the pavement, tears spurted from my eyes, like water breaking out of a hydrant. Drenched in grief, I procured a new mattress and sheets in the vibrant fibers of a morning sunrise. My moment of cathartic joy turned sour when Ella described my purchase as ‘a frivolous waste of money’.
I disembarked at Monument, navigated the intersection, turned down Threadneedle Street and entered my bank. On the security guard’s desk was a Daily Mail displaying photos of canals that had burst their banks due to all the rain we had had lately. I let out a soft gasp as my heart softened.
I removed the cover from my IBM Selectric typewriter and waited for the cheques. An IBM typewriter was a privilege. Because of the Golf Ball technology, I no longer had to worry about key-jam, meaning I could, and did, blast out 80 wpm. We all worked as a clan of professionals - kin who perfected our skills. My fingers glided over the keys while the tellers magically sorted cash. I typed my way through the cheques, as others sorted – highest amounts on top, Bank of England in one pile, Lloyds in the other.
Everything reconciled just as tea arrived. Morning tea break defines a civilised nation. Beth, my tea lady, would come to my desk, and in her soft voice would whisper, ‘Good morning, dear, cuppa and a biscuit?’ Gently, she placed the cup and saucer on my right. Here love, have a nice day.’ Only in heaven can such bliss be obtained. Who wouldn’t be motivated? The tea, so refreshing; a touch of honey; the savory biscuit melting on my tongue. This ritual enriched my day, made me steady in my routine, loyal to my family, obedient to my bank. To me it represented all that was right with the world; all that should be heard and seen. Harmony flowed here. At home, though, Ella’s demands to remove my wife’s ashes had been growing louder.
The bell rang and I dashed over to Leadenhall Market for a bit of lunch. As I entered, a bucket fell from above, narrowly missing a man with red hair moving his flowers in a cart. Window washers could be so careless. But… how easy it would be for an accident to happen here. If Ella died here, while searching for a unique gift, perhaps a box decorated with a mandala for my niece to hold her precious possessions, then Ella’s ending could be through kindness, just like her beginning. What heavy object could fall on Ella? Would she approve?
I returned to work, stopping first at the loo in the basement. The tea ladies' sobs pounded through the thin wall of the toilet, like sticky, overused typewriter keys. Little did I know, both would become echoes of the past. I closed the door, but the wall still wouldn’t agree to muffling their distress.
’I can’t believe we’re being replaced, it’s just not right,’ sobbed one of the tea ladies. ‘In five years, I would have retired. What will you do?’
‘I guess I’ll live with my daughter and her four children. I love them dearly, but they take a lot of energy. Beth, what about you?’
‘Maybe I’ll move to Australia to be with my son. I’d hate to leave my garden, my beautiful roses, but with no job, I can’t afford to keep my house.’
This couldn’t be happening to my tea ladies. This was an unheard-of practice in London, in a corporate bank, in the city, in 1985. There must have been a mistake. Filled with despair I waited until they left before venturing up the narrow stairs which were layered in washed-out paint. Every step cracked beneath my feet, as if breaking under my grief.
The cheques arrived, were typed, sorted and left. Two thirty came. The manager’s hurried announcement directed us towards the supply room. There we found a stupid, cold, steel vending machine. No biscuits inside it. The room had all the stationary wonders you could imagine, but the one thing a vending machine should offer, didn’t. No biscuits.
How could they replace our tea ladies with a vending machine? What had the world come to, what would come next? Would they put slots on the loos? I couldn’t quell my disbelief. An established institution, a so-called dignified company, had a reputation to lead, but had once and for all, failed.
We all watched as one of the consultants’ coins stumbled down the slot, a plastic cup fell into a cage, then black tea slid down the edge like a child’s runny nose, while powdered white stuff sat on top. The consultants’ lips acted as if they were drinking, but they barely touched the cup. Most of the fluid everyone took back to their desks became food for an innocent plant.
An ugly brick was propped awkwardly against the machine. I recall it being used to help stabilise the machine when it was moved in - now it was redundant. After one consultant had purchased tea, he turned away from the machine, cup in hand, and clipped the brick with his polished shoes, tripping over and spilling the cup’s innards all over the floor. Out of frustration, he kicked the brick away. This machine had brought about all kinds of misfortune.
I wanted to chuck it into the Thames. I wanted my biscuits. It made me angry, and when I was angry, Ella was a comfort. She had to go, though.
The withered plant died as the clock touched five. As I walked to the station, over London Bridge, I wanted to ask Ella about her opinion of this sudden change. But why bother if that night she would become part of history?
As the sun was setting, I stopped to reflect. The breeze rolled away the stuffy office air and the sound of the river below dulled my hurt, pulling my thoughts downward and into the dramatic Thames River. It held artefacts documenting lessons we thought we had learned. Joy would be drowned in the mighty river.
As I continued towards the bus station, the sense of betrayal was overwhelming. At least my No.133 bus waited for me; it was a continual comfort, except now, someone was in my seat. I sat behind the seat stealer, then gazed out the window. By the time we got to Elephant and Castle my tears steadily poured down my face. I could not stop them. A latino woman leaving Metro Central Heights crossed the street struggling to carry her heavy groceries. Everything was too heavy to carry, my tea ladies, my wife, even the sight of the woman’s struggle. Ella.
An image of my niece beside the canal, releasing my wife’s ashes, briefly rested in my mind. Her ashes drifted down the canal, no trace of their heavy burden remained. If only I could find that grace. What would I do in a world so in need of the kindness the tea ladies bestowed on me?
We passed Brixton. I dried my tears once we reached Sainsbury’s. I made my way downstairs. I walked the rest of the way home, intent on shedding Ella.
Unlocking the front door, determined to restore joy, I entered my flat, crossed over to my Smith Corona, removed the cover, and rolled the sheet of paper to the spot on the eye of the typewriter. The keys responded to my innate sorrow, they sensed the transformative power and consent of a muse. My fingers tapped Ella’s legacy; as the protagonist she knew how to finish the villain.
‘Ella walked into the supply room, felt weak, and fell against the vending machine. Kind-hearted Beth came to her aid but a poorly-placed brick thwarted her attempt to save Ella. The machine tumbled to the floor, crushing both Ella and that atrocious slot. Never again would it accept coins, pour tea into plastic cups or murder plants.’
