There, you see, you managed a little walk.
I told you, didn't I? Look at the rain,
it's almost tropical. Nonsense, you need
the exercise. Waitress! Busy little thing.
It's amazing how they squeeze us all in.
Now, tea or coffee? No, they're far too rich
for you. A scone, perhaps? Coffee, please,
black, but not too strong. No gateaux, no.
You've changed your mind. I thought you might.
Two coffees, yes. Now don't start, please!


With a daughter in school, a son in Hong Kong,
Brandy under the rosebed, and Gerald, gone,
she often found herself here, talking to Mother.
She adored the little trays they served
the tea on, the doomed upholstery, the past.
Not English, no, European, Hungarian perhaps.
She tried to discriminate, as Gerald
would have wished. But the Cutlers liked it here.
And Mother wouldn't meet her anywhere else.
Besides, anywhere else was an empty house.


I'm disgusted with her. She could have picked
the phone up, any evening after six.
Just to let me know if nothing else. Waitress!
I need a chemist, and I must catch the post.
Quentin, of course. I can't afford to ring!
Hong Kong isn't England, you know.
I do wish they'd hurry up and leave it
to the Chinese. They deserve it, after all.
Ah, here we are. Sugar? Mother, really,
you haven't listened to a word I've said.


Mother never listened, hadn't for years,
and now she was deaf. Deaf to what mattered -
the Insomnia, the Alcohol, the Chinks…
The three R's, as Gerald always said.
Dear Gerald, rotten with politics,
cancer, defeat. She tried to forget, but
memory flared, abrupt, malarial.
That ghastly business in the yellow press.
And he loved the Chinese. He was Chinese!
She organised the milk, while Mother poured.


The ingratitude! I mean, we tried to help.
What else are empires for? More milk, perhaps?
I did ask, didn't I? How does who cope?
Scotch, I expect, and a full-time nanny,
of course. Heavens, it's almost twenty-past,
you might have said. He'll never forgive me
if I don't catch the post. Waitress!
Poor little thing. Attractive though.
Not English, no. Iranian, perhaps…
Another revolution, I suppose.