Tea and similarity

He'd lost count of the number of times he'd assembled the contents of this tray—salt cellar, a boiled egg in a mint-green eggcup, a spoon, and a stack of pale soldiers dampened with butter—but today was different. The toast was as always the colour of marzipan, had barely felt the heat before being rescued from the toaster. As always too all trace of crust had been removed, lest Mrs Sims' dentures be unable to cope. And the eggshell was still immaculate, awaiting the force of Mrs Sims' own will, still strong enough for her to wield it with a little elderly pride.

But, oh, how it could all have been ruined! Because today was different. That's why, although Mrs Sims' tea was stationed between the egg and the tray corner as always—teabag still there to give it "a bit of body"—there was another mug beside it. Most of the other mugs were hardly ever used and sat gathering some sort of unidentifiable bakelite dust at the back of Mrs Sims' kitchen cupboards, but he'd dragged one out today, because it was different, and the tea in it was almost as pale as the toast... because today Mrs Sims had a real visitor. Not just him, the home help.

Mrs Sims' daughter didn't come round nearly often enough: Charlie had thought that to himself; Mrs Sims had hinted at it once or twice—but rarely, because she wouldn't be beholden—and her daughter said as much when she apologized for her brazen attempt on her mother's egg.

"It's the shifts, you see," she explained, stepping back to show she yielded to Charlie, and leaning against the draining-board. Charlie could now get on with the preparations unhindered. He shuffled a bit, to stand square with the tray. "I've got a bit more leeway now that I'm sister, of course. But I've still got to set an example. So I don't want to seem to be neglecting my duties just because it's me that decides on the rota."

Charlie nodded, and busied himself with the breakfast-making for a moment. It dawned on him that a reply was needed, and he said:

"Well, it's certainly perked her up to see you, Miss Sims—"

"Carol, please," she replied, and then: "Really? You think she's happy I've come?"

"Oh, definitely," Charlie said, setting his bottom lip in a position that brooked no argument. He thought to himself, though, that it was difficult most days to work out even the primary colour of Mrs Sims' moods; she was so opaque. But it couldn't hurt to say what he'd said.

He made one last check of the tray, and then picked it up and headed towards the door. "Oh, let me hold it open for you," Carol said, and bustled round him to the handle. Charlie smiled a thanks and they did a brief dance that resulted, happily, in getting him and his burden into the warmth of Mrs Sims' living-room.

"Took your time, Chalkie," Mrs Sims said, eyes grinning even if her mouth wasn't.

"I was just entertaining your daughter," Charlie said, and set the tray down on the low table in front of Mrs Sims' chair. The surfaces clattered together, and Mrs Sims leaned forward automatically to take up one of her toast soldiers.

"That's what they call it these days, is it?" And then, before anyone could reply: "That's her mug, then, I take it. Bit weak for my tastes. Engaged yet, Carol, dear?"

Carol rolled her eyes theatrically, clearly actually annoyed underneath. "No, not yet, mother," she replied wearily, and then to Charlie: "She asks me that every time I see her." She sat down on the sofa, at the end next to her mother's chair, and reached for her mug. Mrs Sims seemed satisfied that the tray was now as it should be.

"Well," Mrs Sims explained, "I'm sure you're doing wonderful work on the ward, but you should want more than that. You must have all those lovely doctors chasing you by now. Let one of them catch you, make an honest woman of you. I might see some grandkids before.... I won't be around for ever, you know."

Charlie didn't know what to say. He'd never been very good at small talk. Mrs Sims could usually draw him out of himself a bit, but all her attention was directed at her daughter. He wondered, after all, if Carol was really welcome in the house until suddenly, without making eye contact, Mrs Sims reached over with her free hand and patted Carol's as it rested on the arm of the sofa.

"Still, it's lovely to see you, dear. Oh, I just remembered. Ethel Beaman brought round some toffees. Quality Street. I can't abide them myself. But they're just by the side of the sofa, so don't stand on ceremony. Don't eat them all, though. Let Chalkie have a few. Besides, you should be watching your figure."

Later, Charlie and Carol were doing the washing-up. Carol dried what Charlie cleaned. At first she had to ask where each item of crockery went, but eventually it was obvious. Tariq had been looking in on Mrs Sims over the weekend, and he never did the washing up, so there was more to clean than on most week-days. They chatted at the same time, or tried to. Charlie told her at one point that he was never one for chatting. Letting someone know you find chatting difficult makes it all the harder, Charlie knew, but he never learned. So there was a bit of stilted talk, then a pause in which dishes clanked and soapsuds shushed and dripped from plate to bowl and back.

"She does go on," Carol grumbled after one particularly long pause.

"Mrs Sims?" Charlie asked, although it was obvious. Carol nodded. "Oh, I think she just wants the best for you. Just doesn't know how to say it."

Carol looked unconvinced. "She teases me like that every time I see her. I think the only thing it's meant to tell me is that she's still got the power to annoy me."

"Surely not. She probably wants you to have more fun than she did. Her generation had two wars and not much freedom. She'd just like to see you out enjoying yourself, maybe, instead of working so hard at the hospital."

"You think?" Carol asked, looking out of the corner of her eye.

Charlie carried on rinsing dishes, but noticed the look.

"She's a pain in the arse. Sorry, Charlie, but you know what I mean. I love her, but she drives me up the wall."

They carried on cleaning the dishes.

"So you think she'd be happier if I was out chasing men, then?"

Charlie laughed, nervously. "I didn't say that, did I? But maybe you should relax more. Like you said, you're sister now, so you've got breathing space. Maybe fix that rota in your favour every once in a while."

Carol looked at him, for longer this time. "Are you volunteering your services, then, Charlie? I don't think this sort of thing is covered in home visits."

Charlie looked back at her, then down to the dishes. His face passed through a half-dozen expressions before settling on a kind of polite, thoughtful frown. "Now, don't get me wrong, Miss- Carol. You're a lovely lady. But I... I'm not sure if you're my type. I mean, if I'm your type. I mean. I'm sure there's lots of fellas out there who would jump at the chance to...."

He tailed off. Carol put down the dish she hadn't been drying for a couple of minutes now. She moved towards Charlie and put a hand on her hip.

"Let me tell you something, Charlie. It might come as a bit of a shock." Charlie stopped his rinsing and waited. "That woman in there's sharper than you think. She's probably even sharper than I give her credit for. I don't know what she's told you, but—" she was quite close now "—in my time I've had more than my fair share of men, that's for certain."

Charlie started at this, and Carol took her chance to move another step towards the sink. She was now close enough that Charlie's arm and side could somehow tell how close she was, even though she wasn't touching him.

"Medical students do a lot of sleeping around, and I joined in when I could. It's all true what you heard about us nurses, you know. Oh, yeah: I've certainly had my fair share of men. And I'll tell you something else," she said, a little huskily, moving even closer.

Charlie swallowed. "What?"

"So's she. All the men on Ferris Close, but that was demolished before both our time so you won't know how long a road it was. But she's got a notch on the bedpost for each one of the armed services. And a couple for the fire brigade. Heaven knows how many men from the ordnance factory. Like mother, like daughter. So make sure you think of that, next time you're watching her dunk soldiers in her egg." She turned away, folded the towel on the rack, and went back to her mother.