Making tea is an expression of love in our house

Tea is the currency of care, of noticing, in our house. Picture: istock

They dot the house, abandoned and forlorn. The Chap has taken to photographing them, a little too gleefully. “Forgotten something?” he texts, with the lonely, recriminating picture. They are my forgotten cups of tea, curdling to cold on the kitchen bench, by the bathroom sink, on the desk. Almost as ubiquitous as the habitual cry of, “Has anyone seen my phone?” Alongside its cousin, “Could someone please ring my phone?” You see, I make a cuppa, but then the washing machine beeping its demand calls me away, or the cat’s miaow, or the editor’s query, or the new writing thought that must be trapped by screen or pen immediately, before it’s lost ... and so from freshly made cup I am gone.

But I know that a brand new cuppa – accompanied, quite possibly, by a Monte biscuit if I’m lucky – will be following the sending of the pic. Because tea is the currency of care, of noticing, in these parts. The gift of attention. The Chap and I measure the getting of tea to the vastness of character in the kids. The one who offers it unthinkingly, often, is the one who’ll be attentive in the nursing home; we can feel it already.

On a weekday morning the ritual of the tea is finely honed. The Chap makes the brew for my journey to the station with the child who always misses the bus; he hands it to me in the keep cup as I thunder out the door in flannelette jarmies – ah, so attractive – but it’s all part of the well-worn grooves of parenthood in this house. The Chap gets his tea in return, from me, at regular intervals; sergeant majorish he likes it, proper strong.

The request, when out, is always, “Builders.” A hangover from the London days and I often have to explain it here. It means nothing fancy, strong and milky – and sugary if I’m feeling a little indulgent. In the Northern Territory, decades ago, that kind of tea was known as blackfella’s and it’s still my favourite. Is there any finer tea than at sunset, golden hour, out bush? With a stillness settling onto the world, a softness creeping into the light; with night gathering in and the Earth opening out to the dark and all the divine smells of evening coming into play. And the billy can on the fire and the tea in tin mugs, strong and sugary and milky, blackfella way, with a swirl of fine red dust quite possibly on the surface but who cares about that?

Nigella has tweeted of tea known as Meek and Wilky in her house; none of that in these parts, we like ours firm. But also milky. Ah, it is such a finesse and each to their own. God forbid the “nun’s tea” though – boiling water with just a dash of milk – or the frugality of the double-dipped teabag across two cups. Twitter tells me that Sergeant Major tea has morphed into containing a dash of whisky – interesting. I’m putting it on the list for The Chap.

And now, this weekend, the older boys are back for the second one’s birthday and the creaky old house seems to expand with their presence, wrapping itself around them, settling with relief at their return. So we are back, as the six of us, and an ecstatic dog is taken for walks at abnormal times and childhood bedrooms are re-commandeered and favourite couches are lounged across and snug corners are settled into, once again. And I stand back and watch, blissfully happy at the return, heart singing with love. I put on the kettle for whoever wants it, and they all do, minus the noticing one who gets it frequently for the lot of us. God love that child. “Cuppa, mum?” is said at one point, amid the bustle of noise and fresh energy in the house. And I remember once again the strange Rule of the Tea – it’s always more satisfying when it’s made by someone else.