The Triple Goddess

by Ashly Graham

  On a table are ten brown double-handled earthenware teapots, waiting to be warmed with hot water from the kettles, with their spouts pointing in the same direction.

  Owing to their circumnavigatory nature, the Aristotles never take the quickest way anywhere; so, though the Tea Shoppe is in the middle of the Street, after Third Lunch there is no time for dilly-dallying, let alone shilly-shallying, if one is to arrive promptly. The preference is to get there a little early, in order to secure a seat closest to the kitchen door; then, when the Misses Bunne come out with new plates of things to put on the half-dozen tables, one can ask to take a piece “before it disappears”—which it will as surely as chocolate cake has a short life, of about fifteen minutes from the time that it is introduced into society.

  The Aristotles’ route takes them along the track into the beech wood, out the other side and up the downs, along the top for half a mile, down again, and through the wood and a gate into a field, over a stile, through another field and gate, and down a path back to the Street where the Tea Shoppe is.

  There Mrs Crampton-Bunne and her daughters are waiting, hoping that the cucumber sandwiches won’t curl at the edges before they arrive, which they don’t because the Crampton-Bunnes have timed the preparation to a T.

  When they get to the Tea Shoppe, the Aristotles use the hoof-scraper at the front door and wipe their feet on a mat. They are in such a hurry to get indoors that they don’t do a very good job of it; but Mrs Crampton-Bunne doesn’t say anything—not because she doesn’t mind her rugs getting dirty, but because an Aristotle tea is as good an afternoon’s business as it is possible to have, and one does not offend such custom; not that anyone has ever offended an Aristotle.

  Then Mrs C.-B. ushers the Aristotles in to warm themselves in front of the fire, if they want to before sitting down, which they do not.

  The round tables are laid with bone china cups and saucers, and plates, and starched linen napkins that Mrs Crampton-Bunne’s daughters have folded into sailboats. Mrs C.-B. isn’t concerned about the fate of her china, for although the Aristotles’ teatime behaviour is rumbustious, they are very good about using their forefeet in a delicate manner, so as not to spill their tea, and not to knock the crockery and plates on the floor, as they reach for this and that; which the Aristotles do so frequently that they are never still.

  When the tea is brewed, or mashed as they say up north, the Misses Crampton-Bunne, who have very strong arms from the frequent lifting of teapots—the teapots have an additional ring handle on the top in front of the lid—circulate with them and pour; and the Aristotles help themselves to the jugs of creamy milk and bowls of lump sugar that are already on the tables.

  After the third cups of tea have been poured, and there has been a token amount of polite conversation, and exchange of gossip, while they stir sugar in their cups, and make a strategic survey to make sure that none of the groups has something that they don’t, and in no greater quantity, the Aristotles get stuck into the sandwiches as if they haven’t eaten since Third Lunch; which is the case.

  Starting with the least, or less important, ones, there are cheese sandwiches, and Marmite sandwiches for those who like Marmite, and most do, and peanut butter sandwiches. Then there are egg and watercress sandwiches, and lettuce and tomato sandwiches, and cucumber sandwiches, and anchovy paste sandwiches, and potted shrimp sandwiches. All are neatly arranged on doilies and willow pattern plates, and cut into triangles with the crusts off; not because there’s anything wrong with the Aristotles’ teeth, which grow as fast as they are worn down from chomping, but because Mrs Crampton-Bunne keeps a genteel establishment.

  The most popular sandwiches are those of smoked salmon, and chicken, and ham, and tongue, and beef; each of which can be snatched by a hoof faster than the eye can see. They are made with white bread and brown bread, and granary bread, and wholemeal bread, and wheat bread; and some have white on one side, and brown on the other; which, if one had time, and one does not, would make it fun to guess what might be on the side facing down…which it never does for very long.

  There is no word for “stale” in the Aristotle language.

  There are other breads too, with no filling: Irish soda, sourdough, caraway seed, and dark rye, otherwise known as pumpernickel; potato, laver, malt, raisin, and banana—all sliced and spread with creamy yellow butter fresh from the dairy.

  When the sandwiches are finished, which doesn’t take long, and more tea has been poured—actually, it has never stopped being poured, by the C.-B. daughters, who have to boil a great deal of water in the copper kettles to keep the teapots replenished, after they have been rotated through the kitchen to have the tea leaves replaced—and drunk, the cakes are brought out on stands.

  It is impossible to exaggerate the importance of cake, and its attendant sweetmeats, to Aristotles. Any day that they’ve reserved all the tables at the Tea Shoppe for one of their teas, and they always reserve all of them, Mrs Crampton-Bunne and her daughters have to get up at two o’clock in the morning, three hours earlier than usual, in order to bake enough to nearly satisfy the Aristotles’ appetite for cake.

  Mrs C.-B. makes Bath Buns. She makes scones, and muffins, and tea bread and teacakes, and Scotch pancakes; she makes rock cakes, and cinnamon rolls, and Danish pastries; she makes custard pies, treacle tarts, parkins, gingerbread, and flapjack, and turnovers; she makes bread pudding, and blanket- or bolster pudding. She spares neither oven nor child in the preparation of Dundee cake, and Madeira and Battenberg and Eccles cakes; of plum duff, and fruit flan; of marble, and simnel, and seed, and sponge, and carrot, and lardy, and date-and-walnut cakes.

  Conspicuous by their presence on such occasions are macaroons, and doughnuts; and whipped creams, and brownies, and chocolate éclairs; and Swiss rolls, and brandy-snaps; and jam, and custard tarts, and maids of honour; and malted milk biscuits, and the ones called Squashed Flies because they have raisins in them.

  In winter, Mrs Crampton-Bunne produces a magnificent five-tiered wedding cake...whether there’s been a wedding or not has nothing to do with it...with columns supporting each level. The fruit mixture is covered with marzipan and thick white icing, in imitation of a skating rink, and the top layer is decorated with tiny models of skaters in costumes.

  “Well, that really takes the biscuit!”, the Aristotles say, reaching for the chocolate digestives while waiting for the cake to be cut; before continuing, “It seems such a shame to...”, after it has been.

  As they eat, the Tea Shoppe is filled with animated conversation, for the Aristotles are skilled in the art of eating, drinking, and talking to several people, into and out of several parts of their mouths at the same time, without making it look or seem rude. Many are the exclamations of, “Oh, but this is good,” and, “Excuse my reach,” and, “Would you mind passing?” and, “Don’t mind if I do,” and, “Really I shouldn’t, but I will,” and, “Well, I suppose I could manage it if no one else wants it”; followed by full-up sighs and half-suppressed burps and patted stomachs, and, “O me, O my”s.

  The Aristotles don’t believe in stinting themselves, and would never think of leaving anything on their plates “to be polite”, thereby implying that there wasn’t enough food; because although there nearly wasn’t, there was.

  After the Crampton-Bunnes have cleared the tables, and swept the crumbs with soft brushes into little silver trays, the Aristotles launch into the “Aunts and Uncles” teatime ditty that they always recite to aid their cast-iron digestions:

  “

  It’s Teatime—we know, because Lunches

  Are over. A nice cup of cha will put

  You on your mettle and improve your fettle

  No end.

  Fill up the sugar bowl, and bring out the

  Stained old strainer of your great-grandmother’s;

  The Wedgwood milk jug, the one without

  The chip; the Staffordshire cups and saucers,

  For mugs will never do; and the set


  Of rat-tail spoons.

  Put the kettle on the fire

  To boil for not for too long.

  Remember to warm

  The pot first to wake it up,

  And to pour fresh boiling water onto the leaves—

  A spoon for each person, and one for the pot—

  And leave it to steep with the cosy on.

  Then stir it.

  Don’t let it sit so long

  That it stews. Fat chance of that!

  There are pots of Earl Grey, and of Darjeeling—

  No tea bags for us—strong enough to trot a mouse on,

  And China or Lapsang Souchong for drinking

  With a wedge of lemon; and camomile.

  Add milk to the cups before

  You pour the tea, so that the bone china

  Doesn’t crack. Besides which, it is unrefined

  To do it the other way round.

  Boil some more water

  To top up the pots for the second round.

  You must cut the cake into thick pieces,

  But slice the bread as thinly as possible—

  Don’t get the two confused—butter the bread

  Evenly, and remove the crusts.

  Did you remember to peel the cucumber,

  And to cut it into wafers, and to squirt it with lemon juice?

  Did you put out the dishes of honey, and damson jam,

  And the blackberry, peach, and blackcurrant jelly,

  And the strawberry and raspberry jam?

  Are the sausage rolls ever coming out of the oven?

  Where’s that extra bowl of clotted cream for the scones?

  When in due course we’re finished,

  Meaning that everything’s gone

  —Though we know there’s always more

  Where all that came from—

  Aunts and uncles say:

  ‘There! Wasn’t that relaxing?’

  Well, perhaps for aunts and uncles

  Who sit, and drawl,

  ‘We find it all so taxing,’—reaching for their cups

  Of bohea, and drinking with a curly hoof—

  Before pouncing on the strawberry shortcake

  Because nobody passed it soon enough.

  We say, ‘So glad you could come...

  See you again next week!’

  ”

  Everyone laughs at the last part about the aunts and uncles, for as hard as they try to keep their hoofs from curling, they can’t; just like you see people’s little fingers stick out like piglets’ tails when they’re drinking tea.

  Then it’s time to say thank you, and goodbye, to the Crampton-Bunnes, and leave them to clearing the tables and washing up and sweeping the floor.

  Even by Aristotle standards this has been a large tea, larger than usual, and…here’s a thing!...they are overcome by a desire to take a nap, instead of going on to High Tea when they get home.

  So, after checking that nobody is watching outside, which there isn’t because everyone was indoors at Tea, the Aristotles speed home without taking their usual roundabout route; and in minutes they’re dozing before the fire in their comfiest chairs.

  What the Aristotles dream about, the zephyr that the Wind sends to look in the Aristotles’ windows cannot tell. But he is able to report that the supper-table is already set for the evening meal: with a mushroom and primrose pie, with hollyhock salad, and dandelion bread; with cherry cobbler, roly-poly, and apple crumble; with violet trifle, and lemon meringue pie; with nutmeg custard, and flummery, and junket and sillabub; with rosehip liqueur, and lavender syrup.

  Should you want to know more about the Aristotle diet, traditional recipes, and baking practices...I’m sorry! There isn’t world enough and time, as Andrew Marvell said, left in which to tell you.

  ’

  ‘

  Occasionally the Aristotles are visited by their cousins the Threeps.

  The Threeps are sheep who say and do everything three times, and in threes; and they drink milk, instead of eating grass and hay, because they maintain that consuming vegetation makes one stupid.

  The Threeps decided that grass was bad for them when they noticed how clever and playful and friendly the lambs of common or field sheep are, while they’re feeding on milk from their mothers; but as soon as they grow up and start eating grass, instead of moving on to doing calculus as Threep adolescents do, they spend the rest of their days eating in public with an unattractive sideways motion of the jaw, and regurgitating their food as if chewing it once wasn’t enough.

  Now, it is indeed true that it’s impossible to converse with ordinary sheep after they switch from drinking their mothers’ milk to eating grass, because all they ever say is “Ba-a”. But although they’re not aware of it, the Threeps have a vocabulary that is similarly limited, the sole difference being that they repeat “Ba-a” twice: “Ba-a, ba-a, ba-a”; and not just because they’re trying to reinforce a point. Whereas a common or field sheep might say “Ba-a” once, twice, or three or more times, as the mood takes it, the Threeps irrespective of circumstances say it thrice.

  For example, when an Aristotle meets a Threep and says, “How are you this fine morn, Cousin Threep?”, the answer is always in the negative: “Ba-ad, ba-ad, ba-ad”; even though Cousin Threep believes that he or she is responding by saying, “Quite well, thank you. Three-minus-two”…instead of “one” meaning “I”, Threeps say “three-minus-two”…“continue to be a martyr to sciatica. But other than a slight indisposition last week caused by the high pollen count, and the resultant effect upon three-minus-two’s sinuses, three-minus-two is in remarkably fine fettle. Thanks for asking.”

  And if a teenage Aristotle was to ask his friend, “Cousin Threep, would you mind helping me with the answer to question four of tonight’s maths homework? Fourteen times twelve, I can’t do it.”; the answer that comes back, “Ba-a, ba-a, ba-a,” is intended to mean, “Why certainly, Cousin Aristotle: the answer to question three-plus-one is three hundred minus two hundred, plus sixty-eight; which is an unpleasantly three-less value that I can hardly bring myself to utter. Nonetheless I can do the sum in my head as easily as I can tell you that eighteen-point-two-five is the square root of three hundred and thirty-three, to three-minus-two decimal places.

  “Which, while not as ideal a result as three-point-three-three recurring, or even the imperfect pi—which disappoints after showing initial promise, as three point da-da-da—is gratifyingly threeful.” [“Imperfect” except to the young Aristotle, who already knows all there is to know about perfect pie in recurring helpings, but is not familiar with the letter pi, or Π or π, the sixteenth letter of the Greek alphabet, as would later be used in mathematics to express the ratio of the circumference or periphery of a circle to its diameter; as if anyone cared what it was.]

  While some of the Threeps’ “Ba-a, ba-a, ba-a”s are more drawn out than other “Ba-a”s, and therefore more emphatic, as in “Ba-aaa-aa”, there is no disputing that their language, which at its most sophisticated comprises no more than a trio, triad, triality, trilogy, or triplicity of identical syllables, is lexicographically limited and falls short of the linguistical gamut of other species.

  Though the Aristotles understand what their cousins are saying, they consider privately that the diverse vocabulary and nuances of expression of the Aristotle tongue—which derives from the environment they live in, of wind and water and air, and the sound those elements make amongst the trees and flowers and grass—deserve wider application than merely supplying the first, second, and third, etcetera, words that one uses when putting a note out the night before for the milkman, asking for three, six, nine, and so on pints of Gold Top (Red Top and Silver Top, having a respectively lesser cream content, are held to be inferior products).

  Not that Aristotles have anything against milk, and its bi-products of cream and butter; on the contrary, they are staples of the Aristotle diet, to be neither sneezed at nor into. Scones and bread would be nothing without them, n
or would tea and coffee; nor milk pudding, obviously. But attempting to subsist on lactic products alone was not held by them to be consistent with a balanced diet.

  Threeps are born as identical triplets. As a result there are a lot of them, and confusions arise even within Threep families in trying to tell Threeplets apart, and remembering three names at once, and how many glasses of milk each of them has had, and whose nappy was changed last.

  The Threep Elders, fortunately, recognize the problem, and issue helpful pamphlets suggesting triadic names that parents can use as a mnemonic; and identity labels that adhere to each child by static electricity, which is an invisible sort of Velcro. Examples of sets of brothers and sisters are: Delirious, Hilarious, and Serious; Atomic, Comic, and Dominic; Come-to-Me, Wait-and-See, and What’s-for-Tea?...a rhetorical name…Dummy, Rummy, and Tummy; Beery, Leery, and Weary; Ruskin, Buskin, and Pigskin; Alec, Derek, and Pain, short for Pain-in-the-Neck; Model, Twaddle, and Waddle; and Hump, Jump, Rump, and Thump-in-Brackets.