The Invitation by Judy Mitchell

 

As the new year began, so did the January Blues. Day after day, the weight of the leaden sky seemed to dull her senses and she longed for brighter weather. Then the rain arrived in slanting sheets, lashing the kitchen window and washing away any hope of a better day. Steam from her mug of tea softly spiralled upwards, kissing the glass where juddering teardrops of rain obscured her view of the garden.

Outside, by the back door, the Daphne pulsed its glorious aroma into the winter air. She lingered there each morning, breathing in the sweet, citrus smell from its tiny, pink, four-pointed flowers before retreating to the kitchen and her desk by the fireside.   

She picked up a log from the wood basket and placed it on the glowing embers, disturbing the dog who stretched his legs and then sank back into his bed to resume his paw-twitching dreams of long runs through fresh spring woods and the heavy smells of soft, warming soil.

In the post that morning were the usual unsolicited, cheap adverts but then, in the middle of the pile, her fingers touched a thick, cream, manilla envelope addressed in ink, the writing bold, round and distinctive. An invitation that heralded summer days. She sat back, smiling at the warmth which seemed to have been released from the envelope and let her mind drift to that special place.

Between deep borders of voluptuous perennials were Indian cotton parasols above long tables covered with crisp, linen cloths, held in place by turquoise and ruby jewelled weights glinting gently in the sunlight. Benches were covered with dhurries and plump cushions and towards the orchard, an Indian Mughal tent housed fridges and the tea station. She closed her eyes and could hear the greetings, the trills of laughter, tinkling spoons and the chink of china cups and saucers.

It was one of those happy, quintessentially British traditions but very different to the tea parties described by writers like Jane Austen, E M Forster, Henry James, or Katherine Mansfield.

Where they were awash with their strict, social constraints and rituals, this was an annual charity event attended by people from many different walks of life. There was none of the absurdity or whimsy of the tea party in Alice in Wonderland or the overwhelming feelings of insecurity and inadequacy experienced by the second Mrs de Winter in du Maurier’s Rebecca.  

Friends, all amateur cooks or keen gardeners, or both, came together each year to raise money by auctioning the fruits of their labours. Perfect victoria sponges, chocolate and orange cakes piped with swirls of the best chocolate icing, coffee torte, courgette cake with a sprinkling of pistachio nuts, apricot and walnut loaf with a dusting of icing sugar on its domed crown, macarons with shiny shells in pastel colours. Then there were red, velvet beetroot cakes which matched the spires of burgundy Penstemons in the borders and lemon drizzle cakes topped by sharp thin icing, their brightness matching drifts of yellow Anthemis at the front of one border. It was not just cakes. Bags of miniature scones and brownies and prettily decorated homemade sweets and fudges raised hundreds for good causes.

On the terrace were neat rows of plant pots all expertly labelled and then held aloft to loud ‘oohs and ahhs’ as stately Agapanthus, the long stems of brilliant red Crocosmia, Rudbeckia and Helianthemums nodded their exotic flower heads towards the winning bidders. Richly embroidered sachets of Indian cloth enclosed potpourri made from rose petals, lemon balm, monarda, lavender, rose-scented geranium and nigella seeds, their fragrance carried on the afternoon breeze.

When lengthening shadows brought the party to an end, they left with culinary and horticultural treats and a warm glow from seeing old friends and sharing news in such a beautiful place.

With a sigh, she looked at the window and through the rain, could see the blur of grass and dark empty borders. But beyond the garden, on her walk in the wood that morning, she had seen that spring was at last on its way. The clean white petals of thousands of snowdrops had pushed through the cold, wet earth. Their nodding heads whispered winter’s end.