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Cucumber sandwiches. High tea somewhere in the past, which is another country. Cucumber sandwiches are those that you neglect to prepare. Predictable. Maybe so predictable that you forgot all about them and how extravagantly delicious they were.
But on this particular afternoon, the sandwiches had not been forgotten. A screened porch in Virginia and an English-style tea today. Hot tea, iced tea, the cucumber sandwiches -with no crusts, to be sure- ham sandwiches, strawberry shortcake and an English fruit cake. In Britain, those same sandwiches, but also ham, scones with some home made jam, the absence of iced tea and rock cakes made by a child in the family.
In Virginia, it was stiflingly hot and the guests came, grateful for the swooping fans and the tea and the cool of those lovely cucumber sandwiches. It all looked lovely. But the hostess was simmering, although nothing was said. There was a sighing just about audible, but no-one said anything or asked what was the matter. Someone might have wondered whether a fainting couch was around, for this was suffering pure and simple: I invited you but I do not particularly want you in my house. I wish I had never thought of it.
Back in Britain, the gloves were off. It didn't take long for a comment to be made. Did you not like the scones? You clearly didn't want to come, did you? Why does no-one else make an effort? It's always me. At least it was quiet, there in the Blue Ridge - but the atmosphere would do well to be cut with a knife. As an experiment. In Britain the knives had been slammed down on the worktop, a visual index of how little she was appreciated. No more cutting today, then.
Outside, summer blazed on. Inside, we resorted to near fisticuffs or a glint of resentment in a smiling face. Depending on where we took our tea that day.
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