A tea-shop is a delightful place. It is the milestone that marks the
end of a day's work.
In the provinces, and particularly in the north and in Scotland,
where men take tea with passionate sincerity, frequently starting
with sardines and ending with apple tart, the tea-shop occupies an
appropriately massive position in daily life. London's tea-shops
are, however, talk-shops, refuges from a day's shopping,
trysting-places after a terrible eight hours' separation.
O, the eyes that meet over a muffin every afternoon in London; the
hands that thrill to a casual touch beneath the crumpet plate....
London's tea-shops are of many kinds, from the standardized shop to
the good pull-up for millionaires constructed on the Paris plan,
where slim Gruyère sandwiches hide in paper coats, and cakes taste of
Benedictine, and bills have a queer habit of working out at fifteen
shillings.
Then, of course, there is the cosy type of tea-shop run on amateur
lines where genteel young women who do not seem to have forgotten
William Morris bend wistfully over the meringues in brown or sage
green _crêpe de Chine_ gowns and an air of shattered romance. Such
places have fanciful names designed to attract those with a passion
for peace. They are always opening or going smash, and there is a
widespread belief in the suburbs among enterprising young women that
this is the way to an enormous bank account.
"Thanks awfully!"
That's what they say when you pay the bill, and such a sad, sweet
smile goes with it. Andromeda chained to a cheese cake.
* * *
I entered a large musical tea-shop in the heart of Shopland
yesterday. The atmosphere was as feminine as that of a perfume
store. It was No Man's Land. I steered my conspicuous way to a
table through a jungle of musquash, moleskin, and beaver. The only
other men there were in the toils of women, politely tapping their
_éclairs_, and wearing photographic faces, behaving as men never
behave away from this uplifting and ennobling atmosphere.
I heard a girl describe a bridesmaid's dress; another girl was
talking about a baby; a third had discovered John Galsworthy. Two
young married women were discussing their husbands, how really sweet
they were, how they hated cold mutton, how amusingly irritable they
were, and how upset they were when their wives shingled their hair....
A slight stir was caused by the entrance of husbands to claim their
wives. One, a handsome young man, was charmingly introduced with shy
pride; another, an elderly, bluff, old-established husband, was
received quite calmly like an over-due muffin. Then the human event
that electrified the entire tea-shop happened, that marvellous touch
of nature that unites Kennington with even the best parts of
Kensington.
A small, smug child, distinguished only by a red balloon on the end
of a string, set up a wild and awful howl. It was dramatic in its
suddenness. Everybody looked round in the belief that the infant had
sat on a pin. Instead they saw the red balloon drifting with a gay
and careless determination towards the roof. Reaching its
destination, it bumped gracefully twice and remained there, coyly
nestling against a frescoed cupid.
Immediately the entire tea-shop, hitherto split into self-centred
groups, became one in a solid endeavour to rescue the red balloon.
Young men anxious to distinguish themselves stood on chairs and made
wild grabs for the string with their umbrellas; dogs which till then
had been asleep and unsuspected, awakened and barked.
In the centre of the stage stood the smug, small child, breathless
with anxiety, pointing to the roof, grief-stricken that his balloon
had played him false, yet encouraged by the stir the event was
causing in so many grown-up lives.
A grim old man melted by the tragedy obtained a long pole employed in
pulling down shop blinds. He succeeded in driving the balloon from
its fastness and sending it fatuously bumping into another.
Meanwhile the entire shop held its breath, expecting these good
intentions to end in a loud plop and a worse tragedy. There was a
gasp of relief as this ancient hero gave way to a man in an apron
with a step-ladder.
He did the deed.
The tea-shop settled down. The smug child that had united an
afternoon's assembly left unnoticed. Over the tea-tables rose again
the talk of bridesmaids and husbands and shingles and Maud's hennaed
hair. The orchestra played some more Puccini, and a small boy who
had profited by the commotion to seize his fourth _éclair_ gave an
enormous sigh of joy.