Putting the kettle on

 

It seems every English/Irish/Scottish novel I've ever read, at some point, some talks about putting the kettle on to be followed by a cup of soothing tea appearing. Okay, almost every one.

It always reminds me of when I first was in Switzerland and living in a little village. It was Saturday. The phone rang and a friend from the States called to tell me a mutual friend had been knifed to death in her home giving me as many details as was known.

It was the early nineties and the electronics were better in the office, so I drove the twenty minutes up and down the mountain to it. I expected to be alone, but two of my co-workers were catching up on paperwork.

Caroline looked at me. "What's wrong?" she asked.

I told her.

"I'll put the kettle on."

We talked over tea. I mentioned my memory of Kathie helping me move, of stringing popcorn at a tree-decorating party. She wasn't a close friend, but more a friend of one of the children of my housemate, still her death in an upper class community was a shock. She had called the police around three in the morning. The cop on duty thought it was a hoax and didn't send help.

In the morning, when the chief came in, he had asked about it. He immediately sent a patrol car to the house only to discover my friend had died minutes before. If someone had arrived hours before she might have been saved.

Tea did not change the facts, the sadness, the anger. It did create a safe place for these emotions, a deep appreciation for my colleague who put the kettle on.