Story for the Day: The Cream Tea

There is a great debate that rages on in Marridon over the creation of a cream tea: those in the south where the capital is situated do it one way, and those in the north in the country do it another. Each boasts that its own recipe is best, but Bartleby has the final word on whether scones or round cakes wins:

The hatch opened, Bartleby emerged, his mind only half awake, and he stumbled clouterly across the deck, his subconscious led by the promise of a warm and familiar meal. “Mmff—round cakes…” he mumbled, davering about. He reached Rannig and clung to the giant’s legs, clawing his way toward the breakfast trey. “Tea—tea—“ he whimpered, “somebodygivemethetea…” He wilted against Rannig and held out his hand. “My boy…” he grumbled, “the tea!”

                A cup was put into Bartleby’s hand, it was filled from the pot, and with a semisomnolent pout, Bartleby soomed the entirely of the cup and slumped against the giant, fully awake, though not entirely happy about it.

                “Beautiful, beautiful tea…” he murmured, sinking in happy agony. “Another—pour me another…”

                The cup was refilled, and when Bartleby had finished the better part of it, he rose to his feet, unfurling his aged petals to the sun.

                “Oh, thank you, my dear boy,” he exhaled. “Marridon black, twice oxidized, a perfect vintange, hmm.” The milk was added, and once he had finished his cup and was allowed to be called fully awake, his eyes and nose began to operate again. Butter and baked bread made its way toward him, he sniffed and followed the heady scent to the trey. “What--? What is this, what is this?” pulling Rannig’s arm down, mantling over the trey. “Is it a cream tea? By my tinder—it is a cream tea. A real Marridon cream tea, just as it would be done at home. My dear boy, you are an arberous thrumble much of the time, but when you want to prove yourself a thinking, thoughtful person—Wait a moment. There’s something wrong—I can smell it. What is this, what is this?” He inspected the baked portion of the trey and gave a start. “Round cakes?” he cried. All the smiles and thrills that had accompanied him to the deck were now gone, confusion and miscontrsution assailed in every way, the flouts and frowns of budding indignation clouding every feature. “No, no, no— what is this balding blunderation! You cannot have a traditional Marridon cream tea with round cakes, my boy. Madness and mobnobbery, to put an inferior breakfast item where a scone should be—a scone, my boy, must go there—Scones are the very foundation of a capital cream tea! They are the brick and mortar, they are the bedrock upon which all hope of an excellent breakfast depends. A scone rests at the heart of every Marridonian worth his weight in tithes—it is our backbone, our vocation, our moral fibre. Round cakes—Ha! You have shamed the greatest breakfast Marridon has ever invented by replacing a scone with a round cake—but this is what is to be expected from a muculent mudsludge Frewyn, who thinks boiled oats and brined meat is the best breakfast a farm can afford next to bogcheese and baked eggs--”

                “But Bartleby,” Rannig gently interposed, “I like boiled oats and brined meat—“

                “Of course you do! Any dirtmonger born with a backhoe in his hand thinks a saltlick for breakfast is a good idea. You wouldn’t know a good breakfast if it fled the larder and cooked itself.”

                Rannig paused and wondered whether the breakfast could might itself, and whether it would choose to be boiled oats or a cream tea, either giving him reprive from making the meals anyhow.

                “Llangollyn teas are done with round cakes,” Bartleby continued. “Pabularoty peasantry, to be eating round cakes instead of scones like a sullied slate miner. And if you ask me ‘what is the difference between a scone and a round cake’, as I know you mean to do, because you cannot help yourseif, I will have that dented potato fadge Peppone use his throwing knife on the trey, to diperse the mockery of a cream tea you’ve made and cut up all the rounds cakes into farls, to feed the birds and serve as a reminder that you are never to abuse a cream tea ever again.”        

                A huff and a pause, and Rannig waited only a moment to ask, “But what’s the difference, Bartleby?”

                The old man’s face reddened, and his nose hairs flared, trying to escape their bed and strangle their antagonist. “Were the captain not by, I would find a way to drown you.“ He snorted through his nose. “Round cakes are made with yeast, and scones are made with buttermilk and a little sugar—and anyway, it doesn’t matter because a Marridon cream tea is done with a scone and not a round cake, and that is the end—that is the tradition, one which has been kept for centuries—literally centuries—because it has been deemed a perfect breakfast the way it is and must never be changed. A scone, hot and split, ready to be dressed, is the pride of Marridon proper. With the jam on the bread—only raspberry or strawberry will do-- and a dollop of cream on top, to be the crown jewel of the morning plate—but, what is this? What have you done here?” He glanced at the ready-made round cake and gasped. “Captain! Captain!” clutching his chest, in a horror. “Look! Do you see? Look what the boy has done!”

                “I have seen it already, Bartleby,” said Danaco, taking half a round cake, “and rather expected you to be in a passion over it.”

                “How—“ Bartleby whimpered, gripping his robes. “How could you let him do it? Oh, cruel, cruel juntacular calamity! It is ruined! Absolutely ruined!”

                He withered against the captain, who ate his round cake and sipped his tea in perfect peace, and crumbled to the deck, gripping his hat and rocking in anguish.

                “Oh, I am hurt, hurt to my molecules! I am entirely thrashed, absolutely stuck through,” said Bartleby, with a faltering voice. “You have killed me, my boy, slain and killed me. You have plunged a hat pin through my heart!”

                Rannig had no idea of hat pins, and only looked down and nudged the old man with his toes. “Yer lookin’ all right to me, Bartleby.”

                “Oh, the sight of it—it is blinding! It is a frustratory eyesore, an abominant wreck! It is giving me palpitations!” Bartleby whinged, gripping at his heart. “Cream before the jam—cream on the bread before the jam-- how could you, my boy? How could you mean injure me?”

                Rannig took up the round cake and studied it. “Just put the cream on the bottom,” he mused. “Sure don’t know how that changes things, but if I put too much, ye can put more jam on the other side and just put the sides together—“

                Bartleby was almost in a rage. “How dare you suggest such disgraceful and sacrilegious behaviour?” he cried, aghast. “The balance, my boy—“ pulling himself up and gripping Rannig’s tunic, “—the balance would be absolutely destroyed, if I put that much jam on the other side! I cannot eat a preserve-painted sugarslice like a common calamite.There is a way to do things, and there is a way to do things, my boy, and you must learn the proper way to make the greatest breakfast that has ever been gifted to civilization. There is an order that must be maintained, which makes a cream tea what it is. The scone goes first, then the jam, and then a small dollop of cream atop. It can be done no other way, and that is all. It is a ceremony, a time-honoured tradition, to construct a properly done scone, a ritual that cannot be hurried through or made a mockery of with your round cakes and your heavy cream—“

                “It’s clotted cream, Bartleby,” Rannig insisted.

                 “And it had better be, my boy,” Bartleby flouted, staring at Rannig over his spectacles and pointing a finger at his nose. “And if it is only heavy cream, I will get out the salting pan and flay you in it, that you might never again bemire so beloved—“ Another atrocity suddenly caught Bartleby’s eye. “DID YOU PUT BUTTER UNDER THE CREAM?”

                “Say no, Rannig,” said the captain, smirking to himself, “for if you say yes, even though you have done it for good reason, I’m sure, Bartleby will hang himself by his furnishings.”

                “I will hang the boy by my furnishings,” Bartleby corrected him, the hair on his ears frilling on end.

                Rannig frowned at the round cakes. “Aye, I put the butter on ‘em-- ye gotta when they’re made on a grittle, ‘cause we can’t have a range on the ship-- but I’m sayin’ I didn’t ‘cause the boss told me to.”

                “You cannot hide such an oversight from me, no matter how the captain might tell you to disguise it,” Bartleby contended. “I can see it, a butteracous crust forming around the edges—unconscionable! Captain, do you see what he has done?” stabbing a finger at the slight. “Outrage and infuriation! This is not to be borne. This is a crime, a sin against the pride of our nation. Make him go and fix it at once. I protest—absolutely protest against this treatment.”

                “You do,” said the captain, dressing another round cake. “You have been protesting for the last five minutes together while I have been eating your breakfast for you. You cry so much, one would think you subsist on anger alone.”

                “A sentiment you ought to nuture more of, captain, if this kind of misconduct continues. You know how a cream tea ought to be done, and yet you allow for round cakes, butter under the cream, and the cream to be put on the bottom. It is wrong, very wrong, and it is heathenry that no civilized person should be made to put up with.”

                “Heathenry, my old friend, while disagreeable at home in a tea house, is delicious abroad,” said Danaco, eyeing the last bite of his round cake. He finished it and licked his fingers. “By Myrellenos, Rannig, you do better by a cream tea than any tea house in Marridon could, only do not tell my mistress at the Cypher I have said half so much. She should be envious of your powers and try to capture you, to have her work her kitchen and garner all of Marridon to her establishment with such a devilish good spread.”

                “Thanks, boss,” Rannig beamed.

                Bartleby’s spleen had risen to his chest, and his nose hairs wiggled. His custom had been slighted, his heritage offended, and feeling the captain had betrayed his sensibilities, he went to stand with his face to the mast and shout to himself.

                “THE JAM GOES ON THE BOTTOM-- ON THE BOTTOM, YOU RAGING INVERTEBRATE—WHO LET THE BOY BE IN CHARGE OF HIS OWN BREATHING—HANG YOUR ROUND CAKES AND YOUR SHOCKING EXCUSE FOR A CREAM TEA— AND I’M SURE I DON’T CARE ABOUT HOW LONG IT TOOK YOU TO MAKE IT--“

                “That will do, my friend,” said Danaco firmly. “You have had your cry out enough, and you will please to have it done. Most of the men are stil sleeping, and I mean to keep it that way, if I am to have two minutes to myself. Keep your protestations if they nourish you, and leave the culinary scandals to me. You may disclaim now, but you will be hungry in a moment, and then we shall see how well your adherence to tradition satisfies you.”

                “I will have something else, if I’m hungry,” Bartleby humphed, stamping toward them. “There is plenty of cheese or a boiled egg-- and I’m sure I won’t be hungry. I wasn’t when I came up here, and I certainly am not now—“

                A low curmuring sound intruded, loud wambles followed, and Bartleby fell to the deck, holding his stomach, rolling about in a torment.

                “Oh, wretched, wretched hunger!” he wailed, holding his legs to his chest. “I am famished! I am starved to the bone! I will perish, if I do not eat! My insides are leading a rebellion against me! Why must they revolt now?”

                “Boss,” Rannig whispered, as though Bartleby could not hear, “is Bartleby dyin’?”

                “In general, he must be—we all are, in our own way and in our own time, if we get pedantic about it-- but we shall not let him suffer long. Come, Bartleby. Enough of this pageant. Get you up from the deck and dry your crocodile tears. A round cake awaits you.”

                “Ha-ha-hang your r-round cakes!” the old man wept. “It is the boy’s fault I am hollowed in the first place. If he did not torture me by making me smell such a breakfast—“ A violent wamble burgled out, and Bartleby folded over himself. “The edacity!” he moaned. “My gastric juices are eating me, they are boring me through!”

                The captain gave little quarter to such an exhibition; he rather relied on Bartleby’s upstarts, and a comical parade at the expense of one whose halfhearted invectives were always amusing. “What shall we do with him, Rannig?” he asked, smiling down at the old man, who was curled at his feet. “Shall we perform an experiment and see how long the old man can go without being coddled?”

                “I am never coddled,” Bartleby asserted, sitting up. He coiled back down to the deck and moped. “I simply like when things are properly done, and I would rather clap a moth between my hands than be forced to celebrate mediocrity and mistake.” He whined through his nose, turned his face aside, and pretended to cry. He whuffled and wept, trying to incur sympathy and gaining none of it, and once he had done his display, he pouted and said, “…I will have one round cake.”

                Rannig giggled.“Should I feed him, boss?”

                “Go on, my bogbean,” said Danaco, “give him one round cake and you shall see how he perks.”

                A cake was wedged between Bartleby’s lips, the first rush of raspberry and cream broke upon him, and he was up immediately, gnashing fervently away, remarking how “scrumptious the cake is—I can hardly taste the yeast, not in the least bit stodgy—the jam is not overly sweetened—the butter does make the cake more sumptuous, but the cream overpowers it enough--” leaving the captain to smile to himself and shake his head at his old friend.  

                “My, my,” he simpered, “how agreeable you are when sated. You may cry about scones from this morning to the next, but the threat of starvation makes easy beggars of highborn men.”

                “Mmppf—I’m not highborn, captain. You know I’m not—mff, delicious,” Bartleby slottered.

                “No, you were not born with a bit of silver in each hand as I was, but for your all your education, you were never taught humbleness, or you have never applied it, I do not know which. Rannig was born in obscurity and has known very little of show and address, and he is the most grateful and modest summer-squash a captain could ask for.”

                Bartleby fancied obscurity rather lovely this time of the year and disdained being compared to the giant, a boy who would be happy with old shoes and a handbarrow if given him. He knew privation well enough, but humility did not factor into breakfast, and Bartleby ate his round cakes and liked them very well despite all his former remonstrations.