The harsh black tea tasted of rusty nails. Aunty Polly was the kindest most generous woman blessed with heart and warmth of spirit that would have made her a sister to Mother Teresa. But her tea was awful. It was boiled so many times over that the tea leaves were reduced to a slimy pulp. It was the habit of Chatsworth people to have tea at the ready. One never entered a home simply to pass through. Whatever the time of time or day you were offered a cup of tea and a meal. You ate whatever was offered. Polite refusals were brushed aside as the hosted literally forced it down your throat. Aunty Polly was consumed by a bottomless poverty. From having been dispossessed of her family's land and farm and relocated after marriage from the Magazine Barracks her life steadily got more impoverished year on year. That didn't stop her warming up the rice in a battered aluminium pot and frying you an egg. It was a meal to rival a Michelin chef. The tea however was something to quickly swallow or toss into the potted plant when she was not looking.
