Guest Post: Having Tea at Blackwell’s

Guest Post: Having Tea at Blackwell’s by Anna Caltabiano

Many people have asked me from where the idea for The Seventh Miss Hatfield originated. Though it’s hard to remember a single origin for the entire story, I remember I thought of my characters before I thought of the plot, and one of the first characters that came to me was Henley.

About two years ago, I was sitting alone in the café section of Blackwell’s in Oxford, after perusing their classic British Literature sale section. After handing me my cup of Earl Grey, the barista promptly left. It was midafternoon, but all the seats in the café were empty. Though I was the only one in the room, I still took a seat in the corner—habit, I guess.

             

Twenty minutes into slowly enjoying my cup of tea, I heard someone walk in behind me. I didn’t have to turn my head, as he walked straight to the counter. I examined him, as he examined the menu.

             

I couldn’t tell you much of what he physically looked like besides what he wore. I remember being surprised that a young man—practically a boy, since he couldn’t have been much older than I was—was wearing such formal attire. He was wearing a dark gray suit, almost black, with a purple button-down shirt.

            

The young man seemed to be waiting for someone as he smoothed down the front of his shirt. At first glance, he looked confident, taking up space where he walked, but his short, clipped strides gave away his nervous energy.

             

I watched as the young man managed to track down the barista to get a cup of tea. Then, tea in hand, the young man inspected the entire room for a place to sit. There must have been six empty tables, but he chose the one in front of me.

             

 He flashed a smile and we both raised our cups to drink. In the empty café, it was as if we were drinking tea together. It was a small gesture, but it made us both feel less alone.

              

Little by little, people trickled in, filling the room. Some were wanderers, while others had distinct motives. He met an older man, and stood to shake his hand. I saw the people I was waiting for, and waved them other to my table. The miniscule moment that we shared was long gone, but while we talked to our respective companions, our eyes would meet above their heads.

             

 I would given a lot to know what he was thinking in that moment. I imagined his life and the complicated relationship he had with his older companion. Maybe it was an uncle, or a father, with whom he had a formal, distant relationship.

               

In my imagination, I began to flesh his life story. If could not ask him about his world, I would create one for him. He seemed kindly, but lonely. Maybe, though young, he had fallen into an impossible love, from which he had never recovered. And thus began my story. I created a whole full life for him, and he doesn’t even know it.