Queen of Teacups
A story for the True Fiction Project by Michael Colucci
Canbury street changed for the better the day Olivia Banham hung her first portrait. The neighborhood blended with the poorest districts in London as shades of grey covered every wall, road, and roof. It took until the turn of the 19th century for Canbury to see an artist like Oliva, and in a community full of factory workers and mill hands, she added some much-needed color to the grey.
William, her husband, and Oliver, her firstborn, were cut from a different canvas. To them, the future was in manufacturing and textiles, and so was the money.
Then there was Bell, Olivia’s 14-year-old daughter, and protege. While most young women were sent by their fathers to work in the textile mills, Olivia forbade it. The extra income wasn’t worth her daughter’s soul, nor was it worth the innate talent Olivia knew she possessed. Bell’s dexterous hands proved perfect for tiny porcelain pieces.
On a night like most others, the Banham family gathered for supper. Olivia’s artistic prowess translated to the kitchen as she ladled out bowls of carrot stew. Bell reached for a loaf of bread in the center of the table, but William slapped her hand away.
“You eat what you bring in,” he said, avoiding eye contact with every member of his family.
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Olivia wouldn’t stand for it. She snatched the bread from William’s hand and gave it back to Bell. However, the moment was short-lived as William grabbed it back and slammed it by his spoon. The crash shook the table, and a small wave of soup spilled out from their bowls.
“What would you have her do then? I won’t have her working in those factories, not with all that dangerous machinery and — “
“Danger?” William grabbed Oliver’s left arm and held it up for all to see. The boy was missing his pinky and part of his ring finger, an injury he’d suffered months ago that’s since healed.
“Don’t talk to us about danger when your afternoons are spent in fantasy.” William barked, “She eats what she brings in — or you can split what little you have with her.”
The bickering continued with Oliver’s mutilated hand on display for all to see. The siblings locked eyes and drowned the argument in memories of a happier time — a time when they were both young and nestled by Olivia’s side while she painted that memory’s masterpiece.
“Like this, mother?” Bell asked amid a lesson, proudly holding up her teacup. On the side, she’d made her best attempt at painting a hummingbird with a rose in its beak — her mother’s patented style.
“Close,” Olivia answered. Bell’s face sunk — weighed down by disappointment. The hummingbird was perfect; the rose? Not quite.
“The rose is the hardest flower to draw. It took me years to master and will take you — “ Olivia’s words of encouragement were cut short by a violent cough — the kind of cough that burned her lungs and left specs of blood in the palm of her hand. Thankfully, her palms were already stained in red paint; she wouldn’t have to lie to Bell.
“ — it’ll take you just as long. Remember, it’s all in the wrist, like you’re conducting the Queen’s orchestra as they walk the Spring parade,” Olivia finished.
“You’ve seen the Queen’s orchestra!?” Bell asked excitedly.
As much as Olivia wanted to tell the story, she knew she’d never get the words out. A backlog of coughs reduced her answer to “another time.”
Sadly, that time never came. The fall of 1847 saw illness tear through their district like cavalry through a pumpkin patch. The cough claimed loved ones under every roof. The Banham children gathered to say tearful goodbyes to their mother. William was either at the factory or at the bottom of a bottle.
Olivia pulled her children close.
“You can’t go! You just can’t. What about the rose?” Bell begged.
“I’m not going anywhere. When you need me most, keep your ears to the sky. The hummingbirds will let you know when I’m near.”
The Banham family spiraled with the rest of Canbury. Without Olivia to stop it, Bell wound up on the textile line, putting her most important tools at risk — her hands. However, that didn’t stop her from chasing the elusive rose. She’d return home before the men with a short window to paint in secret, only to hide her work before they finally arrived. Although she loved working with canvas, they were much harder to hide. Porcelain pieces were her only option, as the tiny teacups were easy to conceal.
However, the only obstacle in her way was the firing process, a problem her mother solved using their neighbor, Patricia’s, kiln. Patricia ran a small pottery shop next to the Banham home. In exchange for using her kiln, Olivia lined the shop’s shelves with beautiful pieces of art and porcelain pieces. The two split the profits, a financial deal William never agreed with.
William decided to spend one of his few days off at the pub, the perfect opportunity for Bell to take her pieces over to Patricia’s. She loaded her best teacups into one of Olivia’s old hatboxes and walked across the alley.
However, the inside of Patricia’s shop wasn’t like she remembered. The shelves were empty, and few pottery pieces were available for sale. Then, Bell’s eyes locked on a recognizable teacup as steam billowed from a fresh pour.
“This is the last one I have, and I’ll never sell it. I don’t care what they’re willing to pay,” Patricia said before sipping her tea.
“I’m Annabell Banham, Olivia’s…”
“I know who you are, Bell. You have your mother’s eyes,” Patricia stepped out from behind the counter and approached Bell, “You have her smile, her hair, even a faint trace of her voice — “ she reached for the hatbox and opened the lid. Bell’s teacups illuminated like gold from a jewelry chest, “ — and you most certainly have her talent,” Patricia finished. She hurried Bell into the back and loaded her pieces into the kiln.
“Can I leave these with you?” Bell asked, “I have to get to the mill before my father comes home… if he comes home. I can’t let him know I skipped work.”
In all her years, Patricia had never seen such worry — such fear — on a young girl’s face. “You are at work, Bell. You work for me now,” she said.
And once again, in all her years, Patricia had never seen such joy — such elation — on a young girl’s face.
The partnership blossomed, and soon Patricia’s shelves were filled with Bell’s porcelain pieces. Those pieces moved from house to house as family’s on and around Canbury street recanted the joy Olivia’s art had once brought to their homes, reborn in her talented daughter. Days turned to weeks, turned to months, turned to years, and Bell Banham’s porcelain pieces could be found on every table in London… every table except the Queen’s.
However, with all her success, the perfect rose still eluded her. That was until a special request came down from a client she least expected.
Thousands lined the streets of London for the Spring parade. They hoped only to catch a glimpse of the royal family, but the backside of a knight’s horse would have sufficed. Bell sat with a few friends along the parade route. They dressed as eloquently as they could, given their low status. However, the teacups they sipped from stuck out among the crowd. The Queen’s carriage passed their corner, and the girls raised their cups in reverence. However, one guard mistook their reverence for mockery.
“How dare you mock the Queen!” he yelled, slapping their teacups to the ground. The porcelain shattered and slid out onto the road.
“We meant no disrespect, honestly! Please, you must understand”
“What are these?” he asked, grabbing at Bell’s clothes, “Stolen hats and linens? I can smell the streets you three hail from.”
Suddenly, the carriage door swung open and out stepped Queen Victoria. Everyone within a 100-mile radius knelt before her as she inspected the broken pieces of porcelain below her feet. She picked up a larger fragment depicting what was left of a hummingbird grasping a bundle of tulips.
“Where did you get these, girl?” asked the Queen, staring down at the top of Bell’s head.
“I — I made them, your majesty,” Bell answered, an answer that garnered a communal laugh amongst the guards. The Queen, however, was unamused, and the laughing dissipated back into silence.
“I haven’t seen porcelain this beautiful in all my years,” said the Queen, “I have a test for you if you’d take it?”
“Wha — what kind of test?” Bell asked, entangled in equal parts confusion and excitement.
“Come to the palace in one month with a teacup crafted especially for me. Something with a rose, yes?”
“Yes, yes, of course, your majesty!”
“One month, and I can change your life forever,” said the Queen before stepping back into her carriage. The race was on.
‘Why the rose!’ Bell screamed in her thoughts, ‘Anything but the rose!” But no matter how desperately she begged her inner monolog to change the Queen’s mind, reality continued to stare from every direction.
She spent most of her waking time practicing, sleeping, or eating. Orders backed up in Patricia’s shop as Bell focused all her energy on perfecting the Queen’s rose. Every failed attempt was followed by the sound of crashing porcelain pieces.
“We can still sell those!” Patricia begged, but Bell wouldn’t hear it.
Oliver helped wherever he could, running from shop to shop whenever Bell needed more raw materials. He quit his job at the factory, choosing to put all his eggs and remaining fingers in Bell’s proverbial porcelain basket. Every ordinary person in London seemed to be in Bell’s corner… all except one.
“You’re wasting it, Bell. He’s not coming home again,” Oliver said as Bell ladled three bowls of Olivia’s famous Carrot stew.
“It’s been three nights. By now, he’s paying rent to the pub,” Bell answered, “He’ll be here.” Sadly, her optimism was smothered by tragic news the following night. William had died in a factory accident several days before.
Bell threw herself back into her work with little time and fewer reasons to grieve. She was due on the palace steps with a beautifully painted rose on a beautifully painted teacup in exactly one week. She’d reached her boiling point.
“Where are you!” Bell begged, surrendering herself to the open sky, “listen for the hummingbirds, you said. Well, I’m listening! I’m listening, and I’ve never heard anything so quiet!”
She fell to her knees and begged for any inkling of a sign — and she got one. Next to her ear, Bell heard a faint buzz — a hum if you will — the hum of wings flapping rapidly against a tiny frame. The hummingbird hovered in place, staring at Bell as she stared right back. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it vanished. The bird was almost too swift for Bell to follow, as she could only make out the blur of its movements. Finally, it stopped again, and Bell understood it to mean, “follow me.”
The bird weaved through stalls and under branches, and although it moved too fast for anyone else to apparently notice, Bell never lost track. It led her several blocks from home before settling on a fence overlooking a colorful garden.
“This was one of your favorite places,” Bell said. She turned to look at the bird, but it was gone.
“Hey — hey, where’d you go? Don’t leave me again… not yet… not now,” Bell whimpered, fighting back the tears.
But the bird hadn’t gone far. The humming of its wings settled back on the fence, only this time holding a rose in its beak. Bell took the flower and smiled from ear to ear. It was time to paint the rose.
Petal by petal, the rose took shape on the side of Bell’s final attempt. As the conductor leads the orchestra, she led her paintbrush to craft the most beautifully painted rose on the most beautifully painted teacup.
Guards lined the castle steps as Bell walked towards what felt like destiny. Her masterpiece was concealed in Olivia’s hatbox, and it would hopefully be the last time her work was transported this way.
She stopped on the last step and removed the hatbox lid. Inside were two teacups, one for the Queen and one for herself. Was it a fool’s dream to share a cup of tea with the Queen? Bell didn’t think it would hurt to ask.
Everything Olivia had taught her boiled down to this very moment. Bell had made teacups for every person in London, all except the one who meant the most to her. She never made it inside the castle that morning.
An engraved stone crucifix marked Olivia’s final resting place. Bell knelt in front of her mother and removed the teacups from the hatbox. She balanced the Queen’s teacup on the right-wing of the cross and poured two cups of freshly brewed tea. Then, a familiar sound filled her ears as the humming of wings fluttered past her head. The hummingbird landed next to the Queen’s teacup, tilted its tiny head, and stared at Bell. If hummingbirds could smile, this one most certainly did.
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