The Blue Cup

A chipped cup finds its way back to the kitchen where it belongs.

The blue cup was the only thing left on the table after the jumble sale. Leon wrapped it in yesterday’s paper and put it in his bicycle basket. It was a fine cup for a person who liked a small amount of tea and didn’t mind drinking from the other side.

At home, he turned it over to wash it. On the base someone had written, in pencil, For a rainy Thursday. It was Saturday and dry. He put the cup away and decided to wait.

Rain arrived on Thursday while Leon was filling the kettle. Through the kitchen window he saw his neighbour Bea collecting washing with one arm. The other was in a sling. He took the basket from her and offered her tea. When he set down the cup, she touched the chip with her thumb.

“My son made that,” she said. “He broke it the day he gave it to me. I told him a cup could be useful without being perfect.” She had left a box of dishes at the sale when she moved. She thought the blue cup was still packed in a suitcase upstairs.

Leon sent her home with the cup and a paper bag of biscuits. The following Thursday, she knocked with the cup full of sweet peas. There was no rain. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “We could just do Thursdays.”