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The Tea Maker
He taught me how to drink, cheat at cards and swear, all by the age of eight. He didn’t get married until he was sixty-three and he lived until he was eighty-four. My Uncle Davy’s death could only be described as spectacular but his obituary in the local newspaper said he had died “peacefully in his sleep after leading a quiet, reflective life.” Like fuck he did!
He was ancient by the time I was born and in those old days of sexism, my mum would visit once a week and clean up his bachelor pad. That was when he taught me how to play cards. He also told me stories about them.
He would tell me how some people call the cards the Devil’s Picture Book and how that was shit. He’d tell me it was just because they were linked to gambling and fortune telling. He’d explain how cards were often viewed asobjects of moral and spiritual danger, as well as being inherently evil.He’d lean over the little card table with a scary look on his face and whisper that playing with cards was supposed to lead to a life of indolence and debauchery.
“Do you know what I think?” He’d ask. Scared out of my wits, I just shook my head.
He pulled away from me, laughed and said, “I think it’s a load of superstitious fucken nonsense, so I’m going to teach you to play Snap.”
So, at eight years of age, my Uncle Davy taught me to play cards.
Snap was an easy game to learn, plus it was noisy. Every time my uncle beat me to the draw and screamed SNAP he would reward himself with a swig of Pale Ale from his can. And every time I beat him, which wasn’t often, I’d be rewarded with a tiny sip from his can. If my mum caught us, all hell would break out.
Uncle Davy lived in a small, two-roomed terraced house with really old furniture, rug-like hangings over his doors to keep out draughts, and a massive, black fire range from the Victorian era. The range could be used for everything and was effectively an early model of a poor man’s Aga.
If I sat on his couch I would disappear, not because it was sumptuous, but simply because the springs were broken and any weight on the cushions would make them collapse onto the floor below. I loved it.
He also had an outside toilet, which I hated. Uncle Davy didn’t have a torch but he’d offer me a candle. Try going for a pee, outside in pitch darkness, with a candle. It can’t be done without three hands and a pair of fucking night goggles. In the winter months, I’d just step outside the door, blow out the candle and pee against the nearest fucking wall.
After mastering SNAP, Uncle Davy got tired playing cards and sharing his beer with me, because the next card game he taught me was Solitaire. But time rolled by and he must have felt sorry for me. He began to teach me other games. The big attraction wasn’t just playing the games, it was the names they had;Concentration (Pairs), Black Jack, Brag, Stud Poker, Fifty-two Card Pickup, Rummy, Knockout Whist, Old Maid, Dominoes (with cards), Crazy Eights, Cribbage, Happy Families, Knaves, Newmarket, Patience, and lots more I can’t even remember.
A year later, he taught me my favourite game, Cheats, and when I’d mastered that, he taught me how to cheat at all the other games. He wished he hadn’t. It cost him a lot of sips of beer, which didn’t please him.
On the other hand, being averse to visiting outside toilets in the dark, and having an uncle who plied me with drink, meant that times could be very tough for a young gambler.
The Tea Maker
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