Tea in Twilight: Bath
Tea in Twilight: Bath
In November 2019, after leaving the Salisbury agency, a London firm sent me to a small village near Bath. Richard, my client, was one of the most remarkable Englishmen I’ve ever known. From him, I learned a great deal about his country, its culture, and its people. That December, my world shattered. My mum landed in hospital with a lung obstruction, barely able to breathe, tethered to oxygen. My sister did all she could to ease her, but I, 2,000 kilometres away, could only call. I tried to soothe her during choking fits, echoing words I’d offer Richard: 'Come on, Mum, think of something else… how many are in the room?' Anything to distract her. The irony cut deep—I cared for a stranger miles from home while my own mum fought for life.My placement ended on 18 January. I had unmissable meetings in London on Monday and Tuesday, then a journey via Belgrade to Banovci, to Mum’s care home. I was terrified I wouldn’t make it in time, that she’d pass before I saw her. The nights leading up to that date were utterly unbearable, many sleepless. I checked on Richard several times a night, though he had a night Carer. Sometimes it was for his morphine, sometimes just to see him, imagining someone doing the same for my mum. One night, he asked about her. He always spotted the pain in my eyes, no matter how I masked it. I sat on the edge of his bed, took his hand. The night was still—his pain physical, mine a soul-deep agony.'Your mum’s a lucky woman, Cherry,' he said. 'She’ll wait for you. But I’m slipping away. My time’s running out.' I wept silently, squeezing his hand. He squeezed back gently. I didn’t know why then—today, I know it was for both Mum and Richard. Richard’s story was heart-wrenching. Years ago, his daughter left, leaving a note: 'I want you to remember me as I was.' Ill, she spared her parents her suffering. It broke him. They were all heartbroken. My colleague, who took over, once said, 'To Richard, you’re like his lost daughter.'Days blurred, caring for Richard and counting down to seeing Mum. As his condition worsened, his family moved him to a hospice, steeped in British stoicism, a sanctuary of shared care. I tended his wife, and we visited daily, often twice. That final night, Richard was surrounded by family. I stood quietly aside, stepping forward when needed. He told his son he wanted to talk to me. I approached, and he grabbed my hand: 'My time’s come, Cherry. I’ve one wish. Only you can help.' He had always understood me. 'Tell me, Richard. I’ll do anything,' I replied. His grip tightened, fighting the growing pain. 'That’s why I’m asking you. I want to sit in my armchair one last time and enjoy a proper cuppa.'My throat caught as I stroked his frail arm. 'Richard, you know they said you must stay in bed.' 'I know, Cherry. Convince them. You can.' I looked at his son, my eyes brimming. He nodded. To Richard, that armchair meant he was still alive. 'I’ll try, Richard,' I said. I stepped out, feeling the crushing weight of duty against bureaucracy. That’s when my legs gave way, and I slid to the floor, trembling. 'You must try, Cherry. It’s his last wish,' I told myself. I approached the nurse at reception. She smiled warmly: 'How can I help, Cherry? Is Richard alright?' 'He’s in great pain but fighting. He has one wish,' I said. 'Tell me, how can I help?' she asked, serious. 'He wants a proper cuppa in his armchair.' 'You know the risk assessment doesn’t allow moving him. He’s too frail,' she said. 'I believe it’s his last wish. Richard’s dying,' I whispered. She stepped out, took my hand: 'I know how hard this is—for Richard, his family, for you. Moving him could cause more pain.' I nodded, squeezed her hand, and returned to his room.The nurse appeared beside me. 'Cherry, I spoke to the manager. If the Carer believes it’s his last wish, we can try. You must be sure Richard’s conscious and the family agrees.' I stood, hugged her, thanked her. She smiled softly: 'Shall I talk to his son?' We entered. Richard’s son stood by the bed. The nurse took Richard’s hand: 'How are you, Richard?' He opened his eyes, found me. I nodded. He smiled weakly: 'I’ll be much better with a proper cuppa in my armchair.' She fetched colleagues. Half an hour later, Richard sat in his armchair. I tucked him into his blanket. Handing him the tea, he grabbed my hand: 'Thank you, Cherry. It means the world.' His family gathered round, swapping tales and quips—just how Richard loved it. Back in bed, I whispered, 'See you tomorrow, Richard.' It was the last time I saw him. He passed quietly in his sleep. We never said goodbye.Richard gave me the unique honour of sharing his final moments. He had a bucket list: attending Mass, a fancy lunch at his favourite restaurant, one final trip to Bath’s post office for his pension, inviting my daughter to a friend’s house, spending Christmas with me, writing his last 50 Christmas cards, recounting his engineering days, celebrating with his son and daughter-in-law. He’d say, 'Cherry, I’m lucky you’re my Carer. It’s no accident. Nothing’s impossible for you.' My heart was split between a mother fading 2,000 kilometres away and a dying stranger in an English hospice. That night, honouring Richard’s last wish with a proper cuppa, I fully understood the contract I had made with this country: to uphold human dignity, regardless of borders or personal cost. The ability to move a system with empathy, to fight for a dying man’s simple joy, is the true privilege of contribution. The nurse’s compassion and Britain’s quiet strength have shaped me. Through sacrifice, my commitment here wasn’t just professional; it was a profound act of citizenship earned through sacrifice.
