Make Your Own Tea
Exhausted by nursing shifts and being everyone’s dependable helper, fifty-three-year-old Yvonne forms an unlikely garage band with four local women, turning a song called Make Your Own Tea into a noisy challenge to being taken for granted. When pressure from family, employers and church threatens their talent-night performance, she risks her daughter’s anger rather than silence a bandmate’s words. They lose the contest, but Yvonne gains friendships, renewed affection in her marriage and the courage to welcome her family without waiting on everyone.
By MyAudioBooks.ai ·
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Yvonne nearly joined the porter’s whistle in the Halifax hospital corridor, then caught her red lipstick reflected in the interview door and shut her mouth. A night shift, emergency cover and a twice-postponed meeting had kept her there until late afternoon. Early May, two thousand twenty-six, and her tights were sticking behind both knees.
She straightened the lanyard that identified her as a senior maternity nurse. At fifty-three, she could settle a frightened mother while locating a missing doctor and stopping somebody’s father fainting into a bin. Now she faced a meeting about whether she could still manage the work.
Graham thought she had stayed to cover sickness. She had told her husband that much over breakfast and let him supply the rest. Her immediate ambition had narrowed to getting through this doorway without begging.
Oliver admitted her with a sympathetic smile.
“Are you finding the pace harder to maintain?”
“Today? I’ve been awake since yesterday.”
“Of course. But longer term. A less senior position might take some pressure off.”
Yvonne pressed her shoes flat against the floor. She wanted to list every emergency she had managed that week. Instead, she asked whether this meant a downgrade.
“We’re exploring what’s sustainable.”
“Then explore it when I’ve slept.”
She left with nothing secured, put her lanyard in her bag and took the bus back to Mytholmroyd.
At the chemist, a hot flush reached her scalp while she waited to ask about a prescription already stapled inside its paper bag. She fanned herself with it.
“You’ve gone crimson, love.”
Sal, driving instructor and owner of the loudest reversing instructions in the valley, stood behind her.
Before Yvonne could answer, a man farther back told her to get a grip. They were all warm.
“Fuck off.”
Her bag stopped halfway through a flap.
“Excellent. Saves me saying it.”
Kath turned from the counter.
“Good projection. Can you sing?”
“Apparently I’m struggling with the pace.”
“Then we’ll do something slow. Halifax talent night. I’ve seen the poster.”
“You’re proposing a band in a chemist queue?”
“Better acoustics in my garage.”
Yvonne ought to have gone home. Instead, outside the shop, she put the prescription away and asked Sal how many chords she knew.
“Three. Four if nobody’s inspecting.”
They collected Tamsin from the church porch, where she was locking up after organ practice. She agreed to bring her keyboard, provided nobody expected dancing.
At Yvonne’s own step, Graham moved a bag of compost out of her way.
“Coming in? You must be done in.”
“I’ve people to see.”
“Right. I’ll leave your soup in the pan.”
She waited for a question about the people. He carried the compost round the side. Kind, useful, entirely satisfied with the information supplied.
They reached Fran at the school dinner hatch during the last clear-up. Yvonne began explaining what they needed.
Fran slid half her sandwich across before she finished.
“Crust end. Best bit.”
Yvonne ate it standing by the hatch. Margarine caught against her lipstick. For once, nobody asked her to check something, fetch something or say whether a rash needed seeing. Fran ate the other half.
“You’ve missed your dinner.”
“Several, I think.”
Then Fran asked about the band.
“I’ll sing. I’ve got some words.”
By the time Yvonne took another bus into Halifax, she had five names and a chorus about making your own tea. At the civic hall she found the talent-night steward stacking chairs.
“Yvonne, Sal, Kath, Tamsin and Fran.”
He asked whether they were definitely entering.
She opened her purse.
“Apparently.”
Twenty pounds lighter, she travelled home, ate Graham’s soup and slept until morning.
Over the following days, Kath’s garage acquired Yvonne’s old bass and practice amplifier, Sal’s guitar, Tamsin’s keyboard and a borrowed microphone with its own small speaker. Kath supplied wooden spoons, an upturned washing-up bowl and a saucepan lid.
“Four beats. Together. One, two, three, four.”
Sal entered on two. Yvonne entered on five. Tamsin waited for an opening and missed the entire chorus.
“We’re interpreting it.”
“Interpret four.”
Yvonne remembered more bass than she expected, though changing notes still required a small private discussion with her left hand. Sal sang louder whenever her guitar went wrong.
“Could we have less volume?”
“You can hear the fucking mistakes at less volume.”
They tried again. By Thursday, Make Your Own Tea possessed a beginning, a recognisable chorus and an ending they could reach together if Kath shouted.
Fran’s verse caused more trouble than the chords.
“You call it pin money. I call it pay. And your tea can wait. I’ve worked all day.”
“Could the last part be a little gentler?”
“That’s the part I came to sing.”
Yvonne adjusted her bass strap instead of answering. Fran watched her until she stopped adjusting it.
“We’ll keep it.”
The chorus travelled through the party wall before they had settled its final chord.
“Make your own tea, Roy. Kettle hasn’t moved.”
Yvonne heard Janet clearly from the adjoining kitchen. Sal stopped playing.
“We’ve got backing vocals.”
Janet came round while they were untangling a cable.
“I’ve sent him in. Told my sister an’ all. She’s stopped peeling his potatoes while he tells her she’s doing nowt.”
Roy arrived before Janet had finished enjoying herself.
“Pack this racket in. Some of us want a bit of peace.”
“We finish at eight.”
He pointed at Fran.
“Especially her. Fit for slopping chips out, suddenly thinks she’s somebody.”
“She is somebody. Get off my fucking step.”
Roy remained planted there.
Kath put down her spoons.
“You heard. Insult her again and you’ll be doing it from the pavement.”
Janet went past him towards home without offering supper. Yvonne’s first impulse was to smooth it over. She reached for the amplifier instead and turned it back on.
Before the next rehearsal, she walked with Tamsin to collect her keyboard from church. Geoffrey met them in the porch.
“The organ bench carries certain expectations. Public behaviour matters.”
Tamsin tightened both hands around the keyboard case.
“She’s playing three chords in Halifax.”
“Then she can consider which engagement matters more.”
At the school hatch, where they stopped for Fran, Pauline supplied a cooler version.
“Extra hours need reliability, Fran. I can’t have distractions affecting the kitchen.”
“Have I missed anything?”
“I’m making the position clear.”
Back in the garage, Tamsin suggested removing the verse altogether.
“We could still have a perfectly pleasant evening.”
“You could. I’d stay home.”
Yvonne began offering arrangements: a shorter introduction, a different running order. Fran waited through them.
“Same words, Yvonne.”
Outside, Graham helped Kath lift the keyboard into Sal’s car for the contest the following evening.
“You’re coming, Graham. Civic hall. Seven.”
“Wasn’t sure she wanted me.”
Yvonne held the garage door steady.
“I do.”
Saying it without giving him a job afterwards left her oddly exposed.
The next evening, two cars carried the women and their equipment from Mytholmroyd to Halifax. Yvonne reapplied her lipstick in the civic-hall side room while a teenage brass ensemble warmed up beyond the open stage door. They sounded alarmingly coordinated.
Sal tried one chord, then covered the strings.
“Well, that’s fucking discouraging.”
Donna arrived with both children still in their coats. Yvonne reached automatically for the smaller child’s zip.
“Mum. We need to settle Sunday.”
Yvonne let the zip go.
“Ian says if this is how you feel about doing tea for us, we won’t come. He’s not sitting through being made a joke of.”
“He hasn’t heard it.”
“He’s heard enough. Can’t you just do something else?”
Tamsin moved closer, carefully avoiding the bass cable.
“We could leave the verse out. That would help everyone.”
Fran took her hand from the microphone.
“You can leave me out with it.”
Yvonne wanted Donna to sit in the audience. She wanted the children waving. She could secure all of that with one promise and tell Fran afterwards how difficult it had been.
Her lipstick had left a red crescent on her thumb. She rubbed it into her palm.
“I love having you. Come for tea on Wednesday. I’ll have the children after school.”
“Wednesday’s no good to Ian.”
“Then he can make another arrangement.”
“You know what he means. About Sundays.”
“Yes. I’m still playing. Fran’s singing her words.”
Donna pulled the smaller child’s zip up.
“Fine. Enjoy yourself.”
She left with the children before Yvonne could answer. Their shoes squeaked along the corridor towards the exit.
Yvonne stood with her bass against her thigh. She had expected defiance to feel less sickening.
“I’ll stay.”
“You can choose.”
“I just have.”
Kath lifted the washing-up bowl.
“Then let’s carry something.”
They moved their equipment through the adjacent door onto the stage. Yvonne plugged in her amplifier, settled the bass strap and found Graham beyond the lights. Janet sat beside him. Farther along, Geoffrey kept his hands folded; Pauline still wore her coat.
Kath counted them in.
Sal came in early, caught herself and grinned so broadly that the audience laughed. This time Yvonne found the first note. Tamsin followed.
“Make your own tea, make your own tea. If you can’t find the kettle, don’t come asking me.”
Janet’s laugh carried. Yvonne nearly missed a change, recovered and turned towards Fran.
Fran stepped up to the microphone.
“You call it pin money. I call it pay. And your tea can wait. I’ve worked all day.”
The laughter settled. Somebody near the front nodded. Fran kept her mouth close to the microphone and sang it again, stronger.
Yvonne’s fingers hurt. She wanted another chorus.
They finished together, approximately.
The teenage brass ensemble won. Every player stood up at the same time to collect the prize.
“Fair enough. They’ve mastered standing.”
Graham helped carry the amplifier to the car. Geoffrey left without approaching Tamsin; Pauline offered Fran no extra hours. Yvonne travelled home with Sal and ate toast in her own kitchen before bed.
One week later, Donna appeared at Kath’s open garage door carrying biscuits. The children ran to the chalk patch outside, beyond the cables and equipment.
Yvonne stopped tuning. She almost asked how many wanted tea, what kind, whether anyone had eaten. Donna held out the packet.
“These were on offer.”
“Come in.”
Neither mentioned Sunday. Yvonne wanted her there; that much could be simple. She switched on Kath’s kettle.
“Cups by the sink. Help yourselves.”
Graham set down the extension lead he had brought and paused beside her.
“That lipstick suits you.”
“Been wearing it years.”
“I know. Should’ve mentioned it years.”
He leaned halfway towards her. Yvonne met him, bumped his nose and kissed him once, both of them smiling by the end.
“Get a room. This one’s booked.”
Yvonne returned to her bass. Donna carried the saucepan lid out to the chalk patch, where one of the children began striking it with a wooden spoon.
Fran started the chorus too quietly. Sal made it louder. With the garage door open, Yvonne found her note and joined in.