When I was in my early 20s, I found myself effectively homeless. I was struggling to carve out a space for myself as a young freelance journalist in London and for various reasons no longer felt welcome in our family home.
Mary Carson, a warm Irish Catholic journalist for whom I was working at the time, took me under her wing. She called me Amrani, in her Irish intonation, and I called her Carson in return. She saw I was floundering and invited me to stay with her. Her house was already quite full with three lively kids, but she made space for me in such a selfless way that I will for ever be in her debt.
While I was staying at her house, Carson or her partner, Andy, would put the kettle on as soon as they heard the front door slam. In those days there were tough moments, but Carson could heal any wounds with cups of tea. Bad day in the office? Put the kettle on. Feeling a bit shit generally? Crack out the biscuits.
Making a cup of tea is a small act of kindness. It’s quietly touching when someone knows just how you take it; it feels warm in your hands and tastes like home.
I can’t count the hours we spent nursing mugs of tea while sharing tales about our lives. Carson grew up during the Troubles and has seen a lot. She would recount stories of her life in Derry, and we would lose ourselves discussing faith, race and violence. Her perspective was different from that of everyone else I knew, and even though we are of different generations and from different backgrounds, there was mutual respect and common ground.
Things are a lot better now, but I still regularly pop over to Carson’s for a brew. Whether it’s breakfast, afternoon or dinnertime, I love to be curled up on the sofa with her and a cuppa. It’s where I feel most safe.
