3

TIGERHILL AND CASTLETON’S TEA

SHOP

At three-thirty, Mr. Edward Tigerhill stepped

outside his shop door and waited for Myrtle. He
supervised her short walk from St. Bonaventure to his
shop located in a quiet shopping center a short way up the
road from the school. Myrtle soon appeared, crossing the
schoolyard and moping down the sidewalk with her eyes
cast to the ground. Mr. Tigerhill smiled.
Tigerhill and Castleton’s was the only tea shop in
the suburb of Westmeade existing proudly among dozens
of chain coffeehouses in town. Myrtle worked at the shop
for two hours after school every day. In the spring of third
grade, she had one day wandered into the shop with her
mother on their way to the supermarket next door. Mr.
Tigerhill then introduced her to her first cup of loose,
whole leaf tea. Myrtle began to come in and look around
and taste teas and ask lots of questions whenever her
mother had to stop at the supermarket, which was almost

10
every day after school. Mr. and Mrs. Tigerhill had never
seen a child so interested in tea! The Tigerhills didn’t really
need the help, but when Mr. Tigerhill suggested to
Myrtle’s mother that he take Myrtle on as his apprentice
and teach her the business of tea, Myrtle jumped at the
chance.
Mr. Tigerhill had instructed Myrtle in every aspect
of tea: the countries and regions from which it came, the
different estates that took part in the business of growing
it, and its production and preparation. She had learned
that all the teas in the world had come from the same tea
plant, Camellia sinensis, and that one tea plant could
become white, green, black, or oolong tea depending on
how it was picked and prepared. The Tigerhills had taught
her geography and world history and how wars had been
fought and nations changed because of the world’s
demand for tea. They also kept her entertained with stories
from their exciting travels to India and China and every
tea-producing region of the world they visited in their
unending quest for tea. Myrtle hung onto their every
word. The history of tea was an adventure!
But Myrtle had never met or heard anyone speak of
Mr. Castleton, so she assumed it was just a catchy name
for the shop as well as one of her favorite Darjeeling
estates.
The golden letters on the shop’s navy blue awning
shimmied in the blowing wind as she arrived.
“Good afternoon, Miss Myrtle!” Mr. Tigerhill
greeted her in the doorway. He was a middle-aged man
with thinning hair, but his lively green eyes and youthful
grin made him seem much younger than he really was.
“Won’t you grace me with a smile today?”

11
 “Hi, Mr. Tigerhill,” she said in a low, raspy voice.
But she did not smile.
Mr. Tigerhill followed her into the shop. She went
behind the wooden, marble-topped counter to put away
her book bag and took out her rabbit without shame. As
she tied an apron around her waist to work, the classical
music that played lightly in the shop alongside the quiet
conversation of customers and the smell of steeping tea
and warmed baked goods quickly wiped away the awful
memory of her day and the zero on her math quiz.
A broken smile appeared on Myrtle’s face after
further prompting from Mr. Tigerhill. She took a place on
a stool and sat her rabbit up on the counter in front of her.
Mr. Tigerhill always welcomed the rabbit in the shop. It
was he who had given Myrtle her bunny for Easter just
after she had begun to apprentice. He suggested Myrtle
call the rabbit “Earl Grey” after his favorite type of tea and
because of the rabbit’s gray fur. Earl Grey even had his
own doll-sized cup and saucer in the shop in which he
took tea with Myrtle and Mr. Tigerhill every day.
“So, with which tea shall we begin the afternoon, you
two?” Mr. Tigerhill asked Myrtle and the rabbit. He
insisted that she begin every afternoon at the shop by
trying a new tea. Myrtle shrugged her shoulders and spun
around on the stool, studying the many shelves of tea
canisters. She could never decide, so Mr. Tigerhill selected
one for her as he always did. “Let’s try this first flush
Darjeeling. I don’t think you’ve had this estate before, and
I’ve just gotten some in this morning.”
Mr. Tigerhill reached below the counter and
brought out one of his many teapots. He did not approve
of selling tea in teabags, arguing that it ruined the purity of
the teatime experience. He turned around and filled the

12
small brown pot with a little boiling water from a tap,
swished it around to warm up the ceramic pot and poured
it out. He then reached for a canister of tea on the shelf
behind him and put three teaspoons of leaves into a
strainer down in the pot. Finally, Mr. Tigerhill filled the
pot with boiling water and replaced the lid.
“And what is the correct steeping time for a
Darjeeling?” he quizzed Myrtle.
“Three to four minutes, like all black teas,” she
quickly responded.
“Correct!”
After four minutes, a timer beeped. Mr. Tigerhill
removed the strainer of leaves and replaced the lid on the
pot. He set out teacups and saucers for Myrtle, Earl Grey,
and himself and warmed each of their cups with boiling
water.
He hesitated as he began to fill Myrtle’s cup. “Now,
Myrtle. No milk and sugar in this one. It’s the first flush,
leaves picked early in the season. A very delicate and light
taste, not the robust taste of the second flush Darjeeling
you’re used to. Really taste it. Enjoy its aroma.”
Myrtle’s favorite teas were the black teas of India
from the regions of Darjeeling and Assam. She and Mr.
Tigerhill often disputed over the proper way to drink a
Darjeeling. She added five sugars and quite a bit of milk to
every black tea. Mr. Tigerhill insisted that the fine Indian
teas were hardly meant for sugar, and most certainly not
for milk. But Myrtle maintained that she didn’t give a
flying flip about any milk and sugar rules, and that she
would continue to drink her Darjeeling any way she liked.
She picked up her cup and inhaled the aroma. It
smelled like a bouquet of freshly cut flowers. Myrtle took a

13
sip. Its crisp flavor blossomed in her mouth then seemed to
disappear at once.
“Mmm. It’s good. But I still like the second flush
Darjeeling with milk and sugar better.”
Mr. Tigerhill chuckled. “Of course you do. And
you will until you rot out your teeth! Well, drink up.
We’ve got work to do. I’ll need you to refill the tea
canisters today if you don’t mind. We’re running low on
everything out front. You can start with the green teas.”
Myrtle’s eyes lit up. Filling the tea canisters was her
favorite thing to do in the shop. It gave her the chance to
study all of the teas and memorize them by sight and
smell. It also allowed her extra time to explore the
storeroom.
She hopped from her stool and opened the door to
the basement, skipping down a short flight of concrete
stairs. Mr. Tigerhill’s storeroom was packed wall to wall
with long shelves holding large bundles of tea in air-tight
bags. Each bundle was labeled and organized by its
country and tea type. Myrtle went regularly into the
storeroom to refill the tea canisters, but her amazement at
the endless supply of tea never ceased. Mr. Tigerhill sold
hundreds of kilos of tea weekly in his shop and online, but
there were always hundreds more kilos of tea on the
shelves any given day.
Myrtle started on the shelf labeled “Japan” and
picked up three bundles of tea which she carried in a stack
back up the stairs. Inside the shop, she carefully made her
way through the small, marble tables that filled the room
over to the walls of tea canisters. Three walls of shelves
stretched from floor to ceiling with ceramic canisters of tea
leaves. It took three ladders on wheels to reach them all.

14
There were hundreds of jars with hundreds of labels,
hundreds of blends, and hundreds of flavors.
Mr. Tigerhill arranged the order of the tea canisters
by country, and on each shelf he ordered the teas by color.
Myrtle hopped on one of the ladders and rolled down the
wall through India, Ceylon/Sri Lanka, Formosa/Taiwan,
Africa, China, and to Japan where she took out three
canisters from the green tea section. She lined them up on
the nearest table, gently opened the large bundles of tea,
and refilled the canisters with her silver scoop. When she
was done, she replaced the canisters on the shelf and ran
back down into the storeroom to put those bundles away
and bring up three more.

After an hour and a half of refilling the canisters,

Myrtle finished. She continued with her daily shop
responsibilities of preparing pots of tea for customers,
washing teacups and saucers, and serving pastries. In
between those tasks she swept the floor and kept the
counter and tabletops clean with a damp rag that stayed
tucked into her uniform skirt. Myrtle became so content at
work in the tea shop that any worries about St.
Bonaventure escaped her like disappearing steam from a
fresh pot of tea.
As Myrtle was busy packing and sealing a pouch of
tea for a customer, a knock at the window startled her. It
was Mrs. Tigerhill with an armful of containers, signaling
for her to come outside and help. Myrtle put down her rag
and ran to open the door as Mrs. Tigerhill struggled to pull
it open.
“Phew! Good afternoon, my dear! I could use your
strong arms to help me carry in the rest of the pastries

15
from the car!” Mrs. Tigerhill placed the stack of containers
on the counter and wiped her forehead. She was a short
and plump woman with a bright smile and a heart as kind
as her husband’s.
Mrs. Tigerhill worked in the shop part-time and
baked all of the pastries for the shop from scratch at home
in her own kitchen. Every Monday and Thursday
afternoon she brought in the order of food items they
would need for the following days: four dozen scones,
four dozen English muffins, four dozen cupcakes, and six
dozen assorted tea sandwiches. It always seemed like a lot
to Myrtle, but they disappeared quickly every week.
Myrtle dashed outside to Mrs. Tigerhill’s car and
returned with as many containers as she could. As she
headed outside for her second trip, the smile fell from her
face when she saw her mother’s car pull into the parking
lot.
“Mr. and Mrs. Tigerhill, my mom is here,” Myrtle
announced disappointedly as she brought in the last of the
baked goods. She hung up her rag and collected Earl Grey
and her book bag.
“Oh, so soon?” Mr. Tigerhill came from behind the
counter and looked out the window himself. “Okay, then.
Thank you for all your hard work as usual, Myrtle. Don’t
forget your tips.” Mr. Tigerhill handed her a handful of
coins and a small pouch of tea. It was illegal to hire a child
for wages, but he paid Myrtle all of their tips and samples
of any tea she wanted. Working for tea was a fine
arrangement for Myrtle. Even with the tips she earned, the
rare and special reserve teas were too expensive for her to
ever buy!
Myrtle stuffed her coins and tea in her book bag
and waved good-bye to the Tigerhills as she walked

16
outside. Her shoulders sank at the sight of her mother
behind the wheel. She sighed.

17