By the mid-1980s she was an institution. At her retirement party Number One called her 'the only woman who has ever surprised me' and stated that THRUSH had missed a trick: if they had just kidnapped Minnie Bonazzi UNCLE would have been brought to its knees within days.
But in the beginning she was just a small cog in a large organisation. A war bride she had followed Frank from the valleys of South Wales to the middle of New York where he had worked as a security guard at UNCLE and she had brought up their family. When the youngest left home she got the job of supervisor of the coffee lounge at UNCLE. Frank teased her saying that they must have heard about her British belief that all problems could be solved by hot beverages. She smiled quietly and handed him a bowl of minestrone soup from the pot that she kept constantly simmering on the top of the stove, just as his mother always had.
Discrete, self-effacing and efficient and with a genuine fondness for the agents she had fitted in well. She took a pride in remembering exactly what everyone liked to drink, and if you were too busy to get to the lounge you knew Minnie would notice and send someone out with refreshments. About 2 years after she joined the money men suggested it would be better if her team were replaced by coffee machines 'at least outside normal working hours'. Minnie had been quietly distraught but Mr Waverley, perhaps remembering the pint mug of builder's tea placed silently on his desk as he worked through the night and replaced in the morning by his more usual porcelain cup of Lapsang Souchong before anyone, even his secretary, could see it had merely rumbled 'No such thing as normal working hours at UNCLE', and the matter had been dropped.
Of course she had her favourites. When Mr Kuryakin first arrived at UNCLE her heart had gone out to him: he seemed so alone. He rarely came into the coffee lounge and when he did no-one ever invited him over or even acknowledged his presence. Remembering how bewildered and dislocated she had felt when she first came to New York she shelved her plans to clean out the spare room on her day off and instead made her way to West 57th Street where she charmed her way into the kitchens of the Russian Tea Rooms. The following day instead of his usual cup of black coffee Mr Kuryakin was handed a glass of strong black Russian caravan tea and a choice of honey, lemon or jam. When he gave her his crooked smile and a quiet 'Diolch yn fawr' her heart gave an odd skip. She laughed ruefully at herself and realised that Mr Kuryakin was going to be just fine.
It was then she decided that it was not just important to know what a person wanted to drink, you had to give it to them at the right moment, when it mattered that someone had seen them, really seen them, and had taken the trouble to make something just for them. She applied this theory with enthusiasm, applying her own unique balm to broken hearts, failed assignments and other disasters, large and small. Eventually only one agent eluded her. Mr Solo. He was so self-contained that he never really seemed to need any extra attention, and in any case the drink that her instinct was telling her was the right one was so, well, ridiculous that she had never dared try it.
Then came what Minnie always thought of as The Flap. Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin came back from a mission with something so important that immediately all the agents were working double and triple shifts. Minnie's team did the same, keeping the agents going with a constant supply of hot coffee and tea. Minnie herself did not go home but worked through managing with snatched cat naps in the strangely deserted lounge. All this time Mr K lay in the Medical Wing, quiet and motionless. On the first day Mr Solo had been called away to brief several important politicians, but within 10 minutes had gone rushing back and they had not bothered him again.
On the third day, sitting next to Illya's bed, reports neglected in his lap, watching his partner's chest rise and fall, Napoleon was dimly aware of someone placing a mug and plate on the table next to him. After a few minutes he picked up the mug and took a sip. Expecting the bitter comfort of coffee he could not initially place the flavour and glanced down. A huff of genuine amusement escaped him; he was holding a large mug with a smiling snowman on it containing hot chocolate WITHOUT cream. He stared at it for a moment longer and then, with great deliberation, started dropping marshmallows from the plate into it, one by one.
By the fifth day The Flap was over. To everyone's relief Mr Solo had been seen briefly outside the Medical Centre, still tired and worn, but smiling. The staff drifted home leaving a skeleton crew behind. Minnie supervised the final clear-up then headed for the lounge. Frank was finishing his shift in about half an hour so she would rest there then go home with him, kick off her shoes and sleep for a month. As she walked in she stopped in surprise. On the nearest table was a tea tray with a plain cup of hot tea: white, no sugar. Beside the cup lay a long-stemmed red rose and two milk chocolate digestive biscuits.
Notes – this is the first fan fiction I have actually written down. Like many others it was written in my head while I could not sleep. I hope the Russian Tea Rooms are in the right place, if not let me know and I can try to move them. A few notes for American readers; 'Diolch yn faw'r is Welsh for 'Thank you very much'. Builder's tea is a term for strong cheap tea, usually with milk and sugar and drunk by workmen out of large manly mugs. A sophisticated man like Mr Waverley with an image to maintain would probably not want everyone to know he had a taste for it. Digestive biscuits are semi-sweet biscuits which many British people would associate with home and childhood. They come in plain, milk chocolate and plain chocolate. Arguments are had as to which is best, which is foolish as it is obvious that the milk chocolate ones are far superior to the others. They are excellent dunked in tea. And yes, tea can solve most problems.