Tea for Two

Tea for Two

"My love...". The old man bowed his head and placed the meagre flowers onto the grave. "...until me meet again." he muttered. A few more minutes spent wiping down the headstone from the recent dirty rain and then he straightened. His duty done he gazed upwards. The sky was cloudy and the merest ray of light shone down like a beacon from the heavens. It will rain soon. It always rains today!
Straightening up slowly, his old bones pretesting with the cold he stretched as if to bring himself together. In the distance a rumble of thunder invaded the silence of the hill.
He looked upwards judging the sky..."rain"..." he whispered to himself, "...it always rains!"
With but one hesitation, one backward glance he shuffled his way along the lonely path towards the gate. Before he turned the corner on the ash-path he looked back once more. The headstone was still in view, the flowers he had placed were bright in the darkening shadows. He smiled and held out his hand as the first spots of water began to drop. "it always rains!".

He made it home just as the storm broke, the spots of water threatening the downpour to come. The thunder rumbled, closer now and then the next flash as lightening split the sky. He closed the old oak door against the elements, safe in the knowledge that the weather was outside. He, on the other hand was in his kitchen. The world was without. The elements could do their worst - no further reason to venture out now.
He sighed gently, his arthritic fingers busied themselves against the crockery in the old sink. He picked up the battered kettle, opening the top and filling it absent-mindedly.
"Tea love?" he asked, raising his voice a little.
"About time!" came the voice back from the other room, just the merest hint of teasing in the dulcet tones.

He focused his eyes through the kitchen window. The path and garden gate in the foreground the ash path and the hill in the middle distance. The rain and steadily thickening evening mist slowly obscuring the portal gate to the graveyard. The steeple of the ancient church already obscured.
He placed the old kettle upon the burner and listened for a second to the water bubbling within. Again his eyes were drawn to the hill, and the graveyard upon it. Thin swirls of fog slowly and steadily spread their fingers out and within minutes the rain beat upon the window and the last view was gone. Once more, there was nothing to see through the window except nature itself and his own reflection.

"I could die of thirst here!" teased the voice from the other room. The old man chuckled and busied himself with the tea towel wiping the dried moisture from the few sparse plates he possessed. Suddenly without warning the kettle boiled, a shrill, piercing sound suddenly loud against the rhythmic beating of the rain on the panes. Absent-mindedly he turned and grasped the handle with the tea towel, reaching for the pot he poured the steaming water and stirred in the leaves. Traditional tea - it had always been, they had always enjoyed the traditional tea. No new-fangled tea bags for them. Tradition was everything. Some things should never change.

Shuffling through the open doorway he left the ancient cracked kitchen and into a room illuminated by the glow of the open fire. He shuffled onwards towards the old table set beside the all enveloping armchair. A head turned and tired, rheumy eyes gazed at him. A moment to focus and then a fond grin spread over the face bathed in shadow.
"Two sugers...", he mumbled, "...as always...."
She smiled, "Yes, thank you dear, always two sugars"
"...it makes you happy", it was an open statement, not requiring a response. She nodded anyway, "...two sugars!" There was a whistfull sigh, "...two sugars".
He chuckled and placed the cup upon the table beside the chair. "Two sugars"
The eyes were still upon him as he sat, too far to reach out but close enough for his presence to be with her. The form in the chair settled back, a gnarled hand reached out and grasped the handle of the mug "two sugars!" The mug was lifted and disappeared into the shadow of the chair. There was the slightest sound of a swallow and then a sigh. "Two sugars!"
"A biscuit?" his eyes narrowed, watching for a reaction. There was a pause. Slow rasping breaths began to emanate from the shadows in the chair. He waited patiently.
Again he asked "a biscuit?" The tip of his dry tongue glided over his chapped lips as he waited for the answer. He received nothing.
He settled back into the threadbare depths of his own chair and waited. The glow from the fire lighting up the room but deepening the shadows. The thick, red patterned wallpaper adding to the deepening warmth - not touched by the light but itself adding to the glow in the shadowed extremities. Outside the lightening flashed a bright fluorescent gash across the sky, one hundred, two hundred, three hundred, and then the rumbling threat of the thunder. Both sets of eyes looked to the window, the rain crashed down upon the ancient panes blurring the world outside once more adding to the isolation of the room within. From without the room there was the tiniest of drips. He looked around and smiled. The figure settled back into the armchair.
"You never got that fixed!" It was a statement, non- accusing.
"I never saw the point". He smiled.
"No - you never did". Again a pure statement.
"Biscuit?" he asked again. His eyes upon the figure in the shadows opposite. The merest hint of a nod. He smiled and rose slowly unfolding himself in triumph. "A biscuit", he grinned and shuffled towards the kitchen. As he entered the room he noticed the window, the streaming panes and the mist had now swallowed the hill, the church and the entrance to the graveyard. Darkness was falling fast accelerated by the menacing cloud. He stepped to the counter and reached aloft for the biscuits. Gripping them he fumbled for a plate and then spread the contents, he lifted one and bit into it the taste of it causing his mind to wander through memories long past.
Again a shuffle from the kitchen to the living room, one hand steadying on the door jamb, the other holding the plate shook in anticipation. One step at a time, he placed the plate upon the table next to the shadowed chair. A second he waited and then moved to his own chair bathed in the dying embers of the fire.
Again the gnarled hand moved slowly from the shadow of the chair, took a biscuit and then the satisfied crunch of anticipation.
The old man leaned forward, picked up the poker and stabbed the fire. A brief break of amber embers and then ash. The thunder rumbled, one, two, three thousand, four five and then a distant flash. The rain ceased as quickly as it started.
"I'm sorry I missed last year..." the old man whispered, "...I made amends though!".
A sigh from the depths of the chair
"You have been very dutiful..." she replied. "...all things considered!"  Again the slight tease in the old voice.
He smiled softly as he leaned towards the fire, reaching over to grab a fresh log from the scuttle. The softest of sounds made him stop, he looked towards the chair. The figure of his wife leaned forward and shook her head. Her grey locks glimmering in the dying glow of the fire.
"No point!" the tone was firm as she held his gaze and retreated back into the comfortable shadows. He shrugged.
"No point?" he looked to her, and barely perceived the shake of the head. He smiled and contented himself with the poker. Pushing it to the embers, the amber glow flared and then retreated, dying embers, the spark of life retreating.

The shadows close in as the night falls. The storm abated, yet still the drip, drip, drip of the task never completed. As the fire dies, he looks over to the now empty chair and the full cup of tea beside it. The plate of biscuits untouched, he smiles reaches for one and then again shrugs deciding not to. He settles back, happy, content, his eyes close. His breathing shallow,
"About time!" his last whisper as night falls shrouding the world in darkness.





                             

7