Boiling Point

He gazed absently at the black kettle, his reflection looking back at him like a stranger.

Nice cup of tea. That’s what we need.

A faint humming of a song and the sound of light footsteps on the floorboards above him made him smile.

He noticed the whistle of the kettle, as it screeched louder and louder, vapours fading away in the sunlight. Realisation struck; she must have put the kettle on.

Of course, she did. Of course, she did.

How kind. How thoughtful. 

The dawn broke in a pool on the window, seeping in through the cracks and resting on his skin.

What a fine morning. 

The phone rang, or was that the ringing in his ears?

“Hello. Yes, hello love.” 

“Your mother’s just popped the kettle on. Yes, yes… okay. See you in a bit love.”

He loved his little girl. He remembered when she was no taller than his footstool, how he would lift her up like a plane and carry her to the ends of the earth. She loved that too. 

She was much too big for that now of course. And life had tired him out.

The sound of silence greeted him after the kettle came to a boil. He’ll let his wife get that. 

The old man shuffled to the drawing room, opening the curtains. A layer of dust danced through the air, through the empty furniture and on to the armchair where his wife’s imprint was. The oak bookshelf stood behind it, cassettes from the golden days waiting patiently for the day they would be played again. They looked at him, as they always did, and he turned away. 

His eyes caught the photographs on the mantelpiece, coated with a film of grime. The faces in them now mere memories fading away. They were but shadows in his mind.

He recalled his life partner, Nora, making him his first tea in her special way.

‘Do you know why my tea tastes so good, my dear? It’s because I have a secret ingredient.’ she would say with a mischievous smirk.

‘And you will never know what it is.’

She was right though. She must have had a special ingredient, because it always tasted of magic. Nobody could ever make tea like hers.

The doorbell trilled, and before he could bring himself to move his worn body, it opened with a bang and his daughter stumbled in, dishevelled, already removing her coat and shoes. 

‘Hello Dad, how are you?’ she asked, pecking him on the cheek. The scent of her perfume on her sweaty skin reminded him of something his mind could not fathom.

‘Yes yes, fine love. How are you? How i..is what’s-his-face?’ he stuttered.

She frowned. ‘You know his name Dad; you can’t keep acting like you don’t remember.’

The one advantage to forgetting things was pretending to forget the existence of people he wasn’t particularly fond of, including his daughter’s fiancé.

They talked for a while, reminiscing on old times and her childhood. She had always been a good girl.

Such a good girl.

She had never caused him grief. Even when she was sent home from school for getting into a scuffle, he had suppressed his thoughts. Many parents would have scolded their child, violence is never the answer.

Debatable.

When he had first arrived in England, he couldn’t speak, nor understand, the language he suddenly had to adopt. Everyone looked and sounded different. Unfamiliar. He remembered being told to go back home by people he had never met before. Recollections of black eyes and sore knuckles sprang to mind.

He gave just as much as he got.

He remembered feeling a pang of homesickness, longing for the scorching sun of his homeland. He missed the food, the loud conversations with street-sellers. Most of all, he missed the tea; laced with cinnamon, cardamom, and the spices his country were famous for. Thank God for Nora who had always provided him with a piece of home.

‘Dad?’

He was jolted out of his flashbacks. She was looking at him questioningly. ‘You okay, Dad?’

He nodded and they sat in silence for, what felt like, an eternity. He tried to find the words to ask her how life was treating her, but he just wanted to close his eyes and bask in the comfort of her presence. 

He didn’t know where his wife had disappeared to, leaving him waiting for his morning tea.

He turned to his daughter, “Could you make us a cup of tea love?”

***

He looked at the tea she put in front of him. Weak. Pale. Half-empty.

Stupid girl.

Stupid girl.

“What is this?”

His arm flayed, hitting the cup, its contents splattering across the blackened carpet.

Loathing filled his insides. He hated her. Her attempts at trying to help him when he needed none. As if a child could know better than their own father. He didn’t need her; he didn’t need anyone. 

She never did anything right anyway.

Her face was a mixture of fear and sadness.

“I..I tried to make it the way you like. I should have let the teabag soa—"

“—it’s wrong, it’s all wrong!”

“I can make it again, Dad, it’s fine. Look.”

She gathered up the fragments of the cup, desperately trying to find a way to put back together, back to the way it was.

His head hurt. It was like something was pulling the words from his throat, speaking for him.

“You can’t help yourself can you? Always doing it wrong! Why can’t you be more like your mother?”

She looked at him in a way he knew would not leave him until his last breath. He should say something. He should.

What could he say to the person who meant the world to him?

Before the guilt flooded his body completely, she’d gone, leaving only a trail of the scent he had always loved behind.

Once she’d left, the house darkened once more. The old man waited.

Waited.

And waited.

There wasn’t a sound, except the familiar sound of light footsteps from above.

He walked to the kitchen, dragging his body towards the black kettle, now silent.

Nice cup of tea. That’s what we need.