There’s No Place Like Tea

Elizabeth had two weaknesses: a good cup of tea, and the homeless. 

And though I was more of a coffee drinker, it didn’t take me long to learn just how she liked her morning brew; almond milk microwaved for twenty seconds, a touch of brown sugar with a strong English breakfast blend, steeped for seven minutes.

Every morning, our little ritual would begin. 

While she showered, I’d make breakfast. Then she’d join me at the table and take a leisurely sip. She’d squeeze my hand and smile, and all was right in the world. 

*

Someone had gifted us a box with the quirky ones, like ginger peach and matcha, for Christmas. Excited by the new flavours, I agreed to make her a different one every Friday evening. 

A new weekly ritual. 

This time, we were trying green tea with jasmine. Elizabeth liked hers with a dollop of honey, stewed for exactly three minutes with freshly boiled water. I didn’t stir it until the leaves had been removed, otherwise the astringency would set in. 

The scent was pleasant enough; light and floral, best enjoyed after a summer dinner. The steam danced in front of her hazel eyes and she took a sip. Her shoulders relaxed and she sighed happily. 

I smiled. 

Had it really been six years? 

Seeing her now, in my home, sipping tea at my table, brought me a rare sense of peace. My head was quieter than it had been in a long time. My thoughts tamer. 

She didn’t know it, but Elizabeth had changed my life for the better. Without her, my demons would run wild. 

I met her eyes. “Good?” 

“Really good.” She beamed. 

It must have lasted ten seconds. Then she got that look in her face, and I knew she was remembering the sleeping man we’d walked past that afternoon. 

“Liz.” I warned. 

“I just… when do you think he last had something like this to drink?” She asked. “We’re here, trying a new tea every week and he might never drink tea again.”

“He’s nothing to do with us.” I was getting irritated. “We’re worlds apart.”

“You know, every person is approximately three key events away from homelessness.” She mumbled. “Sometimes, Nick… I just feel so sad when I have things like this.”

I said nothing. 

What bothered her so much about them anyway? None of them showed up to her funeral. 

*

They had this spot behind the train station. With those arches that constantly drip water, even in the dry months. 

The poorly cobbled roads were home to dozens of nameless inhabitants, each with their own dingy mattress and meager belongings. When asleep, they resembled misshapen boulders, blending into the sad backdrop like gravel on a beach. 

I approached one of those shapes now with a flask of chamomile tea in my hand. This one couldn’t have been older than eighteen. I nudged his sleeping frame with my shoe. 

He blinked, not sure if I was real or not. I saw him hug his backpack closer. 

“Would you like something hot to drink?” I asked, extending the flask to him. 

He didn’t hesitate. He sat up and accepted graciously. A couple of others stared with curiosity, but I ignored them. 

“What’s your name?” I asked. 

“Jacob.” The steam from the tea danced around his eyes.

“How is it?”

He nodded. “It’s good.” 

For a moment, Elizabeth’s face swam to the front of my mind. Sipping the teas I made her every morning. Smiling. 

Sleeping forever in an open casket. 

I knelt beside him. His jeans were torn and his hair had seen better days.

“You don’t have to tell me anything.” I began. “But… I feel like you’re different from the others here. What happened to you?”

He shrugged. The flask was empty. 

“You can tell me over another cup of tea?” I offered.

*

Elizabeth had always said I had a way with people. They’d warm to me within minutes, and share things they didn’t usually do with others. 

Jacob was easy enough. 

From the condition of his clothes, he can’t have been sleeping rough for longer than a few weeks. Someone as young as him would easily open up to a stranger with a warm drink and an ear to listen. 

The others had been more of a challenge; the ones who’d been there so long that the grime of the city had seeped into their skin. They didn’t trust so easily. 

Like the old woman with missing teeth. 

I’d offered her a flask of Earl Grey tea and a cheese sandwich. The condition and length of her nails was telling enough; it had been years since she’d slept indoors.

I’d had to be careful with her. 

Our chats would be in broad daylight and never far from a crowd. I figured she liked a pretty view, so every Friday, I’d bring her a flask of Earl Grey tea (brewed for five minutes - she was one for stronger flavours) and we’d sit on a bench by the river. 

“Couldn’t afford repayments once my husband died.” She said. “After the funeral, it was one thing after another. His family never liked me much.” 

“That’s tough.” I said. 

“You have someone special?” 

“My wife. Elizabeth.” Her name felt heavy in my throat. I felt like I’d conjured her ghost, and she was watching us. Knowing exactly what I was planning. I imagined the disappointment and fear in her eyes, and her hands reaching for me, pleading me to stop. 

“How did she die?” The woman asked me. I flinched, and she smiled knowingly. “People have a look when they talk about someone who’s no longer here.” 

I sighed. “A drunk driver. She was cycling to work and didn’t make it.” 

She nodded sadly. The flask rested empty in her gloved hands. “You loved her very much.” 

“More than anything.” 

By the end of May, the Earl Grey sachets finally finished. 

And when June began, no one saw the old woman again. 

*

Jacob and I were sat on the tarmac of a McDonald’s car park. I’d ordered him a Big Mac to go with his chamomile tea. Like the old woman, he’d learned to expect me every Friday. And every week, he’d open up a little more. 

“Stepmum kicked me out.” He mumbled. 

I shook my head sympathetically. “What about a friend’s house?” 

Jacob shrugged. “Everyone’s got their own shit to deal with. I’ll figure something out.”

“I’m sure you will. You seem savvy enough.”

He thanked me for the food and the tea. When I got home, I counted the sachets of chamomile. 

Six remaining. 

*

Six weeks later, I buried Jacob in a field seventy miles from the train station. Now that summer had arrived, the soil was drier and more cooperative. I loved the sounds it made as I dug, like snipping paper with a pair of scissors. 

It was three in the morning. 

I drove back to London with the radio on. Some late night interview with an ex-gambling addict. 

The car felt smoother without a dead body in the back.

*

On the first of July, I selected a new tea from the Christmas collection. 

Hibiscus. Best served with honey and lime juice. Steep for three to four minutes. 

Jacob died with the taste of chamomile and cyanide on his lips. The old woman with Earl Grey and ricin. Lifeless bodies that people hurried past, wanting to pretend they didn’t exist. 

No one would miss them.

Another month, another tea. Another body to bury. 

A new monthly ritual. 

*

There were two things I couldn’t stand in life: fancy teas and the homeless. 

They reminded me too much of her.