The Tea Went Cold

The kettle clicked off. Margot, hands slightly shaking, reached for the chipped floral teapot with the kind of reverence reserved for sacred things. Two cups. One sugar in his, none in hers. Just like always.

She shuffled across the room with slow, careful steps. Harold was already waiting, sitting up straight in his chair, trousers freshly pressed, hair combed to one side. A gentleman.

“Afternoon tea,” she announced, offering him his cup with a soft smile.

“You always make it just right,” Harold said, his eyes crinkling. “You spoil me.”

Margot sat across from him, gently stirring her tea. “Spoiling you is my full-time job, isn’t it?”

He chuckled and looked out the window. A pair of magpies hopped along the garden path, arguing over crumbs. “Remember when we used to sit out under that big oak tree back home? You’d pack sandwiches, and I’d bring the transistor radio. Peter would chase the dog around till he collapsed on the rug.”

Margot paused, then smiled. “That was in Ballarat, love. We didn’t have a dog back then — just Peter and a stack of comic books.”

He frowned slightly. “Oh… must be thinking of another time.”

“You always forgot the napkins,” she said, easing them back into the memory. “I’d scold you, and you’d kiss my cheek like it made up for it.”

“It usually did.” He smiled. “Still does.”

They sipped their tea in silence for a while. Margot watched Harold as he stared out the window, his brow furrowed slightly, as if chasing a thought that wouldn’t quite settle. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable — just different. Like a room rearranged in the night.

Harold shuffled through the photo album on his lap. Each photo had been handled so often the edges curled inward. Faded colours, smiling faces. Some he knew. Some were mysteries.

He paused on one — a woman holding a child. “That was our backyard in Ballarat, wasn’t it?”

Margot leaned closer. “That’s not Ballarat,” she said gently. “That’s Perth. We moved there when Peter was nine. I was pregnant with Emily, remember?”

“Oh.” Harold squinted. “I thought that was… Huh.”

Margot placed a hand on his knee. “It’s alright, love. The important thing is you remember how it felt. That place. That time.”

He nodded. “Yeah. It felt like everything was still ahead of us.”

He reached for his mug and took a sip. His hands trembled slightly, tea sloshing near the rim. He didn’t seem to notice.

Sometimes, they danced. Only when the nurses weren’t watching. Harold would hum an old tune — a waltz maybe, or something by Slim Dusty — and Margot would take his hand. They’d shuffle in slow circles around the lounge, two ghosts twirling through the remains of their yesterdays.

“You always had rhythm,” Margot said one evening, as Harold spun her so gently it was almost imagined.

“And you always smelled like lavender and bread dough,” he replied, tucking an invisible strand of hair behind her ear.

They never kissed. Not properly. Just soft pecks on the hand, on the cheek. Like the kind you save for something precious, not to be broken.

One day, a visitor came. A younger woman, maybe late forties, clutching a handbag like a shield. She spoke to the staff at reception, glanced toward Harold, and hesitated.

Margot watched from the window beside him. “She’s here again,” she said gently.

Harold followed her gaze. “Do I know her?”

Margot hesitated. “That’s Emily.”

He frowned. “Emily… She looks familiar.”

The woman left after only a few minutes. Harold didn’t go to meet her. She looked like she’d been crying.

Margot sat back down beside him. “She wanted to see you. That’s all.”

Harold looked at his hands. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Margot said, her voice soft. “You just forgot. She’ll be back soon.”

Harold glanced toward the door, then back at the window. “She looked a little like our Emily.”

That night, Margot couldn’t sleep. She stared at the ceiling, counting the lines where plaster met shadow.

“What if we forget everything one day?” she whispered in the dark.

“We won’t,” Harold said. “Not the important bits.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I remember the way your hand fits in mine. I remember your laugh when the kettle whistles. And I remember loving you, even when the rest gets blurry.”

Margot turned to him, her throat tight. “I love you too,” she said.

They fell asleep holding hands across the small space between their twin beds.

One morning, Margot found Harold sitting outside on the bench, staring at the pond. His tea had gone cold in his hands.

“Do I know you?” he asked as she approached.

Margot froze. Then she sat beside him and touched his arm gently.

“Yes,” she said. “We know each other.”

He studied her face for a long time. Something softened in his eyes. “You’re the one who brings me tea.”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve been good to me.”

“You too,” she said, blinking back tears. “You’ve been good to me too.”

On Thursday, they had their regular photo afternoon. They spread pictures on the table, laughing at bad haircuts, half-remembered weddings, Christmas trees too big for their living rooms.

Margot picked up a black-and-white photo. A man in uniform, arms around a laughing woman.

“Wasn’t he handsome?” she asked, holding it up.

Harold leaned in, squinting. “That’s not me.”

Margot looked again. Her smile faltered just slightly — not enough for him to notice. “No… no, it’s not.”

They sat in silence for a moment, a kind of pause that opens up inside the chest.

Then Harold reached for her hand. “Doesn’t matter. He made you smile. That’s what counts.”

Margot gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “He did,” she said softly. “He really did.”

She turned her gaze back to the photo, her voice barely above a breath. “He still does.”

Their last afternoon tea together came on a Sunday. Rain tapped softly on the windows. Harold was slower than usual, fumbling with his cup. Margot helped him, hands steady as ever.

“You okay?” she asked.

He nodded. “Just tired. Head’s foggy today.”

“Let’s sit a while.”

And they did. They sat and drank tea and watched the rain gather in puddles.

“I have a wife,” Harold said suddenly. “Her name is Margot.”

Margot’s cup stopped halfway to her lips.

“I just saw her,” he continued. “She’s around here somewhere.”

Margot stared at the teacup. “I’m married too. To Harold. He was a teacher. He—he loves oranges. Peels them in one long curl.”

They both went quiet.

After a while, Harold asked, “Then who are we to each other?”

Margot looked up, eyes bright with something fragile. “Maybe… maybe we’re just two people who need someone to remember with.”

Harold reached for her hand. “Have we met before?”

She smiled, blinking back tears. “Maybe. In another life.”

They sat like that for a long time — two strangers, sharing the same story, even if one could not remember the memories they had made together.

And so the silence settled. Heavy and unbroken. Beside them, the tea went cold.