Little Saint Bride [Death and the Maiden, #1]

Chapter Eighteen: Tea Leaves and Trespassers

'Nessie,' a voice calls, and I turn back to the house. Father is standing in the doorway, wearing his familiar three-day-old t-shirt, and I sigh. He won't ask for help, but as I follow him into the house I know he needs it. The single-room that is all we have of a lower floor is cluttered with rubbish, clothing, empty food containers and liquor bottles, in varying degrees of filled. There fire in the corner of the room has died out, leaving a cold and desolate feeling instead. There's a crunch as my feet step on glass, and I wince.

Dad is oblivious, striding through his mess to the small kitchen at the back, made of a small sink and an old hob. He brandishes a metal kettle towards me, grinning. 'Tea?'

I can't help but smile, it's such a familiar gesture. 'Of course, Dad.'

He pulls out some chipped mugs from a cupboard, before placing tea leaves in a sieve over the mugs. I notice that for his own, he uses second hand tea leaves, but for mine, they're new and unspoiled.

I'm touched. It's something so small nobody else would think anything of it, but to me, it's everything.

Dad fills the kettle with fresh water from a pail before turning to place it on the fire to heat. His expression is comical as he stares at the empty grate, with no flames whatsoever to be seen.

'I'll go get some kindling,' he says, although I can see him really thinking, 'When did that go out?'

In answer, probably several days ago. I sigh again. As soon as Dad leaves, I set about cleaning up the place. Rubbish to be cleared, clothes to be put away, floor to be mopped, sofa to be cleaned from all of the crumbs...

I'm still at it when he gets back fifteen minutes later, leaves clinging to his greying hair. Thankfully, the area is now glass free and hopefully, trip hazard free.

Dad doesn't notice the change. He throws the kindling on the fire, looking pleased as he manages to get a small glow. I'm going to have to wait hours for my tea while he stokes the fire, so I continue to clean. No one else is going to take care of him.

After a while, Dad peers at me from over his large rimmed glasses and realises what I'm doing. Absent-minded, he says, 'Oh thank you, Nessie. Did you spill something?'

I'm scrubbing the floor for him. I don't have the heart to snap, so I smile and nod.

Typical Dad.

Then, he says, stirring the water that was beginning to boil, 'Why don't you come back and live with me, Nessie?'

I pause in my scrubbing, sleeves rolled up, hair flopping in stray curls down my cheeks. I want to tell him that I would come back, if I could. That it wasn't really my choice.

But I know it's a lie.

I don't want to live here, with him, in this hovel. I wanted to be better, to do better. My father was a gambler and a drunk, and as much as I loved him, I was better than that, and better than him.

'Always knew you were going somewhere,' Dad huffs, pouring the boiling water over the tea leaves. They crackle and brew as he moves the kettle to the next cup. 'Nate was good. He would have stayed, if he'd lived. Why won't you?'

I wipe my sweating forehead and place the dirty sponge back in the bucket, gratefully accepting my tea as Dad hands it over. I blow in it, watching the steam skitter from my breath, and say, 'I'm smart, Dad. I'm fairly astute. I know what my future is here, and it's bleak. It's working down a mine, working in a factory, working on the rigs out in the sea whilst the rich stay rich and we stay poor. I want more than that, Dad.'

Why am I even explaining? I'm not sure, but the truth seems compelling to come out from my mouth. But I realise that it's true. When I studied hard, it was for my own gain. When I trained in the name of revenge, a part of me knew that it was because I wanted to be the strongest. And as I realise it, someone else enters the house.