Fred used to bring Violet a cup of tea first thing each morning, back in the days before husbands did much for their wives. She’d be half asleep, the kettle’s whistle creeping into her dreams as a steam train or an exotic bird. The citrus scent of Earl Grey would drift upstairs and, slowly, she’d open her eyes to her dainty china cup, wrapped in Fred’s big, chapped hands. He’d open the curtains and sunlight would pour through the window, liquid gold catching the planes of his body as he climbed back into bed, holding her with strong arms as warming as her favourite drink.
But that was years ago. Now Violet’s surrounded by the smell of school dinners and death, and old people who’ve lost their marbles. There’s a different nurse every week. They’re always cheerful but they never really look at her, not like Fred did. With those blue eyes he could’ve been a movie star, but her photos have faded, along with everything else.
These days, Violet’s lucky if she gets a lukewarm cup of builders’ tea in a chipped mug.
When she opens her eyes this morning, though, everything looks different. Instead of the ugly patterned duvet she’s in crisp white sheets, dappled by golden sunlight sluicing through an open window. Outside, birds trill. Another sound rises, faint at first, then louder: the whistle of an old-fashioned kettle. The air no longer smells of decay, but the orangey tang of Earl Grey.
Violet blinks as Fred appears, clasping her real china cup, the one she lost years ago. His eyes, blue as ever, are smile-crinkled. He pulls back the covers, nestles in beside her.
As the kettle’s whistle fades, Violet takes her drink and presses her wrinkled face against his chest.
Madeleine is a Pushcart Prize-nominated author who has won the Hammond House short story prize, and been published in mags including BULL, Frazzled Lit, Hooghly Review, Literary Garage, Mythic Picnic, Punk Noir, Temple in a City, Trash Cat, Underbelly and Urban Pigs. She lives in London. Twitter/X @Madeleine_write; Bluesky @madeleinewrite.bsky.social
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