Tea Leaves

This one was born out of amusement from being called out over the lack of my apparently trademark carnage in "Sunshine" and evolved from there.

It has turned out gentler than other recent works and I'm glad for that.

-:- Tea Leaves -:-

I deleted my seven freshly minted paragraphs in a fit of disgust, and sighed out a slow, frustrated breath.

"Fuck this nonsense," I declared to the world in general.

I took off my glasses and put them gently down beside my laptop.

The study was too dim and my eyes were already blurring. A schoolgirl error; I knew better.

I massaged my temples.

It was a lovely sunny day outside - if I glanced out my window I could see and admire some of it past the trees and bushes that separated my garden from my woodland.

I stared briefly out at the world, then glared back down at the taunting screen of my laptop. Chapter three of my latest pseudonymous fantasy novella was not going as well as I'd hoped it would by now.

I needed a break; I needed some new interest, some project to give me a distraction while my subconscious worked on resolving the structural issues that I knew existed...

Tea.

Tea would be a good start. A nice way to force a pause.

I saved my manuscript, backed it up to two different USB sticks, and then stood with a muffled groan.

My back ached and my bra was digging into me once more.

"Get a new chair," I reminded myself for what felt like the millionth time.

And I snorted, wryly acknowledging that I wouldn't.

.:.

I leaned against my kitchen counter as my kettle groaned and hissed, and pondered why I was struggling with my latest work.

Perhaps I'd simply exhausted my talent, or worse, my pool of inspiration.

Or maybe I just needed a holiday.

A holiday...

Tuscany...

Oh God, yes.

Or Aragon...

Sun, dry heat, good food...

Elegant and exotic women...

My kettle boiled and clunked off; I sighed as the daydream faded into the mundane.

"Some day," I promised myself. "Some day soon."

I dug in my cupboard, rescued the last sad dregs of my Darjeeling, added a teaspoon of the leaves to my infuser, and steeped the infuser in my completely inappropriate B-is-for-Bollocks novelty mug. I let the tea brew and enjoyed the ghost of better days as the scent filled my kitchen. Then I put my infuser in my sink and carried my mug to the glass bi-fold doors of my enclosed patio.

I opened the doors, and took a deep sniff of the air, enjoying the cool scent of the lingering dew on my lawn.

I raised my mug to my lips and paused, anticipating the scalding heat...

A girl screamed.

There was a loud, rending crash and a section of my garden's rear fence collapsed.

"Oh... fuck..." I breathed, over the swearing of startled magpies.

I put my mug down on the weathered planter by the door and scurried down and around past the unkempt dog rose thicket that screened my house from the woodland behind it... only to slide to a stop, aghast.

Bits of splintered wood were distributed over a large part of the back of my garden.

A bicycle had blossomed in my mangled vegetable patch, its rear wheel slowly clicking its way down to a stop in amongst what had once been my tomatoes.

And a girl lay face down on the hard, bare patch of earth that was intended - eventually - for my herbs.

She was making the most awful sounds as she kicked spasmodically against the soil...

"Shit," I whispered. "Oh shit, oh fuck..."

I dashed to her side and dropped to my knees beside her.

"Hey," I said, as gently as I had it in me to be. I gently touched her back, then her shoulder. "Hey there, are you okay? Are you able to speak?"

She coughed weakly, then let out a horrible, gasping, gagging groan.

"Lie still, lie still. Oh God, you're hurt..."

She gasped another breath...

"Slowly. Don't speak. Just... fuck, what do I do, what do I do... just..."

I scrabbled for her hand and squeezed it in mine, as the horrible realisation came to me - I had no idea how to help her.

She wheezed, managed to snatch two quick breaths, and then as the immediate panic of asphyxiation left her she started to cry - harsh but somehow near-silent sobs - and she pulled her legs in against her stomach.

She rolled slowly onto her side.

And all I could think to do was stroke her back like my gran used to stroke mine when I ran to her for comfort after a fall.

"Shh," I whispered. "Shh. I'm here. It's okay..."

Slowly she calmed.

She gasped a breath, held it for a moment, and brushed vaguely at her face.

"Can you talk now?" I asked her gently. "Where do you hurt?"

"It... it might be quicker to list... where I don't," she moaned, and I shivered in sympathy.

She slowly gathered her knees under herself and rolled into a crouch. She paused, panting.

"Ow," she whispered.

"Um... do... do you think you should move? I mean... I have a sofa inside and you can lie there until the ambulance gets here..."

"No... ambulance, please," she managed. "I'll... I'll be okay..."

She started to straighten up, then cried out in pain. "Stomach," she gasped. "Please. Oh Christ, help me up. Help me up, please..."

I got an arm under her, tried to support her better. "Are you sure you shouldn't just lie down?"

"Don't want to be... in the dirt," she panted. "Stand. Please. Help me stand..."

Shaking my head at her stubbornness, I braced myself and helped her to her feet; she hissed in pain and stood partly doubled over. I let her catch her breath, then started to lead her back to my house.

"Watch the step," I said softly. "There you go. Left, this way, through the door... here. Here, let me help you down..."

"No... I'll ruin it..." she protested. "I'm filthy..."

"I don't care. You're hurt. It's just a couch. I can clean it if I have to. Sit. Please," I begged her.

She groaned as I lowered her, and held herself carefully still as she stared at the floor for a moment or two.

Then she sniffed again and wiped her eyes on her grimy sleeve.

It came away with a fresh scarlet patch, and I flinched.

"Shit, there's a nasty cut or something on your chin; I'll fetch some kitchen towel..."

"Thanks..." she whispered. "Sorry about your fence."

"It's a fence. I can fix it," I said. "I'm much more worried about you right now. There's an A&E about three miles away. Lets get you cleaned up a bit and then I'll drive you there, okay? Please, don't argue..."

"Okay," she managed, and I sighed in relief that she was being reasonable...

"Do you remember what happened?"

"Yeah. I was... stupid. I skimped on maintenance. My brake cable was frayed. I was going to buy the new one today... and then it snapped... just by the turn at the bottom of the slope. I couldn't stop..."

"I heard you scream," I said, helpfully.

"I don't remember doing that, but I guess I... must have..."

"It all sounded pretty brutal. I'm just glad you're okay. There's a cluster of saplings there that the council have just trimmed, if you'd been two yards further to the right you could have been impaled on the stumps..."

"I guess I was born lucky," she managed.

"Where do you hurt?"

"Everywhere. But my... my stomach really hurts. And my thighs too. I think I whacked them on the handlebars or... or something."

"I think you whacked your everything on something," I muttered. I knelt down in front of her and stared up at her. "Here. Hold still. This is disinfectant, it will sting..."

She let out an agonized whine and panted as I carefully wiped the worst of the dirt away from the wound on her jaw. I sighed in relief when it turned out to just be a clean, shallow cut.

"Fuck," she managed, after a moment or two. "Fuck, you're right, that burned..."

I gently took her cheek in my hand and turned her face left-right-up-down.

She shivered.

"I can't see any other cuts," I said softly. "Hopefully you're just bruised. But I'm flailing here, I know next to nothing about first aid or anything; I'm really sorry..."

"It's okay. You were there. Thanks for... being there... oh Jesus, I'm so sore..." she added in a breathy, little girl whisper and I winced and touched her arm in sympathy.

I doctored her as best I could, wrapped my favourite autumn jacket around her, then helped her stagger to my battered Vauxhall.

I drove her cautiously to the A&E, and stayed with her until she'd been triaged.

But she wouldn't let me stay and wait until she was done - pride perhaps; maybe she was tired of being gawked at or nagged...

So I took my jacket back (at her insistence), left her my number and address, and told her I'd move her bike indoors until she was well enough to fetch it.

Then I made my way slowly home in a strangely grey mood - thoughtful, upset, and really quite strangely affected by... by her.

And the... really, profoundly disturbing noises she'd made as she'd scrabbled at the dirt...

My first order of business when I got home was a glass of wine to dull the jagged edges of the morning.

I hoped she'd be okay.

I submerged back into my reclusive existence. The days began to crawl by as usual; my book continued in fits and starts, and her bicycle became simply another item of clutter in my house. But it bugged me - the snapped cable, the dirt, the signs of surface rust... so about a week after the crash I went into town and bought various tools and parts.

I spent several enjoyable hours procrastinating as I stripped and fixed the bike up for her - cleaning and oiling the chain, adjusting the gears, replacing cracked reflectors and so on.

And I discovered a wonderful sense of solace while doing so - I got to relive the lovely old memories of the hours I'd spent in my grandfather's workshop, watching and, then later, helping him strip and repair any broken thing that he could lay his hands upon.

For a brief few special moments I almost didn't feel alone.

.:.

I jumped at the sound of my doorbell.

I hadn't ordered anything, I had no deliveries pending; not even my internal imp's long-running affair with the pixie of late night impulse purchases had inflicted anything on me recently...

I pushed my glasses more firmly onto my nose and stood up with a groan.

"Fucking chair," I muttered. "Die in a fire, will you?"

My chair wisely held its silence.

I made for my door, undid the chain, and opened it.

"Oh," I breathed.

She stood in a small patch of shadow, self-consciously fiddling with her jumper hem, leg in a knee brace and oh-so-wonderfully backlit by the afternoon sunshine around her.

She was taller and and her hair was a shade darker than I remembered it being.

(funny how memory could play tricks like that, part of me thought)

But her eyes were still their perfect cornflower blue.

"Hi," she said.

"Hello," I smiled. "I'm glad to see you walking."

"Limping," she countered, with a lopsided little grin.

"Undefeated, nonetheless," I retorted, and she smiled. She raised a small paper gift bag and offered it to me.

"Oh..." I said. "Oh, no, please, you shouldn't..."

"Please. Please, take it."

I stared into those warm blue eyes and hesitated a moment longer... then submitted.

Her fingers were cool to the touch, and she swallowed as I nervously accepted her offering.

For a second I felt breathless, light-headed...

"It's tea," she said. "I could smell it when I was bleeding on your couch. It made me feel... safe. Like I was home. So I bought this for you to... to say thank you. For keeping me safe and getting me the help I needed. For being sanctuary."

"Oh. Thank you, that's very sweet of you. Um... please, come in, sorry, it's a bit... um... disastrous..."

She smiled as she limped slowly past me, and I eased the door closed behind her.

"Don't you have a... crutch or something?".

"Yes, but I hate it. I left it at home," she answered. "I would honestly rather crawl."

"Oh..."

"Is your fence is still broken?"

"Yeah," I sighed. "I've been too busy on... supposedly important things to worry about something... trivial."

"It didn't feel trivial when I hit it," she said with a small smile.

I grimaced. "Thankfully it... mostly was. I was really worried you'd been severely hurt. Oh... there's your bike, by the way..."

"Oh... oh goodness, you... you fixed it... you fixed all of it..."

She paused and took a deep breath. "Thank you," she whispered. "I wasn't sure how I was going to get it home, and you really didn't need to..."

"Oh, it's my pleasure! Really! It was fun. It reminded me of some of my happier childhood memories. Working beside my grandfather... back when life was... easier..."

She ran her fingers slowly along the handlebars.

I watched her, first out of curiosity, then suddenly felt hot burning embarrassment take me as she slumped in on herself and turned away to hide her face from me.

She cried nearly silently, the only clue the slight shuddering of her shoulders.

I found her some tissues and gently touched her shoulder as I offered them to her; she accepted without looking at me.

She blew her nose.

"Sorry," she coughed, voice thick with emotion. "It's... it was my brother's before he... went away. It means... a lot. I was expecting a wreck. And it wasn't..."

I heard the strange emphasis on the went away and back-pedalled frantically from the threat of someone else's darkness...

"Well, I'm... I'm glad I could fix it then," I babbled. "Um... I don't have a bike rack, but I'm pretty sure it will fit in the car. Can't I load it up for you and... drive you home?"

"That's very sweet of you, but... I'll be okay..."

"Will you, now?" I asked, watching her and not believing a word of her statement.

She blew her nose and sighed again. "Yes. In... in time. But I'll... manage the trip home..."

Suddenly I realised that I had no idea what her name was.

And she'd been in agony when I'd given her mine...

I snorted.

"Idiot. I'm an idiot."

"What? Why?" she said as she brushed at her eyes again.

"I just realised that we never really introduced ourselves. Hello. I'm Dawn."

"I'm Chloe," she admitted. "Thank you, Dawn. For everything..."

And then we both went silent, and I felt the creeping tentacles of social inadequacy... slithering...

"Tea?" I said desperately, brandishing her gift at her.

"That... that would be really nice," she said.

And I sighed silently in relief, insufferably pleased that my desperate gambit had worked.

I escorted her to my kitchen, and set three spoons of the wonderful Assam she'd bought me to brew in my ridiculous Badger teapot.

I took her arm and helped her hobble outside and into a chair in the shade of my neighbour's chestnut tree...

... and, somehow, it was dusk before either of us even thought to check the time.

I'd been completely mesmerised by her voice and her lovely, warm smile.

We somehow convoluted space-time enough to get her bike into my car, and I followed her softly-spoken navigation to a block of student apartments near the University campus.

I helped her wheel her bike into the building and down the passage to a bicycle locker; she insisted on limping back to the front door with me, and it was there that she blessed me with an all-too-brief, indescribably wonderful and phenomenally awkward hug.

"Thanks again," she whispered into my ear, and I was struck once more by how lovely she was.

"See you," I managed over the jangling of my nerves. "Watch out for fences, please..."

"I will," she said, blushing crimson as she released me.

She gave me a shy grin.

I smiled, and waved, and drove home, thinking about little but what a wonderful young woman she was.

.:.

I was twenty when I inflicted my first book on the world.

It was a ridiculous, disorganised, fast-paced historical slash-fiction mess featuring several eminent Georgian and Victorian personalities and a cornucopia of truly grotesque puns.

I'd written it as a joke, and self-published it purely to get it out there and prove that I could finish something. I'd laughed at myself, drunk a glass of cheap and cheerful wine to celebrate, and gone on to other things.

And Fate had laughed right back at me.

My dumpster-fire of a novel somehow got noticed, and had spawned long legs as it gained me a vocal following of people who were willing to overlook the many technical issues and woeful plot...

My second book had followed a year and a half later, and the proceeds of it continued to stream in - keeping me in tea, wine and shortbread long after I'd expected anyone could possibly want to read the utter nonsense enclosed between its "covers".

My third book had made the prior two look like a four-page folio of nursery rhymes, and its obscene popularity had humbled and horrified me in equal measure.

My carefully-honed, fiendishly-revised and completely fake persona - coupled with a dogged refusal to publish any publicity photographs of myself - had so far kept me free from the hordes of fans and super-fans who haunted the numerous sites now dedicated to my works. And I frequently felt guilt and profound sympathy for the residents of Morecambe - the coastal town I'd selected at random for my middle-aged male author to list as his home.

(Some nights I woke, sweating and panting, from nightmares in which my fans had pierced the veil, and had found me and had come and camped out in our sleepy little University town...)

Paranoia had driven me - I'd carefully crafted my new alter ego, and switched to writing young adult fantasy as a smokescreen.

So far, no hint of my prior identity had leaked out - I was nowhere near as successful with my new genre.

But then, I had no need to be.

I was twenty six, and owned my house outright, and owned the woodland adjoining it too. Seven acres of birch, beech and brambles that cyclists, ramblers, foragers, dog-walkers and the occasional horny couple used with (sometimes gay) abandon on their path between the Park and the Common - I enjoyed the frisson I felt each time I walked my land, revelling in the certainty that not one single person around me knew who I was.

Solitude was the tarnished obverse of the golden coin of plenty.

I'd been forced to cut my family off when the constant demands for money ceased to come with even a veneer of hello-Dawn-tell-us-how-you-are.

I'd then made the unforced error of not hiding my means from my University friends and they, too, had eventually had to be excised to protect both my sanity and my heart.

And one by one, others had fallen by the wayside.

I flaunted nothing, did nothing untoward that I could detect... but jealousy sprung up like thickets of brambles around me and people who'd been warm became cold, people who'd reached out now grasped...

And, in the end, I was not strong enough to rise above the constant heartache and disappointment.

I chose loneliness as the lesser of two evils, but a lesser evil is still an evil, and the price I paid was high.

Sex was something I now only read about, and love was for my characters rather than for me.

So my brief, innocent encounter with Chloe was priceless to me - an event to cherish forever amongst my few remaining human interactions with the world beyond my own.

But now it was over; I doubted I'd see her again.

And all too soon the memory of her touch began to fade.

.:.

My doorbell rang and I sighed.

I took off my glasses and stared through my window at the dappled shadows of the patchwork Friday morning.

Then, groaning, I stood.

"I really, really loathe you," I told my chair.

I stretched and then my way to the front door.

I opened it.

"Oh..." I said.

Chloe leaned against the wall, dressed down in jeans and a gym vest. A bulging canvas rucksack hung from her shoulder and her bicycle stood chained to the inside of my railings behind her.