Original fiction: "Tea, Sweetheart" (PG)
Title: Tea, Sweetheart
Author: riviyan_questa
Rating: PG
Word count: 971
Summary: Mrs Rose shares a cup of tea with one of her tenants.
Note: Written for a Christmas challenge this past December. This is the first story featuring the character Mrs Rose and her boarding house.
Mrs Althea Rose owned a boarding house in a somewhat disreputable area of the city. Her children often pleaded with her to sell it, to move into a retirement complex, or anywhere, as long as it was in a safer part of town. Each time, she would pat her concerned child’s hand, smile, and offer some tea. Mrs Rose did not consider herself to be a stupid woman.
She did, however, believe very strongly that she had a purpose in this life, and running the boarding house was her purpose. The rent was low, for Mrs Rose had enough money from her late husband that she did not rely on the rents to pay her bills, and as such, she was often a haven for the hurting, the broken, and the despairing: those who had nowhere else to go, those whose wives had picked up their families and left, those whose parents had cut ties with their wayward children. No one, she reasoned, would care for these people if she did not.
And so she stayed. She made a point to greet each of her boarders every day, and sometimes, like this day, it required an effort. This night, she was waiting late. She lit a candle, and watched through the window, out into the snowy winter night, watching for the return of her newest boarder.
Wallace McCullough had only lived there for a week, and he worked long hours for little pay. He had a wife and son, but he didn’t talk about them much; a week was not long enough for him to deal with the wounds of his wife’s betrayal. Earlier that month, he had told Mrs Rose, he had been made redundant at his factory job. Such was life, and a man with little education often despaired of finding a job to support his family.
Wallace had found a job, one that paid for his room at Mrs Rose’s, but not one that could encourage his wife to overlook his flaws. So his wife had packed up their son and gone to stay with her parents.
Mrs Rose stood up from the kitchen table and peered out the window, praying that Wallace would return soon. It had been snowing all day, but now it was getting windy, and Mrs Rose worried when any one of her flock was out in the cold, not warm in their bed. She looked down the street, in the direction of the diner where Wallace now bussed tables and washes dishes. He had been working twelve hour days because of the holiday season, and he took the opportunity to earn what extra money he could, hoping to prove to his wife that he was not a failure.
Mrs Rose would not say anything, but she knew that it was not his work that had estranged his wife, but his habit of visiting the pub after work and returning home in the wee hours, sometimes to drunk to climb the stairs, and to be discovered by Mrs Rose, or one of the other boarders, sleeping against the wall in the stairwell. Mrs Rose did consider herself to be a tactful woman.
After a moment of watching, Mrs Rose again took her position at the kitchen table, the chair creaking in protest as she sat down.
The candle had burnt down by the time Mrs Rose spied Wallace walking up the street toward the house. She filled the old copper kettle with water and put it on the stove to heat up. A cup of tea was always nice after a long walk in the cold, dry air. It had just begun to whistle as the front door opened, admitting both Wallace and a gust of cold wind and snow.
Mrs Rose listened as he removed his boots, his coat, and his scarf, neatly putting them away. Mrs Rose could never complain that this particular boarder left messes for her to clean up.
He crept into the kitchen, clearly trying to avoid waking the other occupants of the house. A look of shock briefly crossed his tired features at the sight of his elderly landlady, calmly making tea at four thirty a.m., as though this was a perfectly reasonable time to be doing so.
‘Tea, sweetheart.’ It was not a question. Mrs Rose poured the perfectly hot brown liquid into a cup and set it down on the table, across from where she had been sitting.
She smiled inside as Wallace sat down and warmed his hands against the warm ceramic with the painted kittens on it.
‘How was work, dear?’ Mrs Rose did not mention that she knew for a fact that Wallace’s shift had ended at half past one, three hours earlier. She couldn’t blame a lonely man for wanting a bit of escape from his dreary life, though Wallace did not seem inebriated, and did not smell of whisky and smoke as he usually did when he returned home.
‘It was okay. Busy, though.’ Wallace was not a very talkative person.
‘I was getting worried. The weather is not good for walking.’ Mrs Rose sipped her tea and the two sat in a comfortable silence.
When she finished her tea, she rinsed the cup out in the sink and left it on the counter. ‘Well, dear, it is late and I am not as young as I used to be.’ Mrs Rose smiled warmly at Wallace, who was still seated at the table, and climbed the creaking stairs.
Yes, Mrs Rose had a purpose in her life. She wasn’t saving orphans in Africa, or giving all of her money to cancer research, but she could care about society’s forgotten children, offer them tea and understanding, and give them a little bit of hope at Christmas.
fin
Author: riviyan_questa
Rating: PG
Word count: 971
Summary: Mrs Rose shares a cup of tea with one of her tenants.
Note: Written for a Christmas challenge this past December. This is the first story featuring the character Mrs Rose and her boarding house.
Mrs Althea Rose owned a boarding house in a somewhat disreputable area of the city. Her children often pleaded with her to sell it, to move into a retirement complex, or anywhere, as long as it was in a safer part of town. Each time, she would pat her concerned child’s hand, smile, and offer some tea. Mrs Rose did not consider herself to be a stupid woman.
She did, however, believe very strongly that she had a purpose in this life, and running the boarding house was her purpose. The rent was low, for Mrs Rose had enough money from her late husband that she did not rely on the rents to pay her bills, and as such, she was often a haven for the hurting, the broken, and the despairing: those who had nowhere else to go, those whose wives had picked up their families and left, those whose parents had cut ties with their wayward children. No one, she reasoned, would care for these people if she did not.
And so she stayed. She made a point to greet each of her boarders every day, and sometimes, like this day, it required an effort. This night, she was waiting late. She lit a candle, and watched through the window, out into the snowy winter night, watching for the return of her newest boarder.
Wallace McCullough had only lived there for a week, and he worked long hours for little pay. He had a wife and son, but he didn’t talk about them much; a week was not long enough for him to deal with the wounds of his wife’s betrayal. Earlier that month, he had told Mrs Rose, he had been made redundant at his factory job. Such was life, and a man with little education often despaired of finding a job to support his family.
Wallace had found a job, one that paid for his room at Mrs Rose’s, but not one that could encourage his wife to overlook his flaws. So his wife had packed up their son and gone to stay with her parents.
Mrs Rose stood up from the kitchen table and peered out the window, praying that Wallace would return soon. It had been snowing all day, but now it was getting windy, and Mrs Rose worried when any one of her flock was out in the cold, not warm in their bed. She looked down the street, in the direction of the diner where Wallace now bussed tables and washes dishes. He had been working twelve hour days because of the holiday season, and he took the opportunity to earn what extra money he could, hoping to prove to his wife that he was not a failure.
Mrs Rose would not say anything, but she knew that it was not his work that had estranged his wife, but his habit of visiting the pub after work and returning home in the wee hours, sometimes to drunk to climb the stairs, and to be discovered by Mrs Rose, or one of the other boarders, sleeping against the wall in the stairwell. Mrs Rose did consider herself to be a tactful woman.
After a moment of watching, Mrs Rose again took her position at the kitchen table, the chair creaking in protest as she sat down.
The candle had burnt down by the time Mrs Rose spied Wallace walking up the street toward the house. She filled the old copper kettle with water and put it on the stove to heat up. A cup of tea was always nice after a long walk in the cold, dry air. It had just begun to whistle as the front door opened, admitting both Wallace and a gust of cold wind and snow.
Mrs Rose listened as he removed his boots, his coat, and his scarf, neatly putting them away. Mrs Rose could never complain that this particular boarder left messes for her to clean up.
He crept into the kitchen, clearly trying to avoid waking the other occupants of the house. A look of shock briefly crossed his tired features at the sight of his elderly landlady, calmly making tea at four thirty a.m., as though this was a perfectly reasonable time to be doing so.
‘Tea, sweetheart.’ It was not a question. Mrs Rose poured the perfectly hot brown liquid into a cup and set it down on the table, across from where she had been sitting.
She smiled inside as Wallace sat down and warmed his hands against the warm ceramic with the painted kittens on it.
‘How was work, dear?’ Mrs Rose did not mention that she knew for a fact that Wallace’s shift had ended at half past one, three hours earlier. She couldn’t blame a lonely man for wanting a bit of escape from his dreary life, though Wallace did not seem inebriated, and did not smell of whisky and smoke as he usually did when he returned home.
‘It was okay. Busy, though.’ Wallace was not a very talkative person.
‘I was getting worried. The weather is not good for walking.’ Mrs Rose sipped her tea and the two sat in a comfortable silence.
When she finished her tea, she rinsed the cup out in the sink and left it on the counter. ‘Well, dear, it is late and I am not as young as I used to be.’ Mrs Rose smiled warmly at Wallace, who was still seated at the table, and climbed the creaking stairs.
Yes, Mrs Rose had a purpose in her life. She wasn’t saving orphans in Africa, or giving all of her money to cancer research, but she could care about society’s forgotten children, offer them tea and understanding, and give them a little bit of hope at Christmas.
fin