The Colour of Tea by Hannah Tunnicliffe Page A

the soft sheets. My head is thumping, perhaps from the wine, perhaps from being hunched up in the chair. I lay a hand over my forehead but don’t will the headache to stop, knowing I will fall asleep soon anyway, with one foot still in the world of my past.
    Someone comes into the room, and it takes a second or two to remember it is Pete. When I open an eye, I can see him standing at the end of the bed, the light from a window casting him in and out of shadow. He is naked, facing me. He sways a little on his feet. The sour smell of alcohol reaches my nostrils across the cool night air. Just before I fall asleep I realize he is searching for my face in the dark.
    *   *   *
    On Sunday, Pete offers to help me in the café. I’m surprised; he’s been so wary of the whole idea. Perhaps he is just curious. He helps me clean up, stealing glances at the kitchen, around the walls, light fixtures, and window frames. He is soon covered from head to toe in plaster dust; it settles in his thick head of hair like snow, turning it a dirty gray. He leans forward and tries to shake it out.
    “This stuff is unbelievable,” he grumbles.
    I shrug and pass him a heavy box of teacups.
    “Where d’you want these?”
    “Just somewhere out the back; I’ll sort them later. No point getting them out now with all the—”
    “Dust,” he finishes for me, standing with hands on hips. His mouth is a thin, grim line.
    “Yeah.” I can’t help but smile when I turn away from him.
    I lean forward onto a chair; all of my muscles are singing with use. My whole body feels electric, as if all the currents have been switched on. I bounce from leg to leg, surveying the front room and figuring out what needs to be done next.
    Pete comes up behind me and drops a hand onto my shoulder companionably. “Oven looks good back there.”
    “Yeah, isn’t it a monster?”
    Outside, an old lady with a hunched back pauses to peer inthrough the film of dust on the front windows. I wonder how old she is—perhaps eighty?—and I wave. She stares back at me.
    “Reckon it’s time we cleaned up. When are the guys coming to put up the wallpaper?” Pete gathers the muscle across my shoulder blades with his palm. He gives a couple of absentminded, meaty squeezes. The old lady behind the glass doesn’t return my wave but hobbles on.
    “Uh, four o’clock, I think they said.”
    “Which means six,” Pete murmurs sarcastically. “All right, brooms in the back?”
    We tackle the front room from left to right. The dust makes us cough and splutter. I can taste it bitter in my saliva even after I throw back a can of Coke. It falls into Pete’s eyes as he works. He mutters and swears, gray dust raining down from his curls. The sun starts to slip away from the sky as we brush up the ashy piles and then begin mopping. I catch him watching me as I refill the buckets of hot, soapy water. My hair is damp with sweat, my sleeves covered in suds. The lemony smell of detergent fills the room as the last splashes of sunlight hit the freshly washed tiles.
    “One more mop?” I ask.
    He nods an okay.
    When we are finished, we sit against opposite walls and look across at each other. We’re too exhausted to make conversation and instead watch the sun leave us and darkness come in. The heat of the day is still thick and moist in the air, our hard work stretched out shiny in front of us. The glossy tiles remind me of black-and-white-striped boiled sweets. I hadn’t expected them to be so beautiful underneath all that grime.
    A noise lifts our heads toward the door. A man peeks in; a full beard frames his chin, white teeth line up in a wide grin. “Is Lillian around?” he asks with a rumbling laugh in his voice.
    “Hey, Paul.” Pete struggles to his feet. He wipes his palm on his jeans, then shakes Paul’s large hand.
    “I was just passing by. Hey, this place is looking awesome,” Paul exclaims, gazing around as I get up. “Tiles look great.”
    “You think so? Taken