chapter 6
1408 Words
“Wow,” he says walking into the center of the living room, “you weren’t kidding.”
“About the size?” I grin. “No. She’s super small. But she has a lot of character.”
He puts his bag down and turns around, looking up at the coffin hatch, then at the big black beam over the fire. “That’s from the Armada?”
“Yeah, a lot of the houses in the street have them.”
He runs his fingers across the bumpy cob wall. He’s so big—he seems to fill my tiny room. I can’t believe he’s here, larger than life. I love the way the sleeves of his tee stretch over his biceps, and his gorgeous tattoos. I’m having trouble tearing my eyes away from him.
“You’ll have to watch your head on the way into the kitchen,” I announce, because I can’t think of anything else to say.
He glances up at the beam, then back at me and smiles. Then, as he turns away, he tips a picture on the wall with his elbow. As he hurriedly tries to stop it swinging, he bumps into a shelf and knocks two of the books onto the floor.
“Sorry,” he says, bending to pick them up. “I’m a bit like Gandalf when he visits Bilbo in the hobbit hole.”
“You must be tired,” I say, chuckling. “Do you want to go straight to bed? Or would you like a coffee and a slice of toast?”
“Toast sounds fantastic. I’m ravenous, and it smells great.”
“I made it this morning.”
“The toast?”
I lead him out into the kitchen, making sure he ducks beneath the beam. “No, the bread.”
“Really? With all the kneading and rising and stuff?”
“No, this is easy bake. No yeast—you use beer instead.”
“Beer? In bread? Now you’re talking.”
I chuckle, take the slices out of the toaster, and retrieve some Lurpak from the fridge. “Spread that on,” I tell him, “nice and thick, and I’ll make the coffee.”
We stand side by side, him buttering the toast while I make the espresso and steam the milk. I feel as if I have a celebrity in my home—a rock star, or a member of royalty. I’ve known him for so long, and he’s my brother’s mate, but I feel shy now he’s here, and more than a little tongue-tied. I sneak a glance at him, and he meets my eyes, takes a step closer, and bumps my shoulder with his. I chuckle and pour the milk over the espresso, trying not to blush.
When we’re done, we take the mugs and plates into the living room. He sits in the lone armchair, and I sit on the two-seater sofa, the only furniture that will fit in the tiny living room. The lit candles on the coffee table cast flickering shadows across his face, and the jazz music spirals to the beams as we crunch our toast and sip our coffee in companionable silence.
I have to say something. I wipe some crumbs from my bottom lip. “Titus…”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For being concerned, and driving all the way down here. There aren’t many guys who would have done that.”
“You’re Huxley’s kid sister,” he says as an explanation. He takes a bite of his toast, his eyes gleaming. “And I was influenced by our romantic history.”
That makes me laugh. “I still can’t believe you did that. I’d never kissed anyone before.”
It stops him in his tracks, and he stares at me. “What? Seriously?”
“Nope. I thought you were going to give me a peck on the cheek. I didn’t expect a full-blown Frenchie.”
“s**t. No wonder you looked so shocked.”
“I was. You totally corrupted that innocent sixteen-year-old.”
“Something to put on my CV,” he says, and we both laugh.
“Huxley says you’re doing well here,” he comments. “You’ve settled in well at the school?”
“Mm. I love it there.”
“Have you got citizenship here?”
“Yeah, because Mum is British.”
“It’s called Reception or Year Zero—after nursery, which is what they call kindy here, and before Year One. Kids start school here the year they turn five, so some of them are five in September, when the school year starts, and others have only just turned four in August.”
“Still babies then really.”
“Oh yeah.”
“How many in a class?”
“I have twenty-one this year, and I have a teaching assistant to help. It’s a tiny school, just over a hundred pupils. It’s a state-funded faith school.”
His eyebrows rise. “Christian?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t realize that was still a thing.”
“Oh, over a third of the twenty thousand funded state schools in England are faith schools.”
“Wow, really?”
“Yes, I know it’s strange for us because religion isn’t part of New Zealand’s school curriculum. Almost two-thirds of the faith schools are Church of England, and a third are Catholic, and a few follow other religions. Ours is a lot more relaxed than some because our headmistress is very open-minded. Children of any religion—or no religion—can attend, although priority is given to Christian families in the first instance.”
“Do you teach Creationism?” he asks curiously.
“No, by law schools have to teach Evolution as part of the science curriculum. We also teach about other religions in the Religious Education lessons, although obviously we concentrate on Christianity. We have a close connection to the church up the road, to encourage children to feel part of the community, and we have a daily collective act of worship.”
“I didn’t think your family was religious,” he says. “Huxley’s not, anyway.”
“No, Dad’s not. Mum’s English, as you know, and she was christened. She didn’t go to church in New Zealand, but she used to tell me some of the Bible stories. I was hardly steeped in it, though, and I was surprised to get the job. I got on very well with the headmistress, though. This is her house.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah, she rents it out to teachers, and it just happened to be available when I started. She liked what I said at my interview about my teaching ethos.”
He tips his head to one side. “Which is?”
“The importance of friendship, justice, courage, perseverance, and forgiveness, and the value of human life.” I flush. “It sounds a bit pretentious, but—”
“Not at all. Religion may depend on morality, but morality doesn’t necessarily depend on religion, right? I would imagine it’s as important to have teachers with a strong moral code in faith schools as it is to have those with a religious background.”
“That’s pretty much what Lucy—my headmistress—says.” I warm all the way through at his understanding.
He leans his head on a hand. He looks super tired.
“Come on,” I say, picking up his plate and mug and taking them out to the kitchen. “Bedtime. We can talk in the morning.”
I turn the light on to illuminate the stairs before blowing out the candles. He picks up his bag and follows me up the curving staircase. “There’s the bathroom,” I say, pointing to the right. “This is your room. I’m sorry it’s so small.”
“I could sleep in a cardboard box,” he says, going in and dropping his bag on the floor. “It looks great. And it smells nice.”
I lean on the door jamb. He slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and we study each other with a smile.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say.
He nods. “Glad you’re okay,” he murmurs.
I smile, go out, and close the door behind me.
- Writer
