Marie was baking. Nothing unusual there. Jamie had never known her big, cosy kitchen to not smell of fresh bread, or chocolate cake, or crisp, buttery biscuits.
It felt different though – tense – with a threat of burnt sugar.
He stayed by the door, watching Marie stir a dark, lumpy mixture, her brows creased together, lips pinched. Usually, she hummed.
She’d found a smile when he’d sidled in, muddy and dishevelled from an encounter with Bradley and Nigel, or as he called them, Bridge Troll One and Two.
The smile had dropped in less than the count of five though. Which was the first hint of something wrong. The second was the teapot. At this time of day, it was always steaming gently in the middle of the table. Today it sat on a side counter, looking cold and sad.
Marie blew a wisp of hair off her forehead. “Won’t be a minute, Jamie-love, then we can have a good chat.”
Jamie shifted from one foot to the other. He really wanted to tell her about how he’d finally stood up to the bridge trolls and, well, he’d done enough. Not won exactly, but done enough that he was pretty sure they wouldn’t bother him again.
The thing was, Marie looked like Mum did, right before she always said. “I’m popping over to Marie’s for a bit of a natter.”
Everyone popped over to Marie’s for a natter, including him, but… Who did Marie go to when she needed to natter? Who did she talk to when she needed to get that brick of bother off her chest?
Jamie headed for the teapot. “No rush. Shall I put the kettle on, make some tea?”
The DNA of Stories 