‘Your right, I don’t even know how those leaves manage to get in our garden from next door.’
‘Probably Fred, Mrs Carmichael has told him that tree of his is getting out of control.’
A nod in the right places, Martha buried her hands in the water.
‘Well I’ll see you later, love you my little project.’
‘Love you too.’
Thomas opened the kitchen door, as cold air swept in Martha shivered. The sun was always deceiving this time of year. She waved as Thomas walked towards the back gate. Only when his footsteps were silent, Martha focussed on her next job.
An array of colours littered the pathway, but they were almost pretty in the sun. Tabitha would love them, just as Laura had done when she was the same age. But she couldn’t because Thomas would never absolve their only daughter. Not until she apologised to him.
Heaven and hell would have to merge for that to happen.
It had been different before Amelia died. Before he took the blame for her death. Laura high on his shoulders, with a grin so big the world was put to rights. Now they hated each other. What was that old saying? Never the Twain Shall meet! Where had that phrase come from anyway?
Martha washed the same glass again, but the smear wouldn’t go. Pushed further into the soapy suds, nothing would remove the stain. She roughly wiped the side of the glass with a tea towel. Crack. The glass shattered into the water.