Steep It the Colour of Hedgerows and Two Sugars by Rachael Smart

This morning the tea man’s vending van had been coloured by graffiti. He was hosing and using bronze wool on it and cursing profusely. Never would've have happened back in Ireland, he said.

You know, my dad used to keep Ireland in a tin box, I said. Under his bed. I used to peek in at it.

Whereabouts in Ireland was it, though, he said and he jetted water at a capital E.

Can never be too sure, I said, but there were tall blue grasses and the chocolate sounds of a fiddle and my belly reckons Galway. I’ll go someday. Hunt down his bloodline. Hold his land. When I can, I said, you know, and I crouched to tie the laces of my runners.

I do know, he said. He put his thumb over the spout of the hose so that the water frisked silver and I thought of the farm my dad was born on, the canter of ponies. Always knew you had the same roots as me, somehow, he said, his slaty eyes stone on me.

Oh yeah, I said, making a church steeple out of my hands, what makes you say that.

Because you’re not one to flinch, are you, he said and he turned the surge of water on me. I didn’t bolt. Felt the cold blue of it undressing me. I gave him the scythe of a smile, stood firm.

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Rachael Smart writes essays, short fiction and poetry. Recent work has been published at The Letters Page, The Bristol Short Story Prize Anthology 2018 and Unthology 11.

Twitter: @SmartRachael