Inspired greatly by Martina Cole's books. I'm yet to figure out a full plot so I'm writing the pages whenever the scenes come to mind and will put them all in the right order later.
The oak table that separated them was not a grand thing. It was scratched and some of the varnish had been erased where cotton balls soaked in nail varnish remover had been left carelessly. There were faint tints to the colour of the wood where different paints had stained the table and hastily had tried to be removed. Placed on the centre was an old wooden bowl full of fruit, a colourful array of reds, yellows, oranges, greens and purples. The table was a rectangular shape and just about able to fit two chairs along the slightly longer sides with one chair at each end.
A scrap of cloth reached across the table applying polish to its surface. The hand grasping the cloth belonged to wispy haired brunette in her mid forties. Her red nail varnish was chipped and the muscles of her hand never seemed to remain calm even when the cloth wasn’t moving. Her glance lingered on the young man sitting across the table. He had scruffy darker hair and his face was slightly fuller than hers. There were a few odd freckles running along his cheekbones. His eyes were a dark shade of green and wide with strangely long eyelashes for a man framing them. The young man looked up from the newspaper at her.
“What’s up Ma?” He asked with concern. The brunette only shook her head gently and smiled, focusing on the polishing. She was tired. He knew she was, his mother always shook more when she was tired or stressed, or both. Caitlyn stared down at her nails making note to neaten them before Michael arrived. The thought of him made her smile.
After putting away the cloth and bottle of polish Caitlyn brought over two cups of tea and placed them on the table mats which the pair sipped silently on for a moment. A wave of satisfaction flowed through Caitlyn as she looked around the spotless kitchen. It was relatively well sized, big enough to be able to open the cupboard doors without hitting a chair or the oak table.
Michael embraced his twin when his nephew left. He was the eldest by hours, their father had joked about how eager his new son had been to get into the world and how his new daughter was as stubborn as her mother, being content to wait until she felt ready. How right their father had been. Michael was always at the top of his game, ahead of everybody else while Caitlyn had enjoyed her house, her role of mother and wife. In her house her word was law. There was no one more stubborn than her, except perhaps her Seámus. They had always argued about who was the most stubborn and Cait admitted, mentally, that he was.