11 The Teashop on the Corner (11 page)

‘Warm today, isn’t it?’ she said to the dark-haired lady at the next table. She expected her to answer with an Italian accent, but she was a townie.

‘Very. We should be out sunbathing, not sitting in teashops.’

‘Indeed we should.’

Carla ordered a latte from Leni and a slice of the chocolate cake.

‘I’ve been to Holmfirth,’ said Molly. ‘I wouldn’t have known this place existed if I hadn’t passed it.’

‘Same here,’ said Carla. ‘I’ve just come from Penistone.’

The door tinkled and in walked Mr Singh. He seemed delighted that Leni had customers.

‘I think your discount Tuesday is working,’ he said.

Leni had heard the ladies admit that they’d driven in on a whim when passing, but nevertheless she nodded.

‘Today is Charles Dickens Tuesday,’ she told him.

‘I know. I have seen the poster in your window. I think I shall have some of that strawberry cake,’ said Mr Singh, rubbing his hands together and grinning at the two ladies.

‘It’s not strawberry cake, it’s Oliver Twist cake, I’ll have you know,’ Leni gently admonished him.

‘Oh,’ said Mr Singh. ‘And what flavour is the Oliver Twist cake?’

‘Strawberry,’ smiled Leni and Mr Singh laughed and so infectious was the sound that Carla and Molly chuckled quietly too.

‘Very good, very good,’ said Mr Singh. ‘Tea and Oliver Twist cake then please, Leni.’ And he sat down on one of the vacant tables.

I’ll definitely come back here
, thought both Molly and Carla when they left. There was something about the little teashop and the friendly owner that took them away from dark
places in their heads. It was a temporary magic, but it might just work again, they hoped.

Theresa and Jonty arrived at Carla’s house with a Chinese takeaway and two bottles of red wine. Dear Jonty, the tallest and cleverest man she knew, enfolded her in a huge
bear hug. By the time he had released her, Theresa had taken out the plates which were warming in the oven.

‘Come on, whilst it’s hot. I’m absolutely famished, so we can talk whilst we eat. Jonty – pour the wine, darling.’

‘Aye, dun’t worry. I’ve got it soor-ted.’

Jonty’s acccent was as broad Yorkshire as Theresa’s was cut-glass.

‘Don’t give me a lot of food, I’m not hungry,’ said Carla.

‘You’ll eat what you are given,’ replied Theresa sternly. ‘You’re going to need all the strength you can get.’

‘That sounds ominous,’ replied Carla.

‘We aren’t going to dress it up,’ said Theresa, ripping the top from a carton of egg fried rice. ‘It could be better news. Jonty and I have dissected all your
paperwork.’

‘I’ve spoken to Freddy on your behalf. He’s put you a formal letter in the post outlining everything,’ said Jonty, screwing the top off the first bottle of red.
‘Bloody good solicitor, I have to say. You’re all right with me talking to him for you?’ he checked.

‘Of course,’ replied Carla. ‘I’m grateful for any help you can give me, and I know you’ve got my back, Jonty.’

Jonty pushed his gold-rimmed glasses further up his nose.

‘Sit,’ commanded Theresa, fitting a fork in Carla’s hand as if she were a five-year-old.

‘Julie
is
Martin’s legal wife, that checks out,’ began Jonty. ‘But we might still have a case for claiming something from the estate under the 1975 Inheritance
Act if you can prove you were dependent on him prior to his death. When were you made redundant?’

‘About a month before Martin died.’

‘Hmm . . .’ replied Jonty, spearing a mushroom. ‘Well, I am absolutely sure there is a way to secure this as your home, at least until any claim you make has been decided
upon.’

‘I don’t want to,’ replied Carla. Pat Morrison’s words about starting afresh had never left the forefront of her mind. ‘I want to leave this house. I’m going
to lose anyway in the end. Julie Pride told me herself that their money was in her name, and I’m sure she could prove that Martin was going to leave me. She’s pregnant with his child. I
don’t have the money or the energy to put up a fight. I don’t want to end up in a newspaper as a sensationalist story, I just want to go quietly.’

‘Don’t be insane, darling,’ replied Theresa, raking a hand through her short red curls. ‘You contributed to the upkeep of this house. You have a case.’

‘Julie said I can have all the contents. I’m going to sell them and start again somewhere. There’s only two hundred pounds in our joint savings account, but I’ll transfer
it out and close it down. I have Martin’s insurance policy and a couple of thousand pounds of my own so I’m sure I’ll be able to rent something.’

‘Have you had a look around for any of his bank books?’ asked Jonty.

‘Yes, but I can’t find them. He always used to keep things like that in a shoe-box in his wardrobe. I presume he must have taken them to Julie’s house so I couldn’t see
them.’

‘Bastard,’ snarled Theresa, pronouncing it ‘bahhh-sted’ and making it sound a classy, desirable thing to be.

‘He is that,’ agreed Jonty. ‘What a chuffing nightmare for you, love. We’ll get you sorted though, don’t worry.’

‘Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to fight?’ asked Theresa. As a red-head, she hated to think of battle not being raised.

‘Yes,’ said Carla. ‘Really.’

Theresa heard the weariness in her friend’s voice and she bit her lip to stop herself from trying to discourage her from walking away. She had to recognise that Carla was a very different
animal to her and it wasn’t fair to make her do what was not in her nature, especially as Jonty had more or less told her that the chances were that Carla would end up with very little and
possibly, a large legal bill to boot. Any victory would more than likely be a Pyrrhic one.

‘Then I’ll help you pack up,’ she said.

‘Thank you but no, I’m going to do it alone,’ replied Carla. ‘I want to go through every single thing myself.’ Theresa opened her mouth to insist, then shut it
again when Jonty gave her a look of admonishment. ‘You’re very sweet, Tez, and thank you and I hope you understand.’

‘Yes, of course I do,’ nodded Theresa. And she did.

‘Well, there is some good news,’ began Jonty, forking up some noodles from a carton. ‘Exquisite timing on Martin’s part for dying and opening up this opportunity for
you.’

‘Jonty, please,’ exclaimed Theresa.

‘Shhh, my love. Now, Carla, one of my clients has to get rid of a property very quickly. Nice little house, albeit rather an odd design. Architect must have been pissed when he designed
it. Could deffo do with a lick of paint and some cosmetic changes, mind. He converted one side of the house to a granny flat for his mother, who sadly never got the chance to live in it. It’s
cheap and if you bought it, you could rent out the separate flat and earn some revenue to live off.’

‘A separate flat? It sounds expensive.’

‘You’d be surprised.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Little Kipping. Maltstone way.’

‘I know it. It’s nice there.’ It was near to that lovely little teashop she had been to today.

‘Bit far out of town but he wants it sold quick. You, as a potential cash buyer, are all his dreams come true.’

‘Cash buyer?’ Carla laughed.

‘Your insurance policy on Martin’s life would more than cover the cost of buying this house. It would also leave you with, perhaps, ten thousand spare,’ said Jonty.
‘Sounds a lot, although that sort of money doesn’t go far these days. But you would own a house outright.’

Carla’s hand froze on a prawn toast. ‘What?’

‘It’s true. I’ve checked all the figures through with Freddy. It would be far better for you in the long run than renting and you certainly won’t get a mortgage being
unemployed. The banks aren’t loaning anything at the moment. The good old days of easy lending are well and truly gone.’

Carla sat in silent shock for a few moments, then rotated her finger in the air.

‘I’m sorry, Jonty. Can you run that past me again?’

‘In layman’s terms,’ said Jonty in his gruff but patient voice, ‘you took out an insurance policy on Martin’s life, and whoever sold it to you should have had a
slap. Had Martin stayed alive until he was sixty-five, the policy would have ended and you’d have got nowt. And you’ve been paying far too much every month for it. Very badly advised.
However,’ he paused to make sure she was with him so far, ‘Martin died whilst the policy was still in effect, which means that you are due a cheque for about two hundred thousand
pounds.’

All Carla could manage by way of reply was ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Now, I’m not telling you what to do with that money. What I am saying is that you can rent a house and throw your money away, or you can buy one and have some security. And I happen
to have one on my books that is worth a lot more than the price tag says it is. And it will generate a revenue for you as well.’

Carla was gobsmacked. The thought of her owning a house outright was too much to take in in one single bite.

‘And you do know that Jonty isn’t just trying to offload any old house onto you,’ said Theresa.

‘Of course I know that, Theresa,’ said Carla with a tut. The thought never even crossed her mind. She trusted Jonty implicitly.

‘You must take everything of value out of the house and leave the rest for his wife to sort out.’ Theresa could no longer say Martin’s name.

‘eBay is very good for a quick sale of the bigger items,’ put in Jonty.

Carla gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Have you seen our furniture, Jonty? Who’d buy it?’ She waved her arm towards the sample which the room held. So many things had needed replacing
for years: the cheapest-of-the-cheap dining table they were sitting at had been supposed to be a temporary make-do when she moved in; the kitchen dresser was something that Martin had inherited
with the house. In the lounge the sofa sagged down in the middle and the TV was so old it had been invented before pixels. And Carla would definitely not be taking her bed with her. That was the
first thing she would buy new when she moved.

‘Well, before you start your escape plans, I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock sharp in the morning and take you out to Little Kipping to see the house. If you like it, I can
draft up a short rental agreement so you can move in whilst the buying procedure gets up and running – a month should do it. I’ll sure I can twist my client’s arm to agree to a
peppercorn rent.’

Carla blinked back the tears which were fast rising to her eyes. What would she have done without Jonty and Theresa’s help? How would she cope when they were living on the other side of
the world? Well, she would; she’d have to. She was being forced into a new chapter of her life and she could either kick against it or run with open arms towards it and embrace it. She had to
take Pat Morrison’s advice and leave everything behind and move forward. She lifted a spring roll to her lips and felt the spark of an appetite returning.

Even now, after all these years, Shaun still awoke in the middle of the night imagining that he was back in
that
house, in bed, drawing warmth from a brother or sister
– he couldn’t remember which – snuggled up next to him, hearing the battering of someone’s fist on the door outside. Shouting. Footsteps travelling up the bare wooden
stairs, the light switching on. He felt the cold as he was ripped from the bed, arms around him that offered no comfort. Behind him he could hear one of his siblings protesting. ‘Let me
go.’ The baby crying in the cot.

His mother swaying. ‘Leave them be, you bastards.’

‘You’re drunk, you durty bitch.’

Neighbours were outside on their steps, alerted by the commotion.

‘About time.’

‘You should have looked after your children, then they wouldn’t be takin’ them away, you durty whore.’

‘Not two of your wee ones has the same father.’

He was inside a car, being driven away from everything he knew, away from his yellow toy car, his teddy that smelt of tobacco, his books with the big letters. He would end up in a succession of
bigger, cleaner foster homes with sober, cold people and then, at ten, a home for unwanted boys in which, so his memories led him to believe, he was constantly fighting. Fighting to get stolen
possessions back, fighting against bullies, fighting the priest who battered him with a cane. They threw him out at sixteen without a backward glance and he vowed that he would never again be at
the mercy of anyone else. He’d be his own boss, he wouldn’t answer to anyone, he wouldn’t be controlled by anyone or be hit again. He’d survive and he’d work to make
sure that he would never have to fight for his food or his safety. Shaun McCarthy never saw his mother or his siblings again.

‘Well, what do you think from the outside?’

‘It’s nice.’ Carla tried to inject some enthusiasm into her voice, even though she wasn’t feeling it.

Jonty laughed as he reached up to fasten one fallen side of the ‘Dundealin’ sign back onto its hook. ‘It’s the weirdest house I’ve ever tried to sell, but I think
it would suit you very well. It’s structurally sound, it’s cheap, and you could get a nice rent from the mini flat. No need to furnish it; let the tenant worry about that. Obviously
needs a good clean. And a few air-fresheners to take that not-lived-in smell away. Come on, let’s give it a proper once-over.’

He opened the door which was placed near one end of the long narrow house.

‘Where’s your client live now?’ asked Carla, taking in the snug sitting room which was next to a much-bigger-than-expected kitchen-diner.

‘Costa del Sol at the moment.’ Jonty tapped the side of his great nose. ‘Ask no questions. Let’s just refer to him as
Mr Pink
.’ Three words whispered from
one part of Carla’s brain into another:
Trust in pink . . .

‘He made a right arse of converting it, to be honest, which hasn’t helped him secure a buyer. But, as I say, it is structurally sound. I’ve had an architect pal of mine look at
it to check it out.’

‘Have a lot of people viewed it?’ asked Carla.

‘Hardly anyone,’ replied Jonty. ‘Someone put in a stupid bid and Mr Pink was so insulted by it that he wouldn’t accept their revised offer. I’ll not say what he
told me to tell them to do with it.’