11 The Teashop on the Corner (13 page)

There was a poster in the window informing would-be customers that today was Arthur Conan Doyle Tuesday. The tables in the centre of the shop were empty except for one, occupied by the elderly
Asian man she had met the previous week. He nodded a greeting at Carla as she passed him and took a seat.

Behind the shop counter Leni was wrapping a parcel.

‘Good morning,’ she called, her brown eyes smiling as much as the curve of her mouth. ‘The cakes today are Watson white chocolate and Holmes rum truffle. Just call me over when
you’re ready to order.’

‘Thank you,’ said Carla and slipped off her jacket. She picked up the menu then, but her eyes were anywhere but on it. There were some new things in the cabinets: a pretty magnifying
glass on a necklace; a spectacle case which looked as if it had been made from one of the old Penguin classic covers; a pack of postcards reproduced to replicate old Victorian cards in their rich,
heavy colours; the most darling old-fashioned library kit with a stamp and borrowing cards and pockets to stick in books; and a Home Sweet Home hanging made to look like a classic novel. She
noticed that next to that cabinet was a wall full of postcards pinned at random angles. The top right corners had been removed. She guessed that the stamps had been cut off to save for guide dogs,
because that’s what Carla did with any stamped mail that she received. Not that she got that much these days that wasn’t franked. She noticed one on the floor and picked it up. It had a
picture of a Flamenco dancer on the front and she couldn’t resist a sneaky peek on the back as she went to pin it back up.

It must be from the owner’s daughter, thought Carla. She imagined a young student type having a ball in the sun with friends before life got serious. And full of crap.

There was a pinboard between the front windows with some cards on it –
Saturday Girl/Boy wanted
, she read. One had a window-cleaning service advertised, another was an offer to
clear leaves out from guttering. That reminded her: she had some prepared cards in her bag advertising the Dundealin flat. She was going to call in at Maltstone post office and leave one there and
in Morrison’s and Tesco in town. They’d be a lot busier than this place, but the teashop had the advantage of being very close to Little Kipping. She was now the official sitting tenant
on a month’s lease but soon to be Dundealin’s owner. The sale was well underway.

Carla turned her attention to the menu. She’d only intended to have a coffee but the Holmes cake sounded too good to miss. The old guy in the dark-blue turban was eating that, she noticed.
He had crumbs on his clipped grey beard.

‘Is it nice?’ she asked him.

‘Delicious,’ he said with a wide friendly smile. ‘I very much recommend it.’

‘Okay, you’ve sold it,’ smiled Carla and waved to Leni.

‘I’d like a white filter coffee and a slice of the Holmes cake please.’

‘Cream?’

‘Oh, why not.’ It wouldn’t hurt her. She had lost so much weight since Martin died, she could do with putting some on before her skirt fell down in the supermarket and exposed
her pants.

Carla heard her phone beep in her bag. Jonty had chased up the insurance company and was sending news that the monies would be in her bank account within twenty-four hours. She had just finished
replying her thanks to him when the cake and coffee arrived.

‘I wonder, could I put a card up on your noticeboard?’ asked Carla. ‘What are your rates?’

‘A pound a month, payable in advance,’ replied Leni. ‘It goes in a charity tin for guide dogs.’

‘Is that where the stamps on your postcards go too?’

‘Yep,’ said Leni.

What a lovely face she has, thought Carla. She wished she had a cute nose like a pixie too. She had her mum’s nose – long, straight and narrow. Still, at least it wasn’t like
her old dad’s – a proper Roman nose if ever there was one. She missed them both so much. Her dad had died a year before her wedding and her mum had joined him only a few months ago in
November. They would have both been furious on her behalf about what had happened to her.

Carla reached in her bag for one of her cards and her purse.

‘I have a room to rent. It’s near to here.’

‘Happy to put it up for you,’ replied the smiley lady. ‘I’ll do it now. You enjoy your coffee and I’ll bring the bill over in a moment.’

Molly was missing Margaret and Bernard terribly and they’d only been gone three days. She’d had a phone call from them that morning from Venice and they sounded as
if they were having a wonderful time.

She took herself off to the teashop on Spring Hill. A poster in the window told her that it was Arthur Conan Doyle day today. Molly was delighted to find the Asian gentleman and the
Italian-looking lady there.

‘How good to see you again,’ Leni greeted her. She was pinning a card to one of the noticeboards, advertising for a tenant.

‘You remembered me?’ asked Molly.

‘Indeed I do,’ replied Leni. ‘Tea and scones and you expressed an interest in the Brontë notecard set.’

‘Is it a good thing or a bad thing that I’m so memorable?’ replied Molly with a little laugh.

‘I would have said nearly always a good thing,’ butted in Mr Singh.

‘I love that handbag you’ve got made out of a
Hound of the Baskervilles
book,’ said Carla.

‘You should buy it,’ said Mr Singh. ‘There is ten per cent off today.’

‘Mr Singh, are you after a job as a salesman?’ chuckled Leni.

Mr Singh’s laughter joined hers. ‘I think I would make a very good salesman, Leni,’ he said.

Molly looked behind her to see which bag Carla meant.

‘It’s in this one,’ said Mr Singh, pointing to the cabinet next to the wall of postcards.

Molly walked across to look at it and decided that would make an even nicer present for her sister than the notecards.

‘I bought a bag for my daughter,’ said Mr Singh, drinking the last of his tea. ‘No one will have one quite like it in America. It was a Jane Austen one.’

‘I love Jane Austen’s books,’ returned Molly. ‘
Persuasion
was always my favourite.’

‘Ah, with the gallant Captain Wentworth,’ sighed Mr Singh.

‘You’ve read it, Mr Singh?’ asked Leni.

‘Of course,’ he replied, taking his wallet out of his pocket to settle his bill. ‘You sound surprised.’

‘I confess, I am, Mr Singh,’ replied Leni.

‘I have read all the books by Dickens, Thomas Hardy, the Brontës, Jane Austen and many more. I fell in love with them all when I came over here to live. I have always been a great
reader, ever since I was a small boy.’

‘Me too,’ nodded Molly. ‘I can never understand people who don’t like books. I derive so much pleasure from them. I can’t tell you how many times I have read
Persuasion
, yet it remains such a fresh, wonderful story.’

‘I agree totally,’ said Carla. ‘Everyone goes mad about Mr Darcy but I always thought Captain Wentworth would have made my heart flutter more.’

‘It’s the uniform,’ smiled Molly. ‘All the nice girls love a sailor.’

‘Her last novel,’ sighed Mr Singh, standing to go. ‘And her best, I think. The story of a woman who thinks she will never blossom and of the love of her life returning for
another chance.’

‘Yes indeed,’ said Molly, giving her order for a pot of tea and a scone. But unlike Anne Elliott, Molly would never know what that felt like. It was far too late in the day.

‘Pavitar Singh,’ he said, holding out his hand to Molly.

‘Oh, er, Molly. Molly Jones.’

‘Nice to meet you, Molly.’ He then held out his hand to Carla.

‘Carla Pr . . . sorry, Martelli,’ she said.

Mr Singh chuckled. ‘How could you forget such a beautiful name?’

‘I’m recently . . . divorced. I’m getting used to my maiden name again,’ Carla said.

‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ said Mr Singh, his voice now weighted with sympathy. ‘Anyway, I hope I have the pleasure of seeing you ladies again.’ Had he been
wearing a hat instead of a turban, he would have tipped it towards them.

‘What a gentleman,’ said Carla when he had gone.

‘Isn’t he a darling?’ said Leni. ‘Oh and I’m Leni by the way, seeing as it seems to be introductions day.’ She then presented Molly with a giant scone.

‘I’ll never eat all this,’ Molly laughed. ‘And if I do, you might have to widen the doorway.’

Carla thought the older lady could do with a bit of meat on her bones. She was very thin.

‘I’ve put a pound on just looking at it,’ she said. ‘But then I have Italian blood. We are very good at putting weight on.’

‘I thought you might be,’ said Molly, then added quickly, ‘Oh, Italian, I mean, not good at putting weight on. You have such beautiful colouring.’

Carla blew out her cheeks bashfully. ‘Black hair shows the grey too quickly.’

She’s putting herself down, thought Molly, sensing the very attractive woman didn’t have much confidence.

‘Have you any ideas what theme you’re going to have next Tuesday?’ asked Carla as Leni brought her bill over.

‘I think we’re due a Brontë Tuesday,’ replied Leni with a cheery smile. ‘I’ve got some gorgeous author pendants arriving next week with the sisters’
heads on them. And some shopping bags.’

‘Where do you find it all?’ Carla asked. ‘I’ve never seen any of this stuff in shops.’

‘Oh everywhere,’ replied Leni, ‘I have to look all over the world. And I send it out all over the world too. The Japanese are mad for the Brontës.’

‘
Jane Eyre
is one of my favourite books too,’ Molly put in, as she buttered her scone.

Carla tried not to think that she had too much in common with Jane Eyre and Rochester’s wife that he hadn’t divorced. Oh how she wished she could stuff Julie Pride up in an attic.
Then again, Martin was becoming less and less of her Mr Rochester with every passing day.

She checked her watch and realised she had better get home. The house clearance people were coming in just over an hour.

‘I’ll love you and leave you,’ she announced, slipping her arms into her jacket. ‘I’m moving house tomorrow morning, so I’m pretty busy.’

‘Oh what a task,’ said Molly. ‘I do hope it goes well.’

‘Yes, good luck,’ added Leni. ‘Very stressful business. Hope to see you soon.’

‘You will,’ said Carla. ‘I’ll be back for my elevenses on Brontë Tuesday.’

And so will I, thought Molly. Tuesdays were much improved, now that she had discovered this teashop and these nice people and Sherry was overseas in Greece.

‘You must be Shaun McCarthy. I’m Will Linton,’ Will held out his hand as he introduced himself.

‘Linton Roofing?’ Shaun knew the name, vaguely recognised the man in front of him in the smart black trousers and expensive blue shirt, though he was sure he hadn’t spoken to
him before. Maybe it was the accent that brought him to mind. He knew Will Linton was from somewhere in the East End of London. He shook his hand.

‘Yep,’ said Will, nodding his head. ‘That’s me.’

‘I’m so sorry about what happened to your business,’ said Shaun.

‘Ah, shit happens, mate,’ said Will, lifting up his hands and his shoulders in a gesture of resignation. ‘But now I need a job. Labouring, anything. I ain’t
proud.’

Shaun shook his head slowly. ‘I’m so sorry, there’s nothing. I’ve just taken a labourer on. I’ve got no jobs. Not at the moment, anyway. Have you tried up at
Winterworld?’

‘Yeah, they haven’t got anything either.’

Shaun watched Will Linton’s Adam’s apple rise and drop as he swallowed. He had probably had to gulp a lot of pride down since his business failed.

‘Look,’ began Shaun. ‘If you want to leave me your number and if, by any chance, I need an extra pair of hands I’ll ring you and give you the opportunity to say yes. It
would be ground work though, not roofing.’

Perfect
.

‘Aw that’d be great,’ said Will, reaching in his pocket for a business card. The home number on it had been scribbled out leaving only the mobile. Not much point in anyone
ringing the house phone when it had been cut off.

‘I’ll get some new business cards eventually,’ said Will, with a small self-conscious laugh. ‘When I get a business. And a house. Thanks, mate. I really appreciate
it.’

‘It might only be a couple of days here and there,’ Shaun called after him.

‘I’ll take it,’ Will replied. ‘I’ll take anything.’

Will went back to his van and checked his phone and wished he hadn’t. Nicole had texted to say she had filed for divorce and would he please send the signed papers back as soon as they
arrived. He tried to form a polite reply but the words wouldn’t come. After three deleted drafts he put his key in the ignition, turned it, then twisted it back to off again.

Will’s throat was dry as sand. He could do with a drink. Teashops weren’t really his style but something was pushing him to go in and have five minutes in a fresh space with a coffee
to give himself a head-break from all that was going on. As he entered the Teashop on the Corner, a woman with long dark hair was coming out. Had good-looking ladies been on his radar, this one
would have beeped a definite presence with her big brown Sophia Loren eyes. But women weren’t on his mind, a coffee was.

Will Linton walked into the teashop and saw the card which had just been placed there for the vacant flat at Dundealin.

The house clearance people had taken what they thought they could sell of Carla’s furniture and given her ninety pounds for it. Watching them take it out – and it
looked even shabbier in the daylight – Carla thought they’d been over generous. If she’d had any pride left, it would have taken yet another knock; but she didn’t, and
ninety pounds was ninety pounds. She would have to watch every penny, even if she was going to be sitting in a house which was totally bought and paid for. There would still be money for rates and
water rates and utility bills to find, and there was a hell of a lot of work to do on Dundealin to transform it into her idea of a comfortable home. She knew she couldn’t live with the
mustard-coloured wallpaper in the kitchen very long without it making her go blind or insane.