11 The Teashop on the Corner (14 page)

Just before seven p.m. as Carla was raking through boxes trying to find her mobile phone, there was a timid knock on the back door. She opened it to find Mavis Marple there.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, Carla . . .’

‘Come in, Mrs Marple,’ invited Carla.

‘I heard you were moving out tomorrow and I didn’t want you to go without saying goodbye to you.’

‘I was just about to put the kettle on,’ lied Carla. ‘Would you like a drink? I think I can lay my hands on a couple of cups.’

‘That’s very kind of you, dear, but I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

‘It’s no trouble. Sit yourself down,’ said Carla, gesturing towards the shabby sofa which the house clearance man didn’t want. She took a cup out of the box on the work
surface and rinsed out the one she had been using. She had bought herself a new kettle: it was one of the fast-boiling types. Their old kettle had been so slow she could have grown her tea, picked
it and dried it before it boiled.

‘I was so sorry to hear about what had happened to you,’ said Mrs Marple. ‘It was a terrible thing. And for you not to be able to get any answers was a very cruel
blow.’

The gossip machine had obviously been busy, thought Carla. Might you, could she blame it? Her story had more juice than a cartful of oranges.

‘I’ll get by. I’ll have to,’ shrugged Carla. ‘Tea okay? Do you take sugar?’

‘Tea would be lovely and no sugar thank you, with a little splash of milk. And make it very weak please. And half a cup will do me. I don’t want to keep you.’

‘I’m sorry I haven’t got any biscuits to offer you.’

‘I brought you some,’ said Mavis Marple, pulling a box of Jaffa Cakes from her stiff aged handbag, along with a small crumpled paper bag which she set on the table.

‘That’s very kind of you,’ smiled Carla as a lump leapt to her throat. Why a packet of biscuits should make her feel teary was anyone’s guess. Mavis’s ancient
fingers worked to open them as Carla poured boiling water over the teabags in the cups.

‘I hope you don’t mind, but I brought you something,’ Mavis said as Carla delivered a cup in front of her. She pushed the paper bag across the table. ‘My father made it
for me when he was in a prisoner of war camp. He brought it home and said it would always bring me luck, and it has. I’ve had a very long and happy life, so maybe it’s time to pass it
on to someone who needs it more than I do now.’

Intrigued, Carla carefully opened the packet to find a small cat with a long graceful neck whittled from black wood. It was beautiful, intricate and exquisitely detailed. Mavis’s father
must have had the eyes of a hawk to produce such fine work.

‘Daddy made my mother a parrot. She was buried with it. She had a long and happy life too. He had a gift, I think.’

‘Oh Mrs Marple, I couldn’t take your daddy’s pres—’

Carla’s outstretched hand was pushed back. ‘Yes you can. I want you to have it. I want you to have some of Lucky’s luck. I always called him Lucky – not very original, I
know, but it suited.’

Watch out for the lucky black cat.
Carla shivered.

‘Thank you.’ Carla squeezed the old lady’s hand. Her skin was tissue-paper thin and blotchy with brown spots.

‘Thank you for always wheeling my bins in and out for me,’ said Mrs Marple, ‘You’ve been a lovely neighbour to have.’

‘So have you, Mrs Marple. I was going to drop these off to you in the morning before I left.’ Carla reached for a gift bag on the work surface. ‘It’s just a box of thank
you chocolates. And a card.’

‘Oh, how kind,’ grinned Mrs Marple, who had a very sweet tooth. ‘Well, I hope you are very happy in your new home, Carla. I suppose
she
will be moving in here?’
She suffused the
she
with enough venom to bring down a rhino.

‘I doubt it,’ said Carla. ‘I understand she has a big house of her own. She’ll most likely sell this.’

‘Wants a good lick of paint,’ said Mrs Marple, sweeping her eyes around the room. ‘And some new windows. Your frames are rotten. I have to say, I never did think much to your
hus . . . to Martin. Shifty eyes.’

Carla tried to suppress a giggle. Bless Mavis Marple. She said it how it was.

‘I wasn’t entirely surprised to find out that he was doing the dirty on you.’ Mrs Marple munched on her fourth Jaffa Cake. ‘Although to be honest . . .’ She leant
in closer as if she was afraid of being overheard. ‘. . . I thought who’d want him? He wasn’t exactly Marlon Brando, was he? I always thought you were far too good for
him.’

‘Really?’ Carla was surprised by that.

‘Yes. You’ve got such a pretty face and were always so pleasant. He was . . . sorry, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead but I’m going to, a miserable-looking bugger. But
anyway, now you’ve got Daddy’s black cat, so you have to look forward to good luck and not back at the bad.’

She took a mighty slurp of tea and made a delighted ‘Ahhh’ noise. ‘So you didn’t have a clue that he was married, then?’ she said.

‘No,’ sighed Carla. ‘Not a single tiny clue.’

‘How very cruel. I was fortunate never to experience that from a man. My Albert was always such a gentleman.’

‘You’re lucky,’ smiled Carla.

‘And so will you be, now you have my black cat,’ said Mrs Marple, resting her hand on top of Carla’s and giving it a squeeze. ‘Lucky will bring you a good man, I’m
sure of it.’

‘If you’re ever passing, you call in and have a cup of tea with me. My new address is written on the card,’ said Carla, unable to stop a tear escaping from the corner of her
right eye, to be quickly followed by another.

‘I will,’ said Mrs Marple, rising to her feet. ‘Now I’ll let you get on. I’ve got Freda McClure coming around to watch a Rock Hudson with me in half an hour.
Whatever the papers said, I never believed the rumours. He couldn’t fake what he had with Doris Day.’

And with that Mrs Marple tottered off to go and get ready for
Pillow Talk
, leaving Carla alone with the remaining Jaffa Cakes and a lucky black cat.

When the furniture van came the following day to take her stuff to the new house, Carla was amazed to see how few belongings she had. God knows what the delivery men must have
thought at the embarrassingly small cargo. Carla thought she might feel a rush of emotion as she stepped out of the bungalow for the last time and put the key into the door, but there was nothing.
Ten years of life with Martin ended with the turning of that key. She walked away from the locked bungalow without a single happy memory of being carried over its threshold as a bride, nor even a
sad one of being sat curled up in a corner crying when she found out he was having a fling with the woman in the post office during the first year of their marriage. It was as if she had never
lived a life with Martin.

She left the urn containing Martin’s ashes on the fireplace. It seemed appropriate.

When Carla eventually found her mobile phone it was out of charge, so she didn’t realise that two people had called expressing interest in renting the mini flat. Both
men. When she had enough juice in her phone to ring her voicemail to listen to the messages they had left, she found the first one sounded elderly and quite posh, whilst the second was a Londoner
with a chirpy voice like Danny Dyer’s. She preferred the first voice, which belonged to a Mr Rex Parkinson. She pictured him being very neat and quiet and respectful of property. She rang him
back and they fixed up an appointment to view the flat on Friday. She wanted to allow herself enough time to move in and give the place a good clean. She had a good feeling about him but out of
courtesy rang the second man, who happened to be Will Linton.

‘I’m afraid I’ve already given first refusal to someone,’ Carla told him.

Typical, thought Will. Missed the boat again by a breath; first with Shaun McCarthy, now with this lady.

‘Aw, not to worry,’ he replied. ‘If he does refuse, could you ring me back?’

‘Certainly,’ said Carla. She stored his number in her phone just in case, but didn’t think she would be using it.

Theresa had taken the day off teaching to help Carla move in. She was already at Dundealin when the delivery men arrived with Carla’s meagre amount of move-in items.

‘Jonty has made us a Greek salad for lunch,’ said Theresa. ‘I’ve put it in the fridge.’

Carla burst into tears.

‘Oh now, stop being so soft and tell me which box the kettle is in,’ said Theresa, slapping her friend on the shoulder. ‘I’ll make us a coffee.’

‘Theresa, there’s something I need to do first, if you don’t mind,’ said Carla, wiping her eyes. ‘I want to hand the keys of the house over to Julie. Then my
business with the Prides is totally finished.’

Theresa’s hand stilled on the box she was opening, which had ‘kettle’ written on the side of it.

‘Are you really not going to fight?’ she sighed. ‘I think you’re mad.’

‘I don’t want any more than I’ve got here,’ reiterated Carla. ‘And guess what, I found some money hidden in Martin’s pockets. Thousands.’

‘Please don’t tell me you’re going to give her that as well,’ Theresa jumped in.

‘Am I heck. I might be mad but I’m not insane,’ shrieked Carla. ‘And I found a Cartier watch that he’d obviously bought for Julie’s birthday. And no,
I’m not giving it to her. I’m going to flog it to a jeweller.’

‘Thank goodness for that,’ Theresa breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Really? You don’t think it’s stealing from her?’

Theresa stared hard at her friend.

‘You are going to have to toughen up, Carla. Seriously.’

‘She’s lost him too. And she’s pregnant. I don’t want to stamp on her.’

‘Go and hand the damned keys over then and have done with it,’ said Theresa firmly.

‘I’ve got some things arriving from Argos. A sofa and curtains and a dining table and other stuff.’

‘Go. I’ll sort it.’

‘You’re wonderful.’

Theresa, seeing water starting to gather in her friend’s eyes again, flicked the cloth she had in her hand at Carla. ‘I know. Now go.’

She did a shop at the supermarket then once she was home, Molly spread the newspaper over the kitchen table. There was no good news it in at all. Some poor man had been
slaughtered outside his front door and the drugged-up perpetrator had done it merely ‘because he could’. A young child had been killed in a hit and run, a ninety-seven-year-old
grandmother had been beaten up in her own home. It could be a terrible and cruel world, she thought, closing up the newspaper and reaching for her Midnight Moon romance novel instead.

She had only read two pages when there was a knock at the front door. As she walked down the hallway, Molly recognised the postman’s orange coat through the frosted glass. He had a parcel
for Bernard and asked if Molly would take it in for him. She signed for it and shut the door. But she couldn’t settle back into her book.
What is wrong with me?
she thought. She was
on edge for a reason she couldn’t explain. She was about to put on the TV to watch her favourite antiques programme when there was a second knock on the door. She presumed it was the postman
again. Molly was always taking in parcels for the neighbours who were out at work. When she couldn’t see any flash of orange through the glass, she opened the door more cautiously and
didn’t slip off the chain.

A tall, slim elderly man with a thick steel-grey head of hair was standing on her doorstep wearing a suit that looked a good two sizes too big for him. He had piercing blue eyes that made her
feel as light-headed as the first time he had used them to stare into hers. His smell wafted across to her, drifting up her nostrils, unclasping the lock in a part of a brain that said
do not
open under any circumstances.
He was no longer the solid, strong-looking man with coal-black hair and Atlas-like shoulders she had last seen twenty-eight years ago, but she would have known
him anywhere.

‘Hello Molly,’ said Harvey Hoyland. ‘Can I come in?’

Julie’s address hadn’t been hard to find. She was registered on the electoral roll as the single occupant of Pride Towers, Dinghill. The sat-nav led Carla out of
Barnsley and onto the Wakefield Road, then right down the country lane to the tiny village of Dinghill, which was made up entirely of very grand houses. Brian Blessed announced vociferously that
she had reached her destination as she turned in to a cul de sac of three prestigious new homes and parked outside the middle one, which bore the name of the house on the high brick wall.

Carla took a deep breath and exited the car. Pride Towers stood in a large ornate garden complete with working fountain, massive summer house and pond. Julie must have a gardener, thought Carla.
Martin hated anything to do with greenery. He always left the mowing of their small lawn to her.

Carla’s steps were nervous and unsure as they took her towards the gothic arch of a front door. She raised her hand to ring the doorbell and saw that it was shaking.

Julie answered the door almost immediately. She was dressed in a mauve velour lounge suit and fluffy slippers. Behind her in the vast hallway on the floor was a pram wrapped in plastic. It
looked as if it had just been delivered. A pram for Martin’s child – the baby Carla would never have with him.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said.

‘I’ve brought you the keys to the bungalow,’ said Carla, her voice dry with emotion. ‘And the ones for Martin’s car. It’s parked on our . . . his drive. The
documents are in the bungalow on the work surface.’

‘Oh,’ said Julie. She seemed surprised. ‘How quick.’ Julie had obviously not expected her to roll over so obligingly. She held her hand out for the keys and Carla was
about to give them to her when she realised they were both wearing wedding rings. Carla had been so used to hers, she wasn’t aware of its presence any more.

‘Just before I go,’ said Carla, fingers closing around the keys again, hating herself for this momentary weakness, hating herself for what she was about to do. ‘Did he . . .
did Martin say that he was unhappy with me?’

Julie stared blankly at Carla.