11 The Teashop on the Corner (23 page)

‘Thank you, Mr McCarthy,’ she said, with a tight smile that appeared anything but grateful. ‘I do appreciate your concern, but I know what I’m doing.’

‘You obviously don’t,’ said Shaun under his breath as she opened her purse.

Leni handed over a ten-pound note. Shaun could tell by the expression on her face that she’d heard him, but not listened. She’d learn. He’d done his duty and warned her, he
could do no more. She’d realise he was right when the shit hit the fan. As it would. It always did with the O’Gowan family.

‘Found him,’ yelled Harvey. ‘He’s a retired surgeon. I knew it.’

‘Who on earth are you talking about?’ Molly came out of the kitchen to shout up the stairs.

Harvey’s head emerged from the study bedroom where he had been surfing the internet on Molly’s computer.

‘Pavitar Singh. I knew he must be either a doctor or a high court barrister or something. Very good reputation he had. There’s loads about him on the net. His daughter’s a
surgeon too, in America. Beautiful girl.’

‘What sort of surgeon was he?’ called Molly.

‘Transplants. Can you imagine the number of lives that man has saved? His wife was a general practitioner and his childhood sweetheart, apparently. She died ten years ago.’

‘Does it tell you his inside leg measurement as well?’ tutted Molly.

Harvey laughed. ‘No privacy for the eminent. No wonder I’m not on the internet.’

Molly stayed silent. She knew he wasn’t. She had looked his name up many times, dreading seeing it in an obituary, but there had been not a mention. She returned to the kitchen and was
joined by Harvey a few moments later. He raised his nose, closed his eyes and sighed.

‘You always did make the best Sunday dinners in the world.’

‘You always were full of such flannel.’ Molly opened the oven door and the steam rushed out at her. The goose fat was plenty hot enough for the Yorkshire pudding mix.

‘Do you remember when we first got an oven with a glass door and I used to sit watching your puddings rise?’ said Harvey, sitting down so he could do exactly the same as he did
thirty years ago.

‘Nope,’ said Molly, though she could. He had been like a big kid, totally fascinated and shouting with glee at the puddings puffing out of the tins. He used to measure the tallest
one and they’d try and beat the record. He could find fun anywhere. She hadn’t laughed at anything for years after he left.

‘Thank you, Molly,’ he said to her back as she spooned the pudding mix into the tin recesses. She looked over her shoulder to see that there were tears in his eyes.

‘Watch the puddings and stop getting maudlin,’ she snapped, turning from him until her own tears had sunk back down.

Carla rose early after having an awful dream about finding her bank account totally empty because Julie Pride had drawn it all out. She couldn’t get back to sleep so she
walked to the village papershop and bought a copy of the
Sunday World
. Will was drinking a coffee in the kitchen when she returned. He was dressed in work clothes.

‘Morning,’ he said with a wide grin.

‘Morning,’ Carla replied, thinking back to how Martin was at this time of day. He was totally incommunicative until his mood had been thawed out by a cup of strong sugary tea and two
cigarettes. ‘You’re chirpy.’

‘Don’t like being idle. Feel much better when I’m working,’ said Will.

‘At Spring Hill?’

‘Yep. The very place.’

‘Did you sleep okay?’ asked Carla, slotting some bread into the toaster.

‘Like a tranquillised hippo. That inflatable mattress will be a hard act to follow.’

Carla smiled.

She didn’t believe him wholly but he wasn’t lying. For the first time in ages he had dropped off easily, slept soundly and dreamlessly and awoken to sunlight saturating curtains in a
room that the bank couldn’t take from him. He felt as if someone had loosened the noose around his neck by enough degrees to allow him to breathe again.

He downed the last of his coffee and put the cup in the dishwasher.

‘Have a nice day,’ he called.

‘And you,’ Carla replied.

She watched him bend to give Lucky a scratch on his head before leaving the house.

‘Are you going to be lucky?’ she asked the cat as he walked towards the cupboard where she kept his food and sat down expectantly.

Will didn’t mind working on Sunday in the slightest. He’d take any day or even night to put some wages away so he could pay his rent and eat. He knew one of the
other labourers, Duffo, working on site as Will had employed him a few times as well. He was a good worker, a cheerful man and a non-moaner. He didn’t take any joy in finding his ex-boss
working alongside him as a labourer. In fact he made a point of saying how sorry he was that Will’s firm had folded and that he’d been grateful for the work he’d been given in the
past. Will appreciated those few words of kindness more than he could say. He hadn’t had many of them in the past months.

They worked well together and the day passed quickly and companionably. Will could feel his muscles responding to all the lifting and his mind clearing of some of his troubles. Plain hard
physical graft was always good for making you think about the job in hand and nothing else.

‘Do me a favour, Will,’ Shaun asked him, just before the end of the working day. ‘Give me your professional opinion and go check out the roof. Make sure those two
subcontractors did the job I told them to.’

‘No worries,’ said Will, a bubble of panic rising in his throat. He lifted the ladder and placed it against the building. He took a deep breath and gave himself a hard word.

No messing, Will Linton. You get up that ladder now and stop being a prat
.

He placed his foot on the first rung and knew instantly that he was going to have a problem again. By the twelfth step he was starting to feel light-headed. By the fifteenth it was as if he had
taken mind-altering drugs and the world was distorting. He had to grip on to the ladder and steady himself.

‘You okay up there?’ Shaun called.

‘Yeah, no worries.’ Will tried to take another step, but his leg refused.

This is a fucking joke, Will said to himself. His hands felt full of pins and needles.
Come on.
He put his foot on the next rung up, not giving himself the opportunity to think about
it. The wave of nausea that overtook him came completely from left field and he knew he wouldn’t be able to go up any further. He leaned over the side of the ladder and spat what his stomach
had squeezed up into his mouth. He almost stumbled to the ground because his legs were so numb, his feet had difficulty finding the rungs. Shaun was waiting for him at the bottom. Will could barely
face him.

‘What happened?’ said Shaun. ‘You all right?’

‘Yep,’ said Will, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘You look grave,’ said Shaun. ‘Go get yourself home.’

‘No chance,’ said Will. ‘Look, if you’ve got groundwork to do, I’ll be fine. I need the job, Shaun. I’ve just got a bit of anxiety about heights at the
moment. It’ll go away.’

Will waited for Shaun to sigh or shake his head or laugh or throw him off-site. He did none of those. Instead he said, ‘It’s time to call a halt anyway. You tell Duffo to pack in and
go home. I’ll check the roof.’

Will watched as Shaun climbed up the ladder as surefooted as a goat. He should have told Shaun about his problem from the off. He had to get it sorted. Whoever had heard of a roofer who was
afraid of heights?

‘That was a grand Sunday dinner we had today, Molly, love,’ said Harvey, putting the newspaper down on his lap and letting his eyelids drop over his blue, blue
eyes. ‘Did I say?’

‘About sixteen times.’

Molly was sitting on the sofa knitting.

‘You should have let me wash up.’

‘The dishwasher was quite capable, thank you.’

‘I can tell you don’t do them in the sink,’ said Harvey. ‘You always did have beautiful hands. You could have modelled with them.’

Molly gave a loud ‘huh’. ‘You always were a smooth talker, Harvey Hoyland.’

‘It’s true. Your hand always looked so delicate in mine.’ He had stopped fighting keeping his eyes open now.

A ghost of a feeling flittered through Molly and made her shiver: Harvey’s large warm fingers wrapped around her own.

‘What did you do with it?’ he asked drowsily.

‘What did I do with what?’

‘Your wedding band. And that pretty little engagement ring with the sapphire and the diamonds. Did you sell them? Or did you throw them away in a rage?’

Are you serious? Molly suddenly wanted to yell at him. He knew very well what had happened to them. He had left with them in his pocket. Then again, it was all a very long time ago now. Maybe
he’d forgotten that was his parting shot, his final kick whilst she was down, to take all the jewellery which had meant so much to her.

‘I can’t remember,’ Molly lied, sticking her needle aggressively into the back of a stitch.

‘You always wanted an eternity ring. I never bought you one.’ He was almost asleep now. ‘I was going to.’

‘Yes, well there wasn’t much point in buying me an eternity ring when we were only together four years.’
There were a lot of things you were going to do. You were going to
take me travelling and see all the wonders of the world. You were going to grow old with me.

‘I left mine with yours.’

‘What?’

‘I wasn’t worthy to wear it so I left mine with yours . . .’

He was asleep. Molly carried on knitting as Harvey fell into a solid slumber, snoring softly and contentedly. He’d left what with hers? His wedding ring? Well, they both knew that he
hadn’t, however much he might have tried to rewrite history to make it more digestible. That’s what men like Harvey Hoyland do, Margaret would have said.

Just before he went home, Will tried to climb the ladder again and once more he failed. It would be funny if it weren’t so tragic. He contemplated going to the
doctor’s and rehearsing what he would say. He couldn’t imagine fessing up to his phobia without envisaging the doctor collapsing into laughter. Will wasn’t daft; he knew it was
some form of anxiety and could be cured. But he wasn’t one for sitting talking to counsellors and expounding his problems. He was a private person. His roofing mojo would come back
eventually, but until then he’d have to stick to the ground.

Still, at least something in his life was going well. By Monday he was comfortably settled in his new living space. The day was particularly warm and the June sun was still pumping out its rays
at seven o’clock. Will poured himself a beer and sat in his private square of garden with the unofficial salacious biography of a famous hell-raiser. It was amazing how enjoyable such a
simple pleasure was. And if that wasn’t enough, Carla asked if he’d like some stew because she had made far too much and he did – and it was delicious. He mopped up the gravy with
some slices of white bread and felt as stuffed as a pig in the sunshine. It was the first day in months he’d totally and utterly relaxed.

It was Brontë Tuesday at the Teashop on the Corner and Carla found herself driving to Spring Hill Square with a broad smile on her face. An old couple and a retired Sikh
gentleman wouldn’t have been on her traditional list of friends but there was something about the motley little group of people that gave her spirits a well-needed lift. She was delighted to
find them already there, in time for their elevenses. Harvey was greedily tucking into a giant slice of Branwell carrot and orange cake.

This was Harvey’s first outing for a couple of days. He had felt tired and weak since Sunday and hadn’t resisted Molly’s insistence that he rest. She was worried about him, he
knew, but he had no intention of missing the best rejuvenating drug to date – good company.

‘Ah Carla, just in time,’ said Harvey. ‘Pavitar has been talking rubbish about
Pride and Prejudice
.’ He swivelled his head back to Pavitar. ‘Darcy was an
anti-hero in the first half of the book. Rude, condescending. Elizabeth was quite right to tell him to piss off.’

‘Ooh, straight in at the deep end today,’ Carla grinned at Leni. ‘But I thought this was Brontë Tuesday.’

‘It started off like that but it appears we have diversified into nice romantic heroes,’ explained Leni. ‘No Heathcliffs today. So far we’ve had a Gabriel Oak, a Mr
Knightley, Jude the Obscure and Mr Bingley.’

As if he heard his name being mentioned, the feline Mr Bingley leapt up on the chair next to Carla and immediately assumed a sleepy curl position.

‘I always found Jude the Obscure a bit wet,’ said Carla.

‘Wet as a fish’s arse,’ said Harvey, before he was elbowed sharply by Molly. ‘What’s your opinion of Darcy then?’

‘Let the girl order before you start interrogating her,’ snapped Molly.

‘The specials are Branwell carrot or Wuthering milk chocolate cake,’ said Leni. ‘Ridiculous names, I know.’

‘Can’t believe you’ve called a cake after that waste of space Branwell,’ snorted Harvey, then bit short what he was going to say about troublesome sons. It would have
been too close to the bone for Molly.

‘I’ll go for the Wuthering and a latte please,’ said Carla with a grin before turning back to Harvey. ‘So far as Darcy goes, I’m totally with you. I suspect we are
supposed to think he’s boorish before Miss Austen makes us all eat our words. But he’s very masculine. I think I could fancy him. She’s so good on heroes. I don’t like
Thomas Hardy’s men that much. I’ll probably be damned for saying that I think Gabriel Oak is a bit wimpy too.’

‘He needs a kick up his bottom,’ said Mr Singh with a grin. ‘Nice man but not much get up and go.’

‘And don’t get me started on Boldwood.’ Harvey puffed out his cheeks. ‘Totally deranged obsessive. Should have been in a mental home.’

‘Calm down, Harvey,’ said Molly crossly. ‘He’s a fictional character, not a neighbour you’ve having a dispute with about leylandii.’

‘Thank God for that,’ replied Harvey, nevertheless taking Molly’s advice and sitting back in his chair to rest his racing heart.