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Authors: Sharon Owens

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BOOK: The Tea House on Mulberry Street
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Brenda savoured every bite of her toasted sandwich and tortilla chips. She decided to spend some of her meagre budget on a bottle of gin, some tonic water, and a bag of ice-cubes at the off-licence, before going home to change into her good suit. She would need a couple of drinks to steady her nerves before the show.

She made a mental note to hide the gin before the other artists turned up. Penniless, the lot of them. They would have all the gin down their throats in a heartbeat. Some cheap lager, she would buy, to offer round. They weren’t real friends, Brenda reasoned. They were just gathering at her flat because it was close to the gallery. In fact, she would have to hide her paints, her spare canvases, her Radiohead CD and even her jar of good coffee, before they arrived. Some of those art-graduates were so desperate for money, they would steal the eye out of your head. Except for Tom Reilly-Dunseith, of course: he couldn’t make enough of his sculptures to meet demand, even though he was charging £800 for the useless piles of junk. It was only because of his fancy name that people were interested in him, Brenda thought, bitterly.

And then she remembered that Emily Shadwick had also been invited. Brenda wondered how she could avoid being dragged into any discussion of Emily’s love life. She decided to turn the music up really loud, and pretend that she had wax in her ears. She didn’t want Emily to bring her mood down, just before a show.

Some local journalists had been invited, and they might want a quote or two from the artists. Brenda rehearsed what she would say to them, and she decided not to smile if anyone was taking pictures.

She looked out at the old red postbox that would take her letter on the first stage of its journey to America. She smiled at Penny, and waved the letter in the air, and Penny nodded and gave her a thumbs-up.

Chapter 9

A
URORA
S
IGNS ON THE
D
OTTED
L
INE

Henry Blackstaff was at home. He stood at the kitchen window, waiting for the kettle to boil. His cunning plan to outsmart Aurora had backfired spectacularly. When he told her that she could have the conservatory, if that was what she really wanted, Aurora wept with joy. She telephoned all the members of the society to share the good news, and even ran in her bare feet to tell the neighbours.

Arnold Smith was all over the house with his electronic measuring-device, and planning applications were submitted with frightening speed.

Soon, Henry’s beloved garden would be no more. Uncle Bertie’s monkey-puzzle would have to go to make room for the foundations. So would Henry’s makeshift greenhouse. Aurora had chosen the most expensive model in the range: hardwood frame as high as the house, stained-glass windows, under-floor heating, and wrought-iron roof-supports. Arnold Smith’s flashy pen totted it all up as he panted with breathless greed.

The telephone rang in the hall. Henry answered it.

“It’s for you,” he called. “Someone called David Cropper, from the BBC.”

Aurora was ecstatic all evening. David Cropper turned out to be a producer, who had read about Aurora in a newspaper, and was thinking of making a television documentary about The Brontë Bunch. Aurora told him that she was having a Victorian conservatory built, in which to hold the meetings. The members of the society were going to dress up in period costume and listen to Aurora as she read aloud from famous works of fiction. The producer, David Cropper, said he would call back in a few weeks to see how the building was going, and that the whole project sounded fascinating. Henry sighed. If there was even a chance that his wife was going to be on television, there would be no reasoning with her. She seemed to have forgotten her contempt for all things modern.

The next morning, at nine o’clock on the dot, Arnold Smith stood on the doorstep of the Blackstaff residence, with his greedy face only millimetres away from the brass doorknocker. In his hand he held the quotation for the conservatory. The amount was outrageous. Six figures, his biggest ever sale. Even Head Office were phoning him about it. He would have to use every last one of his salesman tricks to secure the contract. He hoped the husband was out. Mr Blackstaff did not appear to share his wife’s enthusiasm for the project. But Arnold Smith was lucky that day. Aurora answered the door and ushered him into the sitting-room. She barely glanced at the figure before signing a cheque for the deposit with an old-fashioned fountain-pen. Then, she guided him back to the front door, without offering him a cup of tea.

“Now, you will use reclaimed bricks, won’t you?” she said. “That is of paramount importance. The entire structure must look as if it has been there since the day the house was built. And don’t forget to leave enough room on the left-hand side for my bookcases. I just adore the smell of old books. So romantic! A breaking heart on every page! Unrequited love: the cruel sword plunged through the soul of Everyman. That’s how I met my husband, you know.”

What? Dotty old bat, thought Arnold Smith.

“You have exquisite taste,” he purred, as Aurora closed the door in his face. He made a mental note to clear the cheque before he ordered the materials. Maybe the woman was a lunatic.

When Henry came back with the morning paper, he and Aurora had another row.

“How
much
? You must be joking! We could buy a second home in France for less! I can’t believe you went ahead without me. You should have booked that room in the museum, as I suggested. That’s where most of your friends belong.”

“Well, that’s just typical! You know your trouble, Henry? You’ve sat in that shop, gathering dust, for too long. When was the last time you even sold a book?”

“What has that got to do with anything? It’s my shop, and I’ll run it my way.”

“You inherited that shop, and you’d have closed down years ago without Bertie’s money to keep you going.” She was breathless with fury. “I’m using my own savings for this. Why can’t you be happy for me? It will not cost you a farthing.”

“It’s costing me my garden, isn’t it? What am I supposed to do now on my days off? And that’s another thing: you’ve only got savings because I pay for everything in this marriage. Every last cup of over-priced tea those stuck-up fools pour down their necks was paid for by me.”

“Well, I’m sorry you begrudge my friends some light refreshment. They are very cultured people, if you would only get to know them. Don’t you see what an opportunity this is for me?”

“No, I don’t, if you want the truth.”

“I’m going to be on television, for heaven’s sake! Maybe more than once. Maybe they’ll make a series. And they’re bound to make me head teacher at school.”

“Pie in the sky. Dreams.”

“Well, at least I’ve got a dream! You have no imagination. That’s why no-one ever wants to publish your damn novels, you ridiculous
little
man!”

“That was cruel, Aurora. I don’t know what’s come over
you
. You know how much I love that monkey-puzzle. Uncle Bertie planted that tree himself!”

“And I don’t know what’s come over you! Making such a production out of a few old trees. When I met you, I thought you were different from other men, sitting there amid your lovely books. Not like the typical male with his endless talk of football matches. You were from another era. You were my Mr Rochester. My hero.” She held out her arms to him, in a heartbroken kind of way.

“And you were my Jane Eyre,” he said, fondly. “My pale fragile governess. But now, with this conservatory business –”

“Now, I see you’re just like the rest, trying to stop me from making something of myself.” She went to the window and looked out at the spot where the great conservatory would eventually stand.

“I don’t want to hold you back. I just want to save my garden. Couldn’t you make the conservatory smaller, so that the monkey-puzzle won’t have to come out?”

“No, I can’t. There has to be enough room for sixty chairs, two thousand books and a small area for performing,” she said firmly. “Mr Smith has made the calculations and I have given them my approval.”

“I could stop this, you know. The property is joint-owned. I could go to court and have it stopped.”

“Well, well, well! So. The gloves are off. Let me tell you, Henry Blackstaff, that you have left it too late to discover that you have a spine! The masterful husband routine simply will not work. I won’t let you stop me. I’ll chop that tree down myself, if I have to.”

“I could tell all your precious friends that your real name is Gertie Leech, and that you changed it by deed poll in 1974. And that your father was a cross-dressing poker-addict, with a criminal record for fraud. That would have the freeloading snobs scuttling out of my home, all right. They’d all get stuck in the French windows!”

“If you do that, I swear by Almighty God that you’ll be joining your Uncle Bertie in the next world a lot sooner than you think! I’m sure there are plenty of monkey-puzzle trees in Paradise!” And with that, she swept up the stairs and into the master bedroom, slamming the door so hard that the banisters shook.

Henry sat down on a spoon-back chair, feeling suddenly weak. Aurora was furious with him. She would not forgive him for weeks. And why should she? He had just threatened his own wife with the loss of what she valued more than anything: her reputation. He really was becoming a textbook villain. He should have given the project his blessing at the start. It was going to happen anyway.

The worst thing of all was that Uncle Bertie’s tree would have to be pulled up by the roots. Arnold Smith seemed to think that was the safest way to remove it. It was like uprooting Bertie himself. It was a terrible betrayal of his dead benefactor.

“I have chosen to read from
Wuthering Heights
,” announced Aurora, a couple of days later.

Henry was not listening. He knew Aurora was not talking to him. She was trying out her reading voice.

She ignored Henry completely. “Penned by Miss Emily Brontë. Published in 1847.” A pause.
“On that bleak hilltop the earth was hard with a black frost, and the air made me shiver through every limb…”

Dear God, thought Henry, and he went to put on his coat. He would go to Muldoon’s and console himself with a portion of steak and kidney pie.

Chapter 10

A
N
E
NCOUNTER IN THE
E
UROPA
H
OTEL

Clare Fitzgerald was back in Belfast again. She sat in the bar of the Europa Hotel, and ordered another drink. White wine was her favourite tipple, and the hotel had a good selection of half-bottles. She must ask to see the menu in a minute. She was hungry after her day’s work. Although very few people would believe her, it was very tiring work, selecting locations for photo shoots and making phone calls all day long. On the table beside her was a stack of glossy magazines to study for style and content, and a pretty handbag by Lulu Guinness. What else would a woman of culture be seen with?

She noticed a nearly handsome businessman looking in her direction with hope in his eyes and she turned away, not wanting to encourage him. He was well-dressed and seemed pleasant enough, and it wouldn’t have been the first time she had spent the evening in the company of a pleasant stranger. But tonight she was not in the mood for company. She looked over at him. He was waving at her. Damn it.

This second trip to Belfast had been a mistake. She had been foolish to think it would not affect her like this. It was just the same when she came over to visit her aunt in early January, although she hadn’t had as much time to brood then because she was travelling with her parents. Before that, she hadn’t been to Belfast for years and years, but it was as if she had never left. She was a lost teenager again, caught in a sudden fit of melancholy. Going to Muldoon’s and re-living old memories that she should have left behind two decades ago, along with her youth, had only made her feel worse.

BOOK: The Tea House on Mulberry Street
10.44Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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