The Tea House on Mulberry Street (12 page)

The women swore at the tearaway teenagers through the empty window frame.

“Ye wee bastards! Away home ’til your ma’s!” A shower of smaller stones struck the sides of the vehicle, before it sped up, and left the mob behind.

At the bus depot, she was given scalding hot tea in a paper cup, but could not hold her hands steady to drink it.

The police came. Had Clare seen anything?

She couldn’t remember.

Anything at all?

“Just the cubes of broken glass, sparkling on the floor of the bus,” she whispered. “Like giant grains of sugar. Like big, glass beads…”

The shock jolted through her. Her handbag! Oh, God, where was her handbag? Her little beaded handbag with Peter’s address inside… Could someone please look for it on the bus? Please? But she was told the bus had been checked over already. No bag had been found. Were they sure? Yes, there was nothing.

The disappointment she felt was like a bereavement.

Clare was taken by ambulance to hospital where her distraught parents sat up all night, making plans. Their daughter was not seriously hurt, but she could have been. The city was like a wounded animal, they said; it could turn on a person and bite them without warning. They had been thinking of moving away from the city for some time. This near-tragedy was the push they needed to make a new start. They would move to Cornwall in England, and run a small guesthouse. It had been a dream of theirs for a long time.

When Clare left hospital two days later, the moving-house arrangements were well under way. Her parents did not ask her if she would prefer to stay in Belfast and continue with her studies. When Clare hinted that she might want to do this, her mother complained of chest pains. The family home was already up for sale.

Clare telephoned the university and left a message for Peter, but she heard nothing back. She decided the person who took the call must have forgotten to write down the message, or maybe the office staff were always getting pestered by lovesick young people, and just didn’t bother taking messages any more.

Three days later, she waited outside his classroom for an hour, but she did not see him. Shyly, she approached some of the students and asked if they knew a boy called Peter Prendergast. She was directed towards a girl with long plaits in her hair. The girl was sitting on the floor, under a notice board. She said she knew Peter and could pass on a message. Yes, she would be seeing him soon, probably that very evening. Hugely relieved, Clare gave her a note in a sealed envelope. And the girl gave her Peter’s address, but said she was unsure of his phone number.

Full of hope, Clare went home to wait. If they still felt the same way about each other when they met, she would stay in Belfast. They might even move in together.

But when Clare had left the building, the girl opened the envelope, read the note carefully, and then threw it in the bin. She had hopes of Peter Prendergast herself, and she wasn’t going to go around delivering notes for a snob from the art college. She was delighted with herself for giving Clare Fitzgerald the wrong address for Peter, a dump of a place she had lived in years ago.

Clare hung around the flat for days. Then, fearing the girl had not delivered the note, she wrote to Peter at the university. But still there was no response.

She was bewildered. Hadn’t he said he loved her? Three times? She was grief-stricken when the second week came and went and there was no contact.

A buyer was found for the house, and the contents were sent on to a rented cottage in Cornwall. Clare began to think that she had imagined the depth of the connection between Peter and herself. The shock of the riot had undermined her confidence. Her dreams of true love were marred now; by broken windows and buses full of swearing women, and policemen looking at her with pity in their eyes. She wondered about the girl with the long, plaited hair and her relationship to Peter. Why had the other students directed her so unhesitatingly to that girl? Was she his girlfriend?

Was it true, what her friends thought? That Peter was only spinning her a line, hoping to seduce her that night? And that he’d probably decided not to get involved with her now, when he knew that she wasn’t the sort of girl to date casually, and then drop. None of them had ever met a boy who said he was in love with them on the first night. Or who kissed them all night, under a warm blanket, and did not try anything on. It sounded very weird.

Clare packed up her things in the tiny flat on Mulberry Street, all the time listening for a knock at the door.

Peter couldn’t understand why Clare hadn’t phoned him. He walked past her flat several times, hoping to catch her coming out. He was ashamed of himself for declaring his love so strongly, on the night of the disco. Why had he done that? It was an adolescent way to carry on. She must think he was very immature, or half-mad. As the days went by, he felt less and less confident. She might think he was unstable, or insincere. Twice, he did knock the door, but Clare was not home. He stopped going to his lectures for a while, unable to concentrate. He thought of leaving a letter in the communal postbox of the flats but, without knowing what impression she had of him, he didn’t know what to write. If he could see her face, then he would know what to say. Eventually, however, he left a carefully worded note with the old man who owned the tea house, a Mr Muldoon.

When there was no response even then, he was so desperate he sat on the doorstep of the flats, determined not to move until he saw Clare.

But, by that time, Clare was living in England, and trying to get over him. When he did discover that she had moved away, he was in despair. Obviously, he had meant nothing to her.

Peter nearly failed all his final exams because of the hangovers he gave himself, drowning his sorrows in the Students’ Union bar.

But Clare didn’t know any of that. Peter was the one she wanted, and she had lost him. That was all she knew for certain. She turned down nine proposals of marriage, over the years. At thirty-six, she was still single. It was lonely being such a perfectionist.

Chapter 11

S
ADIE
S
PONGE AND THE
B
ITTER
L
EMONS

Sadie Smith sat in her modern kitchen in the Belfast suburb of Carryduff, and flicked through the local paper in a half-hearted kind of way. There was nothing interesting in it at all. There was a tedious squabble over funding for a new bypass, and an article lamenting the cost of vandalism to the city bus company. Some self-important council officials were pictured looking delighted with themselves beside a new flower-bed. There was a sign sticking out of the flower-bed that announced it was sponsored by a fast-food chain. Sadie snorted her contempt. What were people paying rates to the council for, she wondered. To finance junkets abroad, most likely.

“Parasites in pinstripes,” she said to the smiling faces in the newspaper and she jabbed them all with her finger. “That’s what you are.” Sadie knew a lot about parasites in pinstripes. She was married to one.

Her mother-in-law came in to the kitchen and plucked at the dead flowers on the windowsill. “Carnations,” she said, unimpressed. “I prefer roses. White roses with long stems, and plenty of greenery.”

“I’ll remember that in future,” said Sadie. “Just in case Arnold increases the house-keeping money.”

“What are you fixing for the tea?” asked the old woman. “Maurice fancied a nice bit of fish, fried in butter. If you hurry, you could still make it to the fishmonger’s.”

“Fish, it is, then,” said Sadie. “I think I have some cod steaks in the freezer. Excuse me.”

She rushed out to the chest-freezer in the garage, and closed the kitchen door behind her, so she wouldn’t hear Daisy saying Maurice hated frozen fish.

When Arnold pulled up outside the house in his navy-blue Jaguar, he was in a terrific mood. He had just sold another conservatory. That brought his tally so far this year to twelve. His commission would be fantastic. Head Office were very pleased with his performance figures, and were going to present him with an award at the next Christmas party. Aurora Blackstaff’s order had put him streets ahead of the other salesmen. That demented, snobby old trout with her tatty, dusty books! He smiled at his reflection in the rear-view mirror and ran his fingers through his hair. He would take Patricia away on a trip, to celebrate the sale. He had been planning a little break for some time, a couple of days away from Sadie and his parents.

Sadie Sponge and The Bitter Lemons. That’s what Patricia called them. Patricia was good at nicknames. She was very good at lots of things, most of them wicked. She was a clever lady in many ways – not for nothing was she the manager of a gift shop in the city centre. (Arnold had met her when a disgruntled ex-employee smashed the window of the shop with a brick, and his company had been contracted to replace it.)

They would fly to Paris together, and make love in a tiny hotel near the Seine. There would be muslin curtains billowing in the night air, and the smell of fresh coffee floating up from the street cafes below. Patricia would wear something black and see-through with lots of straps. Afterwards, they would order room service and Patricia would pour him coffee, and bring it to him in the bed, her small breasts bare and bouncing. He loosened his collar at the thought of it.

Best of all, they would be far away from his grumbling parents and his dull little turnip-shaped wife.

“You old rogue,” he told his reflection, “you’ve still got the magic touch.” He collected his newspaper and briefcase from the back seat of the car, and hurried up the path to the house.

Sadie was in a mood. He could tell at once, the way she was banging the kitchen drawers. Sadie was always in a mood these days. Arnold blamed her burgeoning waistline. It must be awful to be such a tub of lard, he thought sadly. How can she bear to look in the mirror?

She did not turn to greet him when he came down the hall. Maurice was complaining about the fish, and refusing to eat his supper. Sadie was opening a can of soup, mashing potatoes and buttering bread, all at the same time. Arnold kissed his mother on the cheek. Daisy asked him to move some old flowers away from the windowsill, as they were spoiling her view of the garden.

Sadie closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Then, she smacked the plates down on the table, and rushed out of the kitchen.

“Aren’t you going to have something?” called Arnold, after her.

“No! I’m not hungry,” she shouted back.

“That makes a change,” said Arnold to his parents, and they all laughed; co-conspirators. “The old girl must be losing her appetite.”

“I bet the owner of Cadbury’s chocolate factory is getting worried,” said Daisy.

“Ho, ho! You better not let Sadie hear you,” said Arnold, “or you could find yourself without a cook!”

“Ha!” snapped Maurice. “Cook, you say? Frozen fish! Your mother never let convenience food into the house. Oh, I can still smell the lovely things she used to make for me! Shepherd’s Pie and Apple Charlotte and roast chicken! Rhubarb jam and wheaten bread! Jam and bread, she made herself. It would make your mouth water just to think of it. That’s what she gave me to eat. That’s why I’ve lived to such a great age.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Arnold sadly, thinking of his father’s money.

“You’ll never see fifty, son, eating this rubbish,” said Maurice, bitterly.

Arnold was going to tell them about his great sale that day, but then he changed his mind. He might have to reveal how much money he had made. His parents had been dropping heavy hints about wanting to go away on a trip, while they were “still above ground”. But the thought of being cooped up in a hotel with the two of them, and Sadie, was just too awful. He would retreat to his study after supper, and plan the magical weekend in Paris with Patricia. Maybe book a couple of tickets to see a sexy show in the Moulin Rouge? Wasn’t that the sheer beauty of being a manager? All those boring old conferences to attend…

Sadie closed the bedroom door and sat down on the bed, shaking. She did not trust herself to sit at the table with Arnold tonight. She could not bear to look at him eating the fish and mashed potatoes as if nothing had happened. As if his lips had not kissed the hand of another woman, as if he had not patted her knee and whispered intimate things in her ear, as if… She might ruin everything by getting up on the table and screaming until her face turned blue. She might grab the heavy potato saucepan and swing it out through the double-glazing. Vertical blinds, potatoes, glass and all, lying on the lawn. That would stop them sniggering. She closed her eyes. What with Maurice and his fresh fish, and Daisy and her white roses, and Arnold with his laughing blonde, it was hard to stay calm. And she must stay calm. She would have to find out what Arnold was up to.

Her natural instinct would be to ignore Arnold’s romantic adventures. Maybe he was having an affair, maybe he wasn’t. Whatever he was up to, he couldn’t leave Sadie. No way. Sadie took excellent care of Arnold, his clothes, his parents and his home. She did a thousand little things for him every week. Without her, he would not be such a smooth operator. He’d never find a woman to replace her. Still, just to be on the safe side, she’d like some more information.