The Tea House on Mulberry Street (25 page)

Brenda Brown had been sitting in the tea house the day Henry and Rose had the conversation about Connemara. She listened carefully to Rose’s description of it. She wasn’t proud of herself for listening to someone else’s private conversation, but Rose made the place sound so nice that she couldn’t help it. Brenda was writing another letter to Nicolas Cage, but her concentration was flickering on and off like a faulty light, with excitement.

10 October, 1999

Dear Nicolas,

How are you?

Please write to me and tell me if you received the painting. It would make me so happy to know that you got it. Just a postcard, or anything.

You know that gallery I was telling you about, the one in Galway? Well, they’ve been so nice. They understand what I’m trying to do. I think people in the southern part of this island are more advanced, culturally, than their northern counterparts. The only things that sell in Belfast are kitsch little landscapes.

Well, I’m not going to paint boring water-colours of Portstewart Strand. That’s the junk food of the art world; easy and quick. The owner of this place, a Mrs Penny Stanley, has one such painting upstairs and it’s absolute rubbish. She showed it to me last year. I can’t believe her husband paid good money for that rubbish.

If things go well for me in Galway, I may never come back.

If you get this letter, think of me on December 15th. That’s the date of the exhibition opening.

I found out recently that my father is getting married to another woman, and I now recall an argument he had some time ago, with my mother, about a Dublin tart. But I thought they were talking about pastries. Poor Mum. The neighbours have taken to walking their dogs by our house, hoping to catch a glimpse of her crying in the front room. But she’s being a real trouper.

She’s started using her maiden name again.

I mentioned the idea of changing my name, to the owner of The Blue Donkey Gallery, but they said not to worry. Brenda Brown is fine, and names don’t matter, they said.

A few uplifting pieces for the window display, that’s what they want.

Take care of yourself
,

Lots of love
,

Brenda.

PS. Please send me a signed photo.

I am a genuine fan.

Chapter 32

T
HE
C
RAWLEYS
S
EE THE
L
IGHT

Several days passed. Alice wept a little when she said her prayers each night. Beatrice looked at the portrait of her father many times, and searched in his blue eyes for some evidence that he was disappointed in his children. But she saw only love. They went over and over the possibilities, and cried, and prayed, and ranted and raved. But in the end, they had no choice but to accept the fact that their biological father was almost certainly a German gentleman of the Jewish faith. Their mother had had an affair, with a man called Leo, a refugee from Nazi Germany probably, and her husband had forgiven her. And if he could forgive and forget, then so could they. Alice cheered up a little when Beatrice pointed out that the British Royal family had some German blood in its veins as well.

“Queen Victoria’s husband, Albert, was a German, wasn’t he? They had a huge family together. The German race must be incredibly fertile,” said Beatrice. “In a way, we have become international, which is better than provincial, at the end of the day. They say a good mix of genes makes a person stronger.” Eventually, after days and days of sadness, they felt something close to contentment.

They told no-one, not even their minister in the church. They still attended morning service every Sunday, but when he preached about sin and sinners and corruption in the modern world, they said nothing. They did not clap or nod their heads in agreement.

“Let him who is without sin cast the first stone,” whispered Alice.

They gave up writing letters to the newsagent’s. He was stocking more filth than ever, to spite them, they felt. It was only a waste of postage stamps. Even the charity work had lost its sparkle, a little. No-one in the congregation was all that impressed any more when Alice and Beatrice collected the most money for each project. In fact, some people even went as far as to say, why wouldn’t they collect the most money? They had nothing else to do all day. No grandchildren to pick up from school, no big family dinners to arrange, no husbands to tidy up after. As outraged as the sisters were, they had to admit it was true.

“Oh, bugger this,” sighed Beatrice, one wet Sunday afternoon. (She had taken to swearing, like a duck to water.) They were sitting at the table after enjoying a superb roast of beef and Yorkshire pudding. “Don’t let’s bother with the washing-up. I want to do something else. Something exciting.”

“Well, what else is there to do on a drizzly Sunday in Belfast?” Alice was puzzled.

“Get your coat on, Alice,” said Beatrice. “We’re going in to the city centre, to book ourselves on a holiday to Israel. Sure, what are we saving our pensions for? Haven’t we got one foot in the grave, and no children to provide for? We are going to have the trip of a lifetime!”

“What will we do in Israel, of all places?”

“See new sights! Eat new foods, and meet new people. And say a few prayers while we’re there, of course.”

They chose to fly out to Israel for Christmas. Alice developed a taste for bagels with cream cheese. Beatrice decided she preferred apple strudel. They began to say hello to strangers on the street. They were all part of the human race, Beatrice would say, from time to time: people were all related to each other in some way.

Chapter 33

S
ADIE
G
ETS
R
ID OF THE
B
ITTER
L
EMONS

Sadie’s revenge was slow to gather momentum but her planning was sheer genius. Firstly, she was going to make Arnold look ridiculous in front of his fancy-woman, and then she was going to get rid of his parents and all their money. And then, she was going to embarrass him professionally, and then she was going to kick him out of the bungalow in Carryduff, for good. She had spent hours in Muldoon’s, perfecting her ideas.

She was a regular in the cafe these days, on first-name terms with Penny and Daniel. She watched them closely from the little table for one where she always sat. She noticed that Daniel was not as dedicated to the cooking as he once was. If the sandwich Sadie wanted was not available, he would just say so; not go rushing to make it up specially. Quite often, he got Sadie’s order mixed up or gave her the wrong change. He seemed very tired, and he yawned a lot. His hair was getting so long he could tuck his fringe behind one ear. He really needed a rest, by the look of him, thought Sadie. Most of the time, he was the only one working in the teahouse.

Penny, on the other hand, was full of life and energy. She had blossomed since having her hair cut so dramatically. Gone were the cheap and glittery hair accessories and earrings of the past, and the gypsy-type blouses and skirts she had worn for so long. Nowadays, she wore high quality make-up and perfume, and expensive, plain linen trouser-suits. She drifted in and out of the cafe as she pleased, arriving back with several carrier-bags from expensive shops, one day, when Sadie was having lunch.

Another day, Sadie heard the two of them arguing in the kitchen. It was hard to catch all the details but Sadie thought it had something to do with a silver necklace. An expensive necklace that Penny had been wearing for a few days. Where had she got it? Daniel wanted to know. And where was she at the weekend?

Sadie was shocked to hear Penny taunting her husband. Couldn’t he guess? Couldn’t he work it out for himself? What did he care, anyway? Wasn’t he happy enough with his cakes and pies and his rusty old kitchen? That sort of thing. Sadie almost forgot to eat her strawberry cheesecake, so intently did she spy on the Stanley marriage.

Then Sadie saw Penny getting into a car on the Lisburn road, driven by a good-looking man in a fancy suit, and it all made sense. Penny was having an affair with another man, and Daniel was too distracted by the worry of it to concentrate on his baking. The poor wretch. Sadie wondered if the whole of Belfast was driving around, having flings and fancy-pieces on the side, and if she was the only one left with any morals. Daniel really should do something about his wife’s behaviour.

Sadie was determined to punish Arnold for what he had done to her. She wanted him out of the house by Christmas. She’d given him time to mend his ways, and plenty of it. Nobody could say that she hadn’t.

During that long, dreadful summer, there was a little part of Sadie that wanted to forgive Arnold: to excuse the awful things he had said about her to Patricia, as the idle boasts of a middle-aged man trying to impress his younger mistress. (His poisonous, gold-digging mistress.) Poor Arnold, she reasoned: Patricia Caldwell was only bewitching him with her lacy red knickers, to get her bony hands on their luxury bungalow. One hundred and fifty thousand pounds it must be worth. Patricia would never make that kind of money, selling ashtrays and potpourri, in her little shop. Well, thought Sadie, she’ll get this house over my dead body: I’ll commit mass murder and arson before I let that happen.

Then, she calmed down again. No, no, she always relented. If I lose control, I’ll lose everything. I’ll end up in prison, and I’ll bet they don’t serve cherry cheesecake in Maghaberry Women’s Wing. And then she would go over her plans again. It was nearly time to put them into action. She’d been to see a lawyer as well. He’d told her not to worry; Arnold could not throw her out on the street. He was only bluffing. Anything he had on paper would not stand up in a court case, after twenty years of marriage.

Sadie had fantasies in the wee small hours of the morning, where Arnold would confess everything, and say he was sorry. So sorry, he couldn’t say how sorry. He would weep with shame. He would kneel on the carpet and beg her forgiveness; declare that he had been a blind, stupid, cruel, monstrous fool.

But Arnold didn’t do that. He refused to eat fried food, and had muesli instead. He admired his trimmer waistline in the hall mirror before going to work each morning. He spent all his free time in the study, making illicit calls to Patricia on the telephone. And so, Sadie sighed with resignation and crossed off the last few days until his trip to Paris, on a wall-calendar from Nicholl Fuels with a picture of an oil-tanker on it.

On the day that Arnold was due to go to the airport, Sadie snipped two buttons off his best suit with a pair of nail-scissors and flushed the buttons down the lavatory. She burned his new shirt with the iron and kicked his passport under the bed. She slipped a couple of raunchy men’s magazines from the newsagent’s into his overnight bag, hidden under a towel at the bottom.

“Oh dear,” she said, coming into the kitchen, where Arnold was sipping his morning cuppa. “Two buttons have fallen off your new jacket, darling. I never noticed ’til right this minute!”

“Bloody hell, Sadie! How did that happen? Have you looked in the wardrobe?”

“Yes, my love. They aren’t there.”

“Damn and blast! That suit looked so good on me, too.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t all…”

“What is it, woman? I’m in a hurry.”

“I left the iron on your new shirt too long.”

“You’ve not burned it?”

“I have, darling. I’m so sorry. I was looking for the missing buttons.”

“Sadie, you twerp! Do you expect me to fly to Paris in a burnt shirt?”