Starting Over at Acorn Cottage

by Kate Forster

  ‘But when you give all the time, you become empty inside and you try and please everyone else and eventually you become just a husk of yourself. I used to worry about you but that won’t happen now because you have learned to ask for help. To ask to be loved and to have received it so joyously.

  ‘I was not a wealthy woman but I was comfortable as I lived a quiet life, which suited George and I. Perhaps we might have travelled more. I would have liked to have seen Paris but maybe you and Henry can go now.

  ‘I am leaving you my pension fund, which George invested very well, and with your clever money skills, I have no doubt you will triple this in in no time. I am leaving Pansy some money also, which you can manage for her until she is twenty-five. That is a smarter age than twenty-one, I am sure you will agree.’

  Henry looked up from the letter and smiled. Clara waved at him to continue.

  ‘I have left you my Welsh dresser and china, as I know you loved it so and there is a spot for it in your lovely little kitchen. Perhaps you can paint it pink like I did in mine. Pink is such a happy colour. And finally, there is a notebook for you. You always wanted to know what I knew, all those little superstitions I shared, and old wives’ tales and the tea leaf symbols. I have been writing these down since I was a girl. Some of them are from my own mother, and grandmother and probably her grandmother before that. You can add to it now, as I bequeath it to you. It is one of my most treasured possessions; the other one I have given to Henry.

  ‘I didn’t have children in my life and I taught and cared for many other people’s children, but of all of them, you, Clara, were the one I thought I most would have liked to have been my own.

  ‘You were more a daughter to me than anyone else and you cared for me, and for that, I thank you.

  God Bless,

  Tassiana McIver.’

  Clara wiped away tears as Henry turned the paper over.

  ‘PS,’ Henry read, ‘your son is named James.’

  Henry looked confused.

  ‘What son?’

  Clara started to laugh and cry simultaneously.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said, pulling the test from her bag and handing it to him.

  He held it up and looked at it and then at her and then at the test again.

  ‘Nooo,’ he said but he was smiling broadly.

  ‘Yes!’ He came around and picked her up and kissed her over and over and then on her stomach.

  ‘Oh, Clara, I love you so much,’ he said and she saw tears in his eyes.

  ‘Will you marry me? Can I live in your pink cottage with your cockleshell borders and chicken coop and magical oaks trees be a part of your crazy, complicated, simply perfect life? Please say yes?’ He kissed her again, and looked at her. ‘Say yes,’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered back.

  ‘I don’t have a ring,’ he said after he kissed her again.

  ‘Open your gift from Tassie,’ she said, feeling like the world was spinning but she didn’t want it to stop.

  Henry opened the box and lifted a smaller box from it. Across the top was a sticker reading: For Henry, for Clara.

  He opened it and it was his turn to laugh and cry.

  ‘Maybe I do have a ring,’ he said. He fell to his knee and took Clara’s hand put on the ring.

  It was a beautiful cluster of diamonds with tiny oak leaves making up the band.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ they both said in unison and Pansy walked into the room.

  ‘Tassie sent me her shells,’ she said showing them the box. ‘Why are you on the floor, Daddy?’ She looked at Clara. ‘Why are you crying again?’ She shook her head. ‘Grown-ups are so weird.’

  *

  Later that night, when Henry was dozing on the sofa and Pansy was tucked up in bed with her shells nearby, Clara went out into the garden.

  It was nearly cold, she thought as she pulled her cardigan close around her. Rachel had been teaching her to knit and her cardigan was the first thing she had finished. It wasn’t perfect but it was warm and Rachel had taught her to sew it up properly.

  She stood under the oak tree and looked back at the cottage. The lights inside gave it a warm glow. She could hear the chickens chatting quietly as they settled down for the night. The scent of the roses tickled her nose and the crisp air felt like the first bite of an autumn season apple.

  I wish you were here, Mum and Gran, she thought to herself but then she felt them with her in all she did. When she collected the eggs, when she read stories to Pansy, when she watched Rachel twist pastry into plaits.

  This was it, she realised. This was what she had been waiting for and searching for when she was young. How long do we go through life looking for something, a feeling inside us about we think we want, not realising we were actually living it all along? And only after do we realise we missed it, after it’s all gone.

  Clara walked back inside the cottage and locked the back door, then switched off the lights in the kitchen. She locked the front door, went into the living room and turned off the lamps, then leaned over and kissed Henry on the mouth.

  ‘Hello,’ he said sleepily.

  ‘Time for bed,’ she whispered and she took his hand and led him to their bedroom.

  ‘I love you, Henry,’ she said as he pulled her to him.

  ‘I love you too, Clara Maxwell.’

  ‘I’m happy,’ she whispered as his hands began to explore her.

  ‘Let’s see if I can’t make you ecstatic,’ he murmured in her ear and she smiled in the darkness, knowing this was as good as life could get but with the intense feeling that life was about to get even better.

  Early Winter

  57

  The pink ribbon was strung across the door of the bakery, tied with a large bow, and Clara slipped under it as she opened the door, the bell singing happily, as Rachel came out from the kitchen in her crisp white apron with the name of the tearooms beautifully embroidered in pink silk cotton across the front.

  TASSIE’S TEAROOM

  Henry had done a wonderful job on the renovation with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on one wall, and a fireplace with an elegant Persian rug in blue and green lying in front of it, bought for a song in Chippenham at an auction.

  Two cosy armchairs sat either side of the fireplace with a little table for tea or to rest a book next to them.

  Another wall showed off some art from a local woman who was very skilled at watercolours and who was thrilled to have her first mini exhibition.

  Henry had already bought the one of Acorn Cottage as a surprise for Clara, so she was very sad when she saw it had a red sticker next to the frame. But Henry couldn’t wait to give it to her tonight so he would hand it to her after she opened the tearooms.

  ‘How are things in the kitchen?’ asked Clara, as she touched her stomach. She was five months gone and the sickness had vanished and now she was so hungry she might have eaten the crusts from the chicken sandwiches if allowed.

  ‘Great, Nahla is a wonderful cook. Who knew all this time she was cleaning for Tassie she had such nimble fingers for pastry?’

  ‘I guess we don’t know as much about people as we should because we put them into little compartments and it’s only by talking that we find out what else is inside them.’

  Nahla and Rachel had chatted at Tassie’s funeral where the women talked about Tassie and the way they had been helped by their old friend.

  ‘For years she told me to come and tell you about my cooking but I was afraid to,’ said Nahla.

  ‘Why?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘Because your mother said to me when I came into the shop once that she doesn’t sell curry pies, so I left.’

  Rachel had been so embarrassed by her racist stepmother.

  ‘I am so sorry, and I do sell curry pies and many other pies. I make French-style pies, and Thai chicken pies and even an Irish stew pie. The bakery is very multicultural.’

  Nahla had laughed. ‘I know, I never thought it was you but it wouldn’t have w
orked back then when she was still in the shop.’

  Nahla was given a job and soon she had the kitchen humming. Rachel was Executive Creative Director of Tassie’s Tearoom and Nahla was Head Chef, and Clara was taking care of the business side of things.

  Clara had made a website, and had invited journalists from local papers and influential social media users to the opening along with the entire village of Merryknowe.

  Mrs Crawford from the post office was front and centre, ready to come in, and Mr Toby the bus driver had stopped the bus down the road and had come to line up for the new curry pies he could smell when he got out of the bus.

  The staff were all lined up against the counter in their white aprons and comfortable sneakers. Rachel had insisted on these for the staff because she wanted them to never have the pain of the blisters on her feet from the shoes Moira had forced her to wear.

  ‘Are the tea trays ready?’ Rachel asked Nahla, who stood at the front of the line.

  ‘Yes, all ready to go.’ Nahla smiled.

  Rachel and Clara had gone to so many tearooms over the last few weeks, Rachel wondered if she could ever face a scone with jam and cream again. Clara’s nausea hadn’t made the trip entirely enjoyable but they found some wonderful ideas to add to their own dreams for Tassie’s Tearoom.

  They had Russian Caravan tea in honour of Tassie and Henry, and Assam and Darjeeling from Roasted Oolong and herbal teas including a chocolate tea that Pansy was obsessed with.

  With triangle point sandwiches with Scottish smoked salmon, poached chicken in Nahla’s lemon and dill tangy mayonnaise recipe and the classic cucumber sandwich, there was something for everyone.

  The cakes were a triumph, with lemon teacake, and chocolate and orange profiteroles. Red velvet cake and mini-Victoria sponge with lemon curd and cream. Vanilla cupcakes with edible pansies on top looked so sweet and tasted just as sweet, and Rachel’s exquisite eclairs finished off the afternoon tea menu.

  Clara had bought the tearooms a fancy Italian coffee machine and all the staff had done a barista course from a clever Australian girl who was bringing Melbourne coffee to the cafes of England, one espresso shot at a time.

  And now they were ready for the opening.

  Henry came through the front door, slipping under the ribbon like Clara had.

  ‘The flowers are up,’ he said. They had festooned the archway of the door with flowers and ribbons in different shades of pink, creating a magical entrance for the people lining up.

  ‘Everything is ready,’ he said to Rachel and Clara.

  Clara leaned up to kiss him. ‘You’re clever and I love you.’

  ‘You’re beautiful and I adore you,’ he said in her ear.

  Pansy walked out from the kitchen wearing her own small apron and chef hat.

  ‘Can we hurry up? I want to eat cakes,’ she said. Clara noticed pink icing on the corner of her mouth and used her thumb to wipe it away.

  ‘I think you’ve had a head start already, sweetie,’ said Clara.

  Pansy went to the window of the shop and looked down the street.

  ‘People are hungry; we need to get ready.’ She turned to everyone in the tearooms.

  ‘Okay, Marco Pierre White,’ said Henry. ‘Let’s go to the back and let Clara and Rachel get ready.’

  Clara buzzed about the tearooms, straightening the mismatched chairs, all painted by Henry in varying colours set around the tables of differing sizes, all painted white with a cover copied on top. There was Jane Eye, Mrs Dalloway, Emma, Clarissa, Rebecca, Tess of the D’Urbervilles, Cousin Kate, and Arabella.

  Little touches around the tearooms reminded Clara and Rachel of the path they had walked to this moment.

  Tassie’s book collection was on the shelves and bowls of acorns and pinecones from behind Clara and Henry’s cottage were on the mantelpiece. Photos of Clara and her mum and grandmother, and Rachel as a baby with her parents, and Naomi and Pansy, all in silver frames, were grouped together with fresh flowers in a small silver vase from Tassie’s house. Today, the last of the pink roses from Clara’s garden tumbled over the edges of the vase, the scent catching Clara’s attention as she passed.

  She stopped to drink in their scent and remembered Henry’s little teacup of flowers next to her bed. She hadn’t realised love was like this. So warm, so real, a meeting of mutual needs and balance. She never felt that she was doing all the work in the relationship, as Henry loved her with his energy and creative abandon and with a tenderness she had not seen in a man before.

  When he suggested she start to see a counsellor to work through her pain and guilt about her father, he never made her feel that she had failed or was broken. He told her she needed to forgive herself and that only came with real professional help and understanding.

  Creating that boundary in their relationship had been the making of them, and when she suggested he do the same to work through Naomi’s death, he did and when he came home with his eyes red-rimmed and needed time to sit in the oak tree clearing, she let him be.

  Because she knew they were as strong as a pair of oak trees and their little acorn was growing inside her.

  Clara went to the door and looked at Rachel who nodded at her.

  Joe was outside directing the lines and he turned and waved at them both.

  They were ready.

  Clara and Rachel stepped forward and Rachel pulled scissors from her apron pocket. They were Tassie’s gold sewing scissors, shaped like a heron, and she handed them to Clara and held the ribbon.

  Clara cut the ribbon and then spoke loudly for all to hear.

  ‘Welcome to Tassie’s Tearooms. Purveyors of fine baked goods and tea leaf reading and anything else that brings magic into your lives.’

  About the Author

  KATE FORSTER lives in Melbourne, Australia with her husband, two children and dogs, and can be found nursing a laptop, surrounded by magazines and talking on the phone, usually all at once. She is an avid follower of fashion, fame and all things pop culture and is also an excellent dinner party guest who always brings gossip and champagne.

  Acknowledgements

  I wish to thank my beautiful and patient editor, Rhea Kurien, who really helped me shape this book into something I am so proud of. Thank you to Tara Wynne, my agent and friend. Thank you to David for holding the space while I wrote for my life. Thank you to my Ladybirds Writing Group who are 1800 members strong and are the best online cheerleading group I could have. Women supporting women is always a good thing.

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