The Girl From the Tea Garden

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Jack couldn’t manage without our George; he’s a born salesman. Got the gift of the gab, just like his father when he was first starting out. Jack used to bring tea to the house in Summerhill where we lived and to see me. That’s when we started courting. Your mam was married to old Herbert Stock – she’d been his housekeeper. She never loved him, just married him for his money so she could start her own business. But me and Jack, we were a love match.’

  ‘Mother married the love of her life,’ Adela pointed out, ‘when she married my father.’

  ‘That’s very true,’ Olive conceded. She began to talk about George and his string of girlfriends. ‘Not sure he’ll ever settle down. He’s always spoiling them rotten, then gets bored and finds someone new. Still, he’s only twenty-five. I wouldn’t want him rushing into marriage with the wrong lass. I don’t think much of the current one mind. Barmaid at the cricket club.’

  Jane spoke unexpectedly. ‘Joan is canny. She’s very sweet-natured.’

  ‘She sits there as quiet as a mouse – just like you,’ complained Olive. ‘George’ll get bored. He needs a lass who can string two sentences together, bonny, but not too bonny, and who can do more than pull pints. She only got the job at the club ’cause she’s the groundsman’s daughter. George needs to marry a lass from his own class with a bit of education.’

  Adela steered the conversation to Jane. ‘How about you, Cousin Jane? Do you have a boyfriend?’

  ‘Our Jane!’ Olive exclaimed. ‘She’s much too shy. No one’s ever come courting her. What about you, Adela?’

  Caught by surprise, Adela flushed. ‘No, I don’t have anyone special.’

  ‘But you’ve had a few lads court you, haven’t you? You’ve said so in your letters to Jane. What was the latest one I saw – wasn’t it some Hindoo prince?’

  Adela looked aghast at Jane; it hadn’t occurred to her that her cousin would show her letters to anyone else. Jane was blushing and biting her bottom lip, her look apologetic.

  ‘I acted with a prince at the Gaiety,’ Adela admitted, ‘but I’m not courting anyone.’ She quickly changed the subject. ‘I’d love to visit Herbert’s Café. Would you be able to take me, Aunt Olive? Mother told me how beautifully you decorated it.’

  ‘I’m not well enough to go painting walls any more. I’m bad with my chest.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Adela. ‘Mother said you’re a great artist.’

  Olive smiled, pleased with the compliment. ‘I was once upon a time. But running a family and a house and looking after my Jack takes up all my time. Let alone the café. I haven’t had time for art in years.’

  ‘Well, while I’m here to help out, perhaps you could try dabbling again?’ suggested Adela.

  Olive shrugged. Jane began to clear the tea plates and cups on to a tray.

  ‘I’ll take you to the café this afternoon if you like,’ her cousin offered.

  ‘I’d like that very much.’ Adela smiled, keen to get out of the depressing room and away from her aunt’s morbid preoccupations. She jumped up and began help.

  ‘No,’ said Olive. ‘We’ll all go later, when George can run us down the hill. It’s me who should show you the café – I’m the one who’s been looking after it all these years. Leave Jane to do these. You go and unpack. You’re sharing her room. Jane, pet, show Adela where your bedroom is and help her with those heavy cases; then you can finish off here. I’m going next door to see Mrs Harris for a cup of tea. I’ll keep an eye out for George coming back.’

  Jane’s room was tidy and spartan. Half the wardrobe and a chest of drawers had been cleared for Adela’s clothes, while a pull-out bed had been erected under the window and covered with a faded patchwork quilt of yellow, red and orange cotton prints. Jane’s dark-framed bed was covered in a blue candlewick bedspread that matched the plain blue curtains. There was nothing to show what interested her cousin – no photographs, no keepsakes on the dressing table – except for a pile of books on the bedside table. They were library books: two history tomes, a travel book about Greece and two novels – South Riding, by Winifred Holtby, and Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell. So there was a streak of the romantic in her apparently inhibited cousin.

  Bored with unpacking, Adela went to the window. Below was a large backyard with a trough of geraniums and two outhouses, while opposite was an identical terraced row. Beyond that stretched other ranks of brick houses, dipping away towards a smoky horizon and the River Tyne. She unlatched the sash window and heaved it up. The breeze billowed into the antiseptic-smelling room. It was suddenly familiar: the mineral smell of coal fires. It brought back a memory of having a bath as a very young child in front of a crackling fire in a cosy, brightly painted house. Aunt Olive’s? It certainly wasn’t this dark, solidly respectable one.

  While she was still unpacking and hanging up her dresses, Jane returned. At once she closed the window. ‘Mam doesn’t like the coal smuts flying in. Gets all over the house.’

  ‘Sorry, didn’t think. Where shall I put the empty suitcases?’

  ‘Put them out on the landing. George can store them in the loft later. You can sleep in my bed, and I’ll take the pull-out.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ insisted Adela. ‘I’m not going to turf you out of your own bed. It’s very kind of you to share your room with me.’

  Jane gave a cautious smile. ‘I hope you enjoy your stay here. I’ve been really looking forward to you coming – so has Mam. She wants to show you off.’

  ‘Why would she want to do that?’

  ‘She’s always telling people how successful Aunt Clarrie is and boasting about being related to the Robson tea planters. You would think they owned half of India the way she talks.’

  Adela laughed. ‘Well, Robsons can be a bit full of themselves, that’s true.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not a criticism of you,’ Jane said hastily. ‘It’s just Mam trying to put herself above the folk round here.’

  Adela eyed her cousin. She sounded resentful. Perhaps Jane wasn’t as indifferent to Olive’s carping as she appeared.

  ‘Well, I’ll try and put on a good show of being the memsahib.’ Adela winked. ‘Anyway, I brought this for you. It’s not much, but you sounded so interested in India that I thought you’d like something to read.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have.’ Jane eagerly took the proffered gift, carefully unknotted the string and unwrapped the brown paper. She smoothed a slim hand over the cover. ‘Simla, Past and Present, by Edward J. Buck,’ she read aloud. ‘Thank you. This looks really interesting.’

  ‘It’s got photos too.’ Adela sat down on the bed beside Jane and turned the pages. ‘That’s just round the corner from Aunt Fluffy’s cottage. The black and white doesn’t do justice to the landscape or the sunrise.’

  ‘I’m sorry about Mam and your letters,’ Jane said quietly. ‘I didn’t show them to her; she came in here and went through my drawers. She used to make me read them out to her when you and I were younger, but I stopped doing that – you know, when you started writing about lads and feelings and that.’

  Adela went hot at the thought of her aunt knowing so much about her. She tried to remember what she had written about Sam and Jay. It dismayed her that her twenty-three-year-old cousin couldn’t stand up to Aunt Olive more.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Adela said. ‘We’ll just have to make up our own code in future. I did that with my school friends. Our code word for any action with boys was “Jubbulpore”.’

  ‘It won’t get much use around here I’m afraid,’ Jane said with a rueful smile.

  ‘Well, I’m going to make sure it does while I’m here,’ said Adela. ‘I’m going to make it my mission to find you some Jubbulpore this summer.’

  For the first time she heard Jane laugh, a deep, throaty gurgle quite at odds with her shy, humourless appearance.

  CHAPTER 17

  The household came alive when George burst back through the front door and shouted up the stairs.

 
‘Come on, ladies, where are you hiding? Want a spin in the car, Adela? Thought I’d take you for a sightseeing trip. Mam says you want to visit Herbert’s Café.’

  Adela and Jane clattered out of the bedroom, where they’d been lounging on the bed absorbed in Jane’s two copies of the new photographic magazine, Picture Post. Jane, it turned out, was a keen photographer, but couldn’t afford to buy or develop much film. Adela was fascinated by the pictures of ordinary British life: miners walking to work in the mist; women wearing flowery aprons hanging out washing in cramped backstreets; a child riding to school on a bicycle.

  ‘Yes to all of those,’ Adela said and grinned as she jumped down the stairs.

  Olive was already dressed for an outing in a green coat and matching hat.

  It turned out that George had swapped the van for his father’s car so he could ferry their visitor about. They all climbed into the small Austin, Olive up front with George, while the girls sat in the back.

  ‘Don’t drive too fast,’ Olive said, tensing as George revved the accelerator and pulled on to the main road into town.

  ‘This area is called Arthur’s Hill, and we’re joining Westgate Road,’ George said, pointing out landmarks as they went. He drove them back past the railway station and the impressive Palladian buildings of central Newcastle, with their massive soot-blackened pillars and grand windows. They dipped steeply downhill towards the quayside.

  ‘We don’t want to see the mucky Tyne,’ cried Olive. ‘Adela will want to see the shops.’

  ‘All in good time,’ said George. He began to whistle ‘The Lambeth Walk’ and Adela immediately joined in singing.

  ‘You know the show Me and My Girl?’

  ‘We do get radio in India you know,’ Adela said, smiling, ‘and my theatre friend Tommy bought the sheet music.’ She burst into a raucous rendition of ‘The Sun Has Got His Hat On’.

  ‘You’ve got a lovely singing voice,’ said Olive. ‘Maybe you can teach our Jane to sing. George takes after me – he’s got a musical ear.’

  ‘Mother said you used to play the violin beautifully,’ said Adela.

  ‘Haven’t touched it in years.’

  They drove under the solid metal Tyne Bridge, arching the brown river. The riverside was alive with activity: dockers unloading cargo and rolling barrels; wagons weaving through people and a flock of runaway sheep.

  As they doubled back along the riverside, George and Adela sang ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic’.

  ‘Sing something more romantic,’ Olive demanded.

  Adela sang ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ in a rich, melodious voice.

  ‘You’ll break some poor lad’s heart with that one,’ said George, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror. She looked away, thinking with a pang how it reminded her of Sam. The newly popular tune had been played at her seventeenth birthday party.

  Soon they were emerging into a working-class district of pubs and shops with striped awnings and merchandise stacked on the pavement to entice shoppers. There were a few people going in and out, but more were standing around in the hazy sunshine, hands in pockets, leaning against walls chatting or watching passers-by. Below were grimy sheds and engineering works that George said were gun factories.

  ‘Work’s picking up again since the Germans went into Austria,’ he told her.

  ‘Why? Are we selling guns to the Germans?’ asked Adela.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ George said. ‘They’re making them as fast as they know how. We have to keep upsides, don’t we? In case there’s war.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’ Olive shuddered.

  ‘Surely that’s not likely,’ said Adela. She felt quite ignorant of what was going on in Europe. All the talk at home was of Indians agitating for home rule and the Japanese attacking China.

  ‘It’s becoming more likely, what with Hitler throwing his weight around and Musso cosying up to his fascist friend.’

  ‘Stop talking politics,’ Olive cried. ‘Look, here we are: Herbert’s Café. Goodness, the windows need a good clean.’

  They came to a halt in Tyne Street. As they climbed out, a gaggle of young children surrounded them, shouting out, ‘Can I mind yer car, mister?’

  George gave a coin to the oldest-looking boy and ushered the women inside the café. From the outside the tea room looked nondescript, but inside it had a scruffy charm. The yellow wallpaper was tinged brown from cigarette smoke, but there were large, brightly daubed paintings of local scenes and dusty palms in tarnished brass planters around an upright piano. The tables were covered in faded linen cloths, but someone had gone to the trouble of placing centrepieces of fresh carnations, now beginning to wilt. Most of the tables had one or two customers, some sitting reading newspapers, others chatting over empty plates. The room was stuffy and smelt of meat pies. Adela hid her disappointment; this was hardly the glamorous teahouse that her parents had often talked of so proudly.

  A buxom middle-aged woman in a white blouse and black skirt with thick make-up and black hair that looked suspiciously dyed sashayed towards them.

  ‘Eeh, is this our little Adela?’ she cried, opening wide her arms. ‘Come and give Lexy a big hug, bonny lass!’

  Adela was enveloped in hot arms, a slight sour smell of sweat masked by a cloying flowery perfume. She had a very vague memory of a loud laughing woman called Lexy who used to feed her cream cakes, but she remembered her as fair-haired.

  ‘Isn’t she the image of her mam?’ Lexy said to Olive. ‘How is Clarrie? Eeh, hinny, we were that sorry to hear about Mr Robson. He was a real gentleman. All the lasses here had a soft spot for him – not that we’ve seen him for years. But he helped us all. If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t be here. Saved this café from ruin and me from the workhouse, so he did. Lovely man.’

  She swamped Adela in another hug. Adela was too overwhelmed to speak.

  ‘Can you bring us tea please, Lexy?’ Olive reasserted control.

  ‘And some of your cream buns,’ George said winking.

  ‘Just for you, bonny lad,’ Lexy said, tweaking his cheek. She issued instructions to a young girl called Nance, who wore an oversized apron and had large ears that stuck out under a frilly cap, and then showed them to a table near the piano. Judging by the film of dust on the lid, it hadn’t been played in a while.

  ‘Jane, I have a new recipe for you,’ said Lexy. ‘French custard tart. Had a Belgian sailor in last week whose family run a café in Antwerp. Rich and creamy; you’ll love it.’

  ‘Sounds expensive,’ said Olive.

  ‘I’ll be back in tomorrow,’ Jane said with more self-assurance than Adela had heard so far, ‘and you can show me.’

  Lexy sat with them until the tea and cakes arrived, plying Adela with questions about her family and Belgooree, then about Tilly and Sophie.

  ‘They’re spending most of the visit in Dunbar with Tilly’s sister, but Tilly can’t wait to have a trip to town.’

  ‘You tell her to come here for her dinner and see me,’ said Lexy. ‘I’ll make her steak and kidney pie and her favourite chocolate cake.’

  ‘And you make sure she pays for it,’ muttered Olive.

  The order arrived, and the manageress watched with an eagle eye as Nance transferred the tea, cakes, china plates and cups to the table. ‘Fetch an extra pot of hot water, lass. Adela will take hers black and it might be too strong.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Adela laughed.

  ‘’Cause you’re your mam’s daughter.’ Lexy smiled.

  Afterwards, George drove them around the centre of town, pointing out the large department stores of Fenwick’s and Binns and the Theatre Royal and various cinema houses.

  ‘Can we all go to the pictures one evening?’ Adela asked in excitement. She was thrilled with the bustling city centre and the wide choice of entertainment.

  ‘George can take you,’ said Olive. ‘Jack and I are not ones for films and silly musical hall acts.’

  Back at the house, Adela met her uncle Jack. H
e was a smallish man with receding fair hair and a wiry moustache that was already white. He looked frail, his suit a little big for him and his face deeply scored, but he had attractive eyes, and she could see how once he would have been handsome. George took after him. He gave her a friendly welcome before going off to wash and change. Olive fussed in his wake.

  They all ate in the dining room at six thirty prompt. The room felt musty and cold, as if it was rarely used. George did most of the talking, regaling them with stories of his customers.

  ‘Don’t believe the half of it,’ Jack grunted. ‘Our lad likes to tell a tall tale.’

  ‘Cousin George, you should go on the stage,’ Adela said, laughing.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ said Olive. ‘He’ll be a respectable businessman like his father.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I want to do,’ Adela announced, ‘go into theatre.’

  Olive shook her head and clucked in disapproval. ‘Surely our Clarrie won’t let you.’

  ‘Mother doesn’t mind. In fact she encourages it.’

  ‘Good for you,’ cried George. ‘I’d come and watch you any day of the week.’

  After that, Jack got up and retreated to the sitting room to doze over a newspaper in front of the unlit gas fire. George kissed his mother and went out, calling, ‘Don’t wait up. I’ve got my key.’

  For the first time in her life, Adela helped with the washing-up. Jane had to show her what to do.

  Adela soon settled into city life. She loved Newcastle, with its smoky bustling energy, its noisy riverside and grand buildings, its array of shops, from prestigious department stores to corner tobacconists, its clanking trams and the friendly people, who struck up conversations about football and the weather at tram stands or in shop queues. She didn’t understand everything that was said – the accent was thick and the speech rapid – but she understood why Tilly hankered after her former home.

  Olive paraded her around the neighbours in Lime Terrace, where they drank endless cups of strong sweet tea and ate jam biscuits that stuck to the teeth like glue. Morning visiting appeared to be socially unacceptable, and Olive only went out after three o’clock in the afternoon. Jane never came on these visits; she spent her time both shopping and cooking for the household and down at the tea room, helping Lexy. Adela asked her to show her how to cook, though her poor efforts were ridiculed by the family.