The Little Teashop of Broken Hearts

by Jennifer Joyce

  ‘I won’t,’ Mags says. ‘Now get out of here and enjoy your day off before I have to physically eject you.’ Mags places her hands on her wide hips and cocks an eyebrow in challenge. I hold my hands up in surrender.

  ‘Okay, okay, I’m going.’ I say goodbye to Mags and Victoria before I head out, praying custom magically picks up during my absence.

  Dad lives on his own, in the house I grew up in on the outskirts of Manchester City Centre. The three-bedroomed house is too big for him to potter about in on his own but he likes to cling on to the memories of our family before it fractured. Mum and Dad divorced seven years ago but while Mum is happy with a new partner, Dad can’t seem to move on. I worry about him and it breaks my heart that he’s alone, which is why I visit every weekend – without fail – with his favourite dessert. We’ll sit in the kitchen with a bowl of warm apple crumble and custard and a cup of tea while we catch up.

  ‘Will tinned custard do?’ Dad asks, as he does every single week. I play along, releasing a long sigh.

  ‘I suppose it’ll have to.’ Gran taught me to make my own custard, which I use in the teashop, but it’s a bit of a faff at the weekend when I just want to relax.

  Dad heats the apple crumble and custard in the microwave while I make cups of tea and then we sit at the table and Dad asks, ‘How’s your mum?’

  Like the tinned custard, this question is routine and, as always, I feel awful when I answer. I want to tell him she’s not so good. That she and Ivor have split up, that she’s regretting ever leaving Dad after twenty-three years of marriage. That she wishes she’d worked harder, that she hadn’t given up, that she was mistaken when she’d said that she cared about Dad but didn’t love him any more.

  But I can’t.

  Mum’s happy.

  And she still cares about Dad but doesn’t love him any more. She loves Ivor.

  I’m happy for Mum, really I am, but I feel for Dad. I’ve been the dumped party, the one left behind. Left devastated.

  ‘She’s okay,’ I tell Dad, though I know it won’t be enough. Mum is a wound Dad likes to prod, even if it hurts like hell. When I split up with my last boyfriend, I couldn’t bear to think about him, let alone talk about him. I’ve shut the door on my relationship with Joel and locked, bolted and welded it shut. But Dad likes to know every little detail of Mum’s life because if he’s out of the loop, he’s truly lost her.

  ‘Did she have a nice holiday?’ I nod, a mouthful of hot apple crumble and custard rendering me unable to speak. ‘I bet she’s tanned, isn’t she? She only has to think about the sun and she’s golden. Not like me, eh?’ Dad lifts up an arm, flashing his pale, freckly skin. ‘Luckily you got your mum’s colouring.’

  While I’ve inherited Dad’s auburn hair, I don’t have his perma-pale skin tone. All our family holiday snaps show Mum and I beaming at the camera, our teeth a flash of white against golden flesh while Dad grimaces, his skin painfully raw with sunburn. It doesn’t matter how frequently he applies his Factor Fifty, Dad will always, always burn to a crisp. It was one of the reasons he refused to holiday abroad and why Mum makes up for it now with Ivor, jetting off at least twice a year. I have a postcard from their latest trip to Hawaii on my fridge.

  ‘I haven’t seen her since they got back,’ I tell Dad. I hope that this will offer some comfort to Dad. To know that while I visit him often, I’m not off playing happy families with Mum and Ivor the rest of the time.

  ‘You should see your mum more often. I bet she misses you.’

  ‘I saw her just before they went away,’ I say, though this isn’t technically true. It was a month before they left but we’ve both been busy – Mum with planning her trip and me with trying to keep the teashop afloat – and we don’t have the same easy relationship I have with Dad. Not any more.

  ‘This is good apple crumble,’ Dad says as he scoops a giant spoonful towards his mouth. ‘Just like Gran used to make.’ He wedges the spoon into his mouth and closes his eyes. This is the best compliment I could ever receive. Gran baked the most delicious desserts and if my own creations taste nearly as good as hers, I’ll be very proud of myself.

  ‘How’s the teashop going?’ Dad asks once we’ve finished eating. He usually pops in at least once a week but I haven’t seen him since my visit home last weekend.

  ‘Great.’ I force a smile on my face and nod my head like Churchill the dog. ‘Really great.’

  There are some things I can’t lie about. I’m truthful while telling Dad week after week how happy Mum is without him or while telling my friend Nicky that the guy she’s been bombarding with unanswered texts probably isn’t interested in her. I don’t lie about these things, no matter how difficult it is to tell the truth, but I do lie to Dad about the teashop. I can’t tell him that it’s failing. That I’m failing. That the money Gran left me in her will may have been wasted on a dream not come true.

  ‘It’s no wonder it’s doing so well if you keep making desserts like these.’ Dad gathers our empty cups and dishes and carries them over to the sink to wash up. When the doorbell rings, he holds up his wet, soapy hands. ‘Would you get that? If it’s those energy people, tell them to bugger off. I’m happy with the service I’ve got.’

  ‘Will do,’ I say, though I know I won’t. I’ll stand there while they blather on about the better deals they can offer and then I’ll politely decline, apologising as I gently close the door. I don’t do confrontation. Ever. Luckily it isn’t a door-to-door ‘I’m not trying to sell you anything’ salesman. It’s a woman (without a clipboard, ID badge or charity tabard), who takes a startled step back when I open the door.

  ‘Oh.’ Her eyes flick to the door, checking the number, checking she has, in fact, got the right house. ‘Is Clive in? I’m Jane? From next door?’ She poses the last two statements as questions, as though I may have an inkling who she is.

  ‘Jane?’ Dad booms from the kitchen. ‘Come in!’

  I open the door wider and Jane-from-next-door takes a tentative step over the threshold, the corners of her lips twitching into an awkward smile. She follows me through to the kitchen, where Dad is drying his hands on a tea towel.

  ‘I’ve brought your screwdriver back.’ Jane reaches into the handbag looped over her arm and pulls the tool out, holding it out to Dad between finger and thumb, as though it could burst into life and attack at any given moment.

  ‘Did it do the trick?’ Dad asks as he takes the screwdriver and places it on the table.

  Jane nods, the awkward smile flicking at her lips again. ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘Thought it would.’ Dad moves towards the kettle, plucking it from its stand. ‘Would you like to stay for a cup of tea?’

  Jane’s eyes brush over me, the smile flickering on her lips again. She looks like she’s got a tic. ‘You’ve got company.’

  ‘That’s just Maddie.’ Dad fills the kettle and flicks it on. ‘My daughter.’

  ‘Oh!’ The smile is wider now, more genuine. I try not to feel offended by the ‘just’ in Dad’s introduction. ‘I see! Of course. Hello, Maddie.’

  I raise my hand and give a little wave, the awkward bug having been passed on.

  ‘So,’ Dad says. ‘Tea?’

  Jane eyes me briefly before she turns to Dad. ‘I have to dash, actually. Maybe another time? Tomorrow?’

  Dad nods, already striding across the kitchen so he can see Jane-the-neighbour to the door. ‘Sure.’

  Jane beams at Dad, placing a hand on his arm now he’s reached her. ‘Thank you again for the screwdriver.’

  ‘Any time.’

  I watch as Dad and Jane disappear into the hall, hear their muffled voices as they chat at the door. The kettle’s boiled by the time Dad returns to the kitchen.

  ‘What was that all about?’ I ask Dad, indicating the screwdriver still on the table.

  ‘Jane asked to borrow it yesterday. Asked me if I knew anything about plugs. She needed to replace one of hers so I wrote down some instructions and let her borrow
the screwdriver.’

  I want to drop my face into my hands. ‘Da-ad. She didn’t want to borrow a screwdriver! She wanted you to go over.’

  Dad shakes his head. ‘Nah. Jane’s not like that. She’s very independent. Capable, like.’

  Facepalm, round two. ‘She didn’t want you to go round to replace the plug.’ If there was ever a plug in need of replacing in the first place.

  Dad grabs the tea caddy and pulls a couple of bags out. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘She fancies you.’ I am almost giddy. With relief. With hope. A woman fancies my dad. He doesn’t have to be alone any more! ‘Jane-from-next-door fancies you and she was trying to lure you round to her house.’

  Dad shakes his head as he plops teabags into two cups. ‘Oh, no. It’s nothing like that. Jane’s friendly, that’s all. A good neighbour.’

  I’m not convinced. I fling myself at Dad, wrapping my arms around his middle and planting a noisy kiss on his stubbly cheek.

  ‘Jane-from-next-door has a crush on you. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Dad scoffs. ‘People our age don’t have “crushes”. And I’m not interested anyway. I’m too old for all that nonsense.’

  By nonsense, I assume Dad means having fun and being happy with somebody other than Mum.

  ‘You’re never too old for love. Besides, you’re sixty-two and sixty is the new fifty, which is the new forty, so you’re practically a spring chicken.’

  Dad grabs the kettle and pours boiling water into the cups. ‘I don’t think your logic pans out quite right there.’

  ‘Oh yes it does.’ I open the fridge and take out the milk, passing it to Dad. ‘I want you to be happy.’

  ‘And you can’t be happy and single?’ Dad raises his eyebrows at me and I feel myself squirm.

  ‘You can. Of course you can.’ I’m an example of that. I’ve been single for a year now and I’ve never been happier. I push the thought of waking up wrapped in Joel’s arms away, of feeling safe and loved. ‘But aren’t you ready to move on? To find someone new?’

  Dad places the fresh cups of tea on the table and looks pointedly at me. ‘Are you?’

  Chapter Three

  I’d been working at the Blue Llama – a super-pretentious, celeb-chef-endorsed restaurant – for three weeks when I first met Joel. The tips were amazing (super-pretentious people can be pretty free with their wads of cash when they’re tipsy, full of good grub and showing off in front of their friends, colleagues or dates. Especially when they’re showing off in front of their dates), but I was fed up. Fed up of blisters on my feet from the compulsory heels. Fed up of being patronised by the diners and yelled at by the chef.

  And then, one evening shortly before Christmas, when the restaurant was particularly packed with diners enjoying a festive night out, I was accosted as I passed the men’s toilets down in the basement bar. Hands and lips were on me before I even realised the tray of empty glasses I’d been carrying had slipped from my grasp and had crashed to the floor, glass shattering on the tiled floor around my feet.

  ‘You. Are. Gorgeous,’ the bloke drawled and I recognised his voice. I’d been waiting on his group of friends earlier, sidestepping wandering hands and pretending not to hear the vulgar comments as I went about my duties, reminding me that money doesn’t always buy class. ‘You’re coming back to mine, princess.’

  Before I could reply that no, actually, I wasn’t going back to his place, his mouth was on mine again, his fat tongue squirming against the roof of my mouth and making me gag. His whole body was crushing mine, his hands pinning my shoulders to the wall so any attempts to push him away were futile. I knew a swift knee to the balls would help my case, but as he’d jammed one of his legs between my knees, I couldn’t even deliver the blow.

  ‘Whoa, mate. What do you think you’re doing?’

  Glass crunched underfoot as the bloke was wrenched away from me and I dipped slightly as my jellied knees gave way. I swiped a hand across my mouth, trying to rid myself of the taste and memory of his lips and tongue.

  ‘Piss off and mind your own business,’ he growled at my rescuer. ‘Go and find a bird of your own. This one’s taken.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ My rescuer turned to me. ‘Are you okay?’

  The bloke snorted. ‘Course she’s all right. We were only kissing.’

  ‘Didn’t look that way to me,’ my rescuer said. ‘It looked like you were pawing at the poor girl while pinning her to the wall. Whatever it was you think you were doing, she wasn’t enjoying it.’ He turned to me and repeated his question. ‘Are you okay?’

  I nodded, though I didn’t feel okay at all. My body was suddenly trembling and I wasn’t sure my legs would allow me to move away from the wall even though I wanted nothing more than to run like hell.

  ‘Come on.’ With a hand almost but not quite touching my back, he guided me away from the secluded spot and into the main bar area, where he caught the attention of one of the other waitresses and explained what had happened. You’ve probably guessed Joel was my rescuer, but I didn’t know that yet and wouldn’t for a while longer yet. The waitress took me away to the staff quarters, where I promptly burst into tears before quitting my job and taking a cab home. Being assailed by a slobbering drunk was the final straw and it was time to try something else.

  ‘It’s different for me,’ I tell Dad as I sit down at the table, cradling my cup of tea. The too-hot cup anchors me back down into the present, stops me drifting back to Joel and our relationship. ‘We only split up a year ago and although I haven’t started a new relationship, I have moved on.’ I blow on my tea so I don’t have to look at Dad’s face. There are signs that Dad hasn’t moved on in every room in the house: the framed wedding photo on the mantelpiece, Mum’s dressing gown still hung up on the back of the bathroom door, her favourite wine in the rack, even though Dad doesn’t drink wine. He keeps Mum in this house and I’m worried he’ll never let her out.

  ‘Plus, I’m pretty busy with the teashop. I don’t have time for a new relationship.’

  Dad laughs softly and eases himself into the chair opposite mine. ‘Don’t you think I used to say the exact same thing when your mum left? I was too busy with work, with looking after Gran, with the allotment.’ Dad even keeps Mum in his little shed there, the floral gloves and pink trowel he bought for her to use still on the shelf, waiting for her return. ‘You make time if you really want to.’

  Dad doesn’t understand just how much work is involved in keeping the teashop going, but then why would he when I don’t confide in him how difficult it is? How much we’re struggling?

  ‘Won’t you give Jane a chance?’ I ask. ‘Go on one date. Take her to the pub or out for a meal. Take her to the allotment if you have to.’

  Dad shakes his head. ‘No. I’m sorry but I can’t.’

  I don’t push it further. I’ve tried in the past to get Dad interested in other women but he won’t even entertain the idea and I don’t want to cloud the rest of our morning together. So we drink our tea and creep away from the subject of relationships. I tell Dad the good bits about the teashop, making him laugh with stories about Mags and the builder she flirts with whenever he comes in for a sneaky afternoon treat, and he tells me about work and his feud with Gerry, the bloke at the neighbouring plot at the allotment. He tells me about catching Gerry helping himself to Dad’s cabbages and Dad’s revenge pilfering of his swedes.

  ‘You’ll come into the teashop during the week, won’t you?’ I ask as I’m getting ready to leave. ‘If you come on Friday, there’ll be another bowl of apple crumble waiting for you.’

  ‘How can I say no to that?’ Dad kisses my cheek and gives me a squeeze. ‘Friday it is.’

  I return to the teashop and am disappointed when I see there are only three customers. It’s Saturday lunchtime – the teashop should be packed. Mags and Victoria should be rushed off their feet. Instead, Mags is staring into space while Victoria is perched on top of the counter, te
xting on her phone.

  ‘There must be something we can do,’ Mags says when she follows me into the storeroom slash office. ‘There are so many potential customers just up the road. We just need to find a way to get them in here instead of the high street.’

  ‘You mean rather than dragging them down by their hair?’ Victoria has followed us through, though she’s remained on the threshold so she can keep an eye on the teashop.

  ‘I don’t think that would make happy customers,’ I say. ‘And unhappy customers don’t return.’

  ‘Why don’t we have a party?’ Victoria suggests. ‘A belated launch night.’

  ‘We’ve been open a year,’ I point out, but I’m intrigued by the idea. ‘But I think you might be onto something. We could have a summer celebration. Strawberries and cream, ice-cream sundaes, fruit salad.’

  ‘We could make mini sample versions of our cakes,’ Mags says. ‘People like a freebie. We’ll let them try what we have to offer and hopefully they’ll come back.’

  ‘With cash,’ Victoria says.

  Mags nods. ‘That’s the idea.’

  Victoria gasps, her eyes wide. ‘We could play. The band! We could put together a summer set. Unless Terry Sergeant signs us and we’re too busy recording our album.’ Victoria winks at us, to show she’s joking but I wouldn’t hold it against her if she dropped her waitressing job like a hot potato if the manager signed them. She’s young. She has dreams and I wouldn’t begrudge her grasping hold of them as tight as she can. ‘I’ll text Nathan, see what he says.’ Victoria spins around, almost colliding with another body that has sneaked up behind her. We’ve been so busy chatting, we haven’t noticed the teashop door opening, haven’t noticed the customer wandering ‘backstage’ to search for a member of staff.