Elizabeth clapped her hands. ‘I love chai.’
‘I’ve never had it,’ Victoria said, her face conveying apprehension.
‘That’s precisely why we’re doing this,’ Kate told her. ‘We’re about to enter an intense period of work and what I want us to remember is this: first and foremost, we are all about the tea. And chai comprises a huge portion of our total sales. It’s worth really getting to know chai because unlike something simple, like peppermint, English breakfast or chamomile tea, chai is different everywhere you go. The word chai is actually a generic term for tea blend, so a chai can be made up of almost anything. It can be confusing for customers, particularly if they are new to the tea world. But it’s also a wonderful way to bring back connoisseurs again and again because the variations are limitless.’
Each woman now had her own teapot and cup, so Kate began to pull out boxes and packets of tea from a blue paper bag.
‘I’ve been shopping,’ she said, and as she began to hand around the packs to the circle she could feel the fatigue of the workload lift under the new wave of enthusiasm for what she loved best.
‘So here’s four different chai brands I picked up today on my way to work. Our own stocks haven’t arrived yet, but for the purpose of tea tasting we can play with anything.’
‘Masala Magic,’ Leila said, popping open her tin and shaking the contents to release the smell.
‘Masala chai refers to the traditional Indian chai,’ Kate said. ‘Masala means spiced. My personal favourite. For me, nothing else comes close. Having said that, there are some huge differences between masala chais too, depending on who’s blended them.’
‘I’ve got strawberry chai,’ Victoria said.
‘Oooh, that sounds great,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I’ve got a green tea chai.’
‘And I’ve got a rooibos chai,’ Kate finished.
‘So what do we do?’ Victoria asked, clutching her red cardboard box.
Kate handed out paper and pens and walked them through the tea-tasting process. First, they each opened their tea packets or tins and inhaled the aromas, making notes as they went. They poured some out into their hands and vigorously rubbed it between their palms, then cupped them to their noses to smell it again.
‘You’ll probably notice the big notes first,’ Kate said, ‘then more subtle notes.’
‘The first thing I noticed was the black tea itself,’ Leila said, ‘then the cardamom.’
‘Good. Keep going. What else can you smell?’
Leila waved her hand under her nose in a circle. ‘Nutmeg, I think.’
Kate nodded encouragingly. There weren’t any right or wrong answers. ‘Victoria, what did you notice?’
She smiled. ‘Strawberry. Yum.’
‘Okay. If the strawberry scent is that strong, it’s probably because flavour scents have been added into it. Read the ingredients. How far down the list is the strawberry?’
Victoria squinted at the packaging and twisted her lips to the side in concentration. ‘A fair way down. Second last, actually.’
Elizabeth jumped in. ‘Well, I don’t know what it is exactly that I can smell, but it’s strong. Almost unpleasant?’ Her forehead was wrinkled as though she was worried she’d got it wrong.
‘That’s probably the green tea itself,’ Kate said. ‘It can have a really strong smell, depending on the age and how it’s been processed. It can be overpowering.’
Kate inhaled the contents she had between her own hands. ‘Mmm. I love the smell of rooibos. It’s so warm and sweet. I can smell a good deal of honey in this blend.’
‘Honey?’ Leila said.
‘Yes. It’s not common to see honey in tea blends, but it does happen. And it’s traditional to sweeten chai, so this company’s done the job of adding the honey for you. It complements rooibos perfectly.’
Next they steeped their teas in their teapots, watching the colour of the water change over time. They made notes on the colours: honey-brown for Leila’s masala chai; brown-green for Elizabeth’s green tea chai; a lovely caramel for Kate’s rooibos; and red-brown for Victoria’s strawberry chai.
‘Aha,’ Victoria declared triumphantly. ‘They must have colouring in it too.’
‘Exactly,’ Kate grinned.
‘Blimey, I feel a bit cheated now,’ Victoria said, swirling her teapot critically.
They carried on for a good hour, tasting their teas next with all sorts of additions of milks or sugar or honey. It took on the mood of a fun school project, with each of them presenting a summary of ‘Today I’m drinking . . .’ to their peers. Kate mentally patted herself on the back, enjoying listening to their voices growing in confidence. Her idea had been a success both in terms of adding to their knowledge levels and to the camaraderie between them.
As the light above them began to flicker—thankfully, an electrician was booked to do the wiring in a few days time—and the yawns began to come faster, she called their team meeting to an end, congratulating them all on their insights so far.
‘Now, there’s one more thing,’ Kate said. ‘I’m giving you homework.’ She grinned at their anxious faces. ‘I’m giving you an assignment to complete over the next couple of months. To research chai and to come up with your own new blend.’
‘It’s not a pass or fail situation. You can’t get it wrong. Think of it as a creative experiment. An art project. And as you read about chai, and see what other people are selling, and work with the teas here in store, you might find you start to catch the creative vibe and imagine new blends. Go with it. And you never know—we might even produce your new tea under our label.’
11
Two weeks to go.
That was all the time they had before the grand opening. Kate sat in the shop behind the mahogany carved counter, which was a lucky find from one of her neighbours’ antiques store and was a real centrepiece. It featured exquisite winding vines and wildflowers, like something out of an enchanted garden. It curved in an arch and looked rich, warm and proudly Celtic. As soon as she’d seen it, she knew she would build the store around it.
She shuffled through papers and sipped on liquorice tea. She was still waiting for phone and internet connection and in the meantime, Susan in Brisbane and Bryony, the Sydney store manager, were both emailing through reports and updates to her personal email account, which she printed off each day at the house and carried with her in her bag, ready for any moment she could spare to look them over. It was frustrating having to divide her attention but she needed to keep in touch with what was going on back home. Fortunately, they were both competent managers and so far all seemed to be going smoothly, which was just as well because she really needed to concentrate fully on getting this store together.
Simone’s vision for each new Tea Chest store was focused on uniqueness. Each one had to reflect the beauty and distinctive culture of its location. Simone had detested the term ‘chain’ store—the McDonaldisation of tea. She preferred to think of the collection of locations as a charm bracelet—everything connected but each piece an individual with a story.
The Brisbane store had the magic teapot feel, drawing on the Enid Blyton books that Simone had so loved when she was young. The Sydney Tea Chest was cutting-edge contemporary—an expensive design that meant frequent upgrades—built on a theme of wealth, fashion and ambition, yet with just enough warmth and nurturing touches to embrace the old-world values Simone had believed critical to The Tea Chest’s success. As for this store? She hadn’t left any instructions or notes on it. Whatever Simone had in mind was out of Kate’s reach.
Kate ran her hand along the polished bench top. This store had to be truly exceptional. It was Simone’s legacy but it was also Kate’s future.
The vision she’d come up with filled her with equal parts excitement and sheer terror. It was a theme that called for multiple professionals, foresight, and the investment of a significant amount of capital from their already overstretched finances. It was a risk, but Kate believed in her hea
rt it was one worth taking.
You think you can sell tea to the English?
Judy’s warning crashed through Kate’s reverie. Her legs weakened.
Looking around the room before her, the final vision for this store was nowhere to be seen. Instead, her eyes fell on gutted walls, exposed beams and piles of rubble that seemed to grow faster than they could be taken to the footpath where they awaited collection. One of the Trinity’s illegal workers, a young man from Afghanistan, chipped at old tiles and they clinked to his feet, leaving shards scattered across the wooden floor.
But anytime she began to feel overwhelmed, she reminded herself to look up.
Even though Kate had no idea what Simone’s vision for this store had been, she felt a magical bond align them because of one architectural feature that would allow Kate’s vision to come to life. Almost every store on Kings Road sat at ground level with multiple floors of flats or office space directly above it. But every so often, the floors above were partially set back from the footpath, leaving a space above the store below. By some miracle, The Tea Chest had such a design. The front half of the shop had nothing above the roof. It was the key to Kate’s design. She looked up to the ceiling beams now and sent a silent prayer of thanks to Simone for getting it right.
The sound of the electrician’s drill brought her back to the present and she watched him thread wires. The lighting for this store had to be as good as any West End theatre production.
‘So far so good,’ Elizabeth said, placing a bucket of soapy, grimy water on the counter top and wiping her hands down her overalls. ‘No raids or arrests.’
‘Quick: touch wood,’ Kate said, tapping on the bench top.
Elizabeth knocked it too.
‘What did you say to them, anyway?’ Kate said, nodding at the Trinity and their workers. ‘They haven’t said a word all day.’
Elizabeth tilted her head to the side. ‘Well, first that if they didn’t honour their contract with us then we’d sue them and dob them in to Immigration anyway. Then, to get them to move their feet, I said I’d read in the paper this morning that Immigration will be conducting spot checks on businesses in this part of London in a couple of weeks time so if they wanted to avoid any trouble they’d better be finished by then.’
‘I can’t help but feel sorry for them,’ Kate said.
Elizabeth shrugged. ‘They nearly ruined your store, remember that. Anyway, how’s the internet drama going?’ She nodded at the laptop perched on the edge of the counter.
‘Slowly. Dealing with these things in Australia’s bad enough. I’m certain Telstra is the devil incarnate sent to tempt everyone with thoughts of murder and violence.’
At those last words, the Hindu man, whose name was Kamal, looked up from his wheelbarrow of plaster and adjusted his turban nervously.
‘But BT’s just as bad. It’s a global evil conspiracy.’ She clicked uselessly at her mouse. ‘I need Leila here to yell at them for me. I’ve run out of energy.’
‘She’s still out looking for an angel?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll do it instead,’ Elizabeth said, bouncing in her pink plimsolls.
Kate arched a brow. ‘Channelling your anger for good?’
‘Well, I can’t yell at John. Everything I feel towards him is so large it’s not possible to put into words. I was sure it was over, but now? I don’t know.’ She screwed up her nose. ‘But I need to yell at someone so you might as well take advantage of it.’
At that moment, two Eastern European workers dropped a large metal ladder and it crashed to the floor, making everyone jump. It knocked a huge tray of nails and screws and other unidentifiable bits and they sprayed across the room with a tremendous clatter.
Several of the workmen began gesturing and arguing in foreign languages—several different ones by the sound of it—until Kamal whistled for time out and shooed them all back to their jobs. Each worker was just slinking back to his corner when a man in a suit, carrying a clipboard, crunched across the store’s threshold. He paused for a moment to wipe grit off his shoe.
‘I’m looking for Katelyn Fullerton,’ he said. He slid his eyes across the motley crew of workers, who ducked their heads and turned their backs to him.
Kate cleared her throat. ‘That’s me.’
The man handed her a business card. ‘I’m Robert Drizzle from the council.’
‘Right. How can I help?’
‘We’ve received a complaint from a business in this road.’
Kate immediately looked past Robert Drizzle to the door of Heavensfield House, catching sight of Lady Heavensfield’s pointy features peeking through the window. ‘Of course you have.’
‘What sort of complaint?’ Elizabeth demanded, hands on hips. She was almost shouting.
‘The rubbish piling up on the footpath is against safety regulations. And your fellow shopkeepers feel it’s turning customers away.’
‘For goodness’ sake,’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘The waste bins were supposed to be here yesterday but were held up due to some rubbish convention, or something. They’ll be here this afternoon.’
‘Even so,’ Drizzle said, ‘you’ll need to have it removed immediately.’
‘Of course,’ Kate soothed, placing a hand on Elizabeth’s arm. ‘We’ll do it right now.’
‘One more thing,’ Drizzle said, twisting his mouth into what was obviously a thinking gesture. He tapped his pen against his board. ‘The complainant also alleges there are illegal workers here.’
Kate felt every person in the room collectively hold his or her breath. The young Afghani man dropped his metal spatula to the floor, where it twanged against the floorboards.
Beside her, Elizabeth burst into hysterical laughter.
‘Oh—oh, how funny,’ she gasped, her hand at her throat. ‘Do you really think we’d be so silly, opening a new store, risking everything, knowing we’re being watched by a spiteful neighbour like Lady Heavensfield?’
Drizzle shuffled. Clearly, the complaint was supposed to be anonymous.
‘Mr Drizzle, I assure you there’s nothing going on here except for a woman being jealous of a new competitor. I’m so sorry she’s wasted your time.’
Elizabeth now spoke so sweetly and charmingly that Kate couldn’t believe it was the same person who’d practically yelled at this man minutes before.
‘Of course we’ll clean up the rubbish immediately,’ she continued. ‘We might even bake Lady Heavensfield a tea cake to say how sorry we are and keep the peace. We can’t have you dragged over here on useless missions like this. I’m sure you’re very busy and have much more important things to do with your time.’
Drizzle studied her, and then to Kate’s astonishment he relaxed his face.
‘Yes, well, it’s not the first time a neighbour in this street has tried to cause trouble for a new business,’ he said carefully.
‘Of course,’ Elizabeth agreed. ‘We totally understand. Here,’ she said, reaching into the brass antique teapot that held the business cards. ‘Please come back and visit us at our grand opening and we’ll be pleased to give you some free samples for yourself and the lady in your life.’ She subtly eased him towards the door.
‘Thank you,’ Kate called politely to his retreating back. The room maintained its frozen state until Elizabeth returned, smiling, dusting off her hands to signal that everything was taken care of.
‘Well, you heard the man,’ she said to the room at large. And the workers returned to their silent, industrious pace.
Thirty-five years earlier
Judy’s mother was in the kitchen, skewering cabanossi, white and green cocktail onions, and chunks of cheese with toothpicks and arranging them on the brown and orange plate. Judy wanted to take this moment, before the guests for the end-of-summer party began arriving, to voice her concerns.
She picked up a frosted-glass platter and began to move mini quiches from the baking tray.
‘Mother, I want to talk to you about Simone
.’
Elaine reached for her glass of Californian Almaden champagne and took a large mouthful. ‘Mmm?’
‘I don’t think it’s good for her to be spending so much time with Beverley Parnell.’
Elaine said nothing, but reached for the brown fondue stand.
‘They’re out dancing almost every night,’ Judy went on. She glanced at the drink in her mother’s hand. ‘And I think they drink quite a lot.’
‘She’s young,’ Elaine shrugged.
‘Only two years younger than me and I had a job and was going steady with Graham at that age.’ She paused to consider the diamond on her engagement finger. ‘What’s she doing with her life?’
Her mother popped a sliced strawberry into her champagne and adjusted the silk scarf at her neck. ‘It’s really too hot for silk,’ she said absently.
Judy waited, hoping her mother would see how serious this was. Simone might be an adult now, but they were still all the family she had. Didn’t her mother worry that she rarely heard from her anymore? Didn’t she care about what Simone was doing with the money Elaine had distributed to her out of her father’s inheritance when she’d turned twenty-one?
Simone was far from Judy’s favourite person, but surely someone should be keeping an eye on her. Elaine’s legal responsibilities towards her stepdaughter might have ended but surely she still had some sense of moral concern for her.
‘I was thinking maybe we should have her over for a Sunday roast,’ Judy tried again. ‘Just to see how she’s going.’
‘I don’t know,’ Elaine said, pouring the rest of the Almaden into the punch bowl and scooping up a glassful to taste. ‘Everyone’s so busy these days. And you know how Dennis feels about her. It might be more awkward than helpful.’
Judy thought of how Dennis always sniffed through one nostril whenever anyone mentioned Simone, as though he’d unexpectedly come across a pile of rotting rubbish.
‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right. It was silly of me.’ She picked up the platter of quiches and left the room.
The Tea Chest Page 11
