The Vintage Teacup Club

by Vanessa Greene

  ‘But – but what, Pete?’ Alison sat forward in her wicker chair, her frustration rising further. ‘You know what, “Not easy” doesn’t even cover it anymore.’

  Pete nodded. ‘I know,’ he said, avoiding eye contact with her.

  ‘We could lose our home, Pete.’ Pete was listening and looking up now, but his expression gave nothing away. Alison wondered if the words were even going in. ‘And now here I am trying to make us some money so that we can keep a roof over our heads, so that I can start to think about getting my mum the help she needs, and you’re, you’re …’ she felt like she was holding onto her temper by the tiniest thread.

  ‘I’m what, Ali?’ Pete said, reacting at last.

  Despair took hold as Alison answered him. ‘Pete, you say you’re doing the housework but the last time I came out you were watching Cash in the Attic and eating Hobnobs. Have you even looked at the job sites today? When was the last time you even glanced at that section in the paper, rather than reading the sport?’ Pete shuffled uncomfortably and cast his eyes down.

  Alison’s heart sank. She couldn’t believe how much pain she was causing him. And the nagging tone of her own voice – who was this harridan she was becoming?

  ‘I don’t know how we got here, but it can’t go on like this.’ Alison pulled on her red wool cardigan and started doing up the buttons. She had to get away from Pete, away from the house. ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘So that’s the solution, is it?’ Pete said, running a hand through his hair. ‘You just walk out when things get difficult?’

  Alison glared at him. ‘Oh, if only, Pete,’ she said, growing numb now to the hurt they were causing one another. ‘You know how untrue that is. For months now I’ve been patient, trying to earn us all a living.’

  Pete sat down, on a wooden chair by the doorway, and his head fell into his hands. ‘Alison,’ came the quiet response. ‘I know you think I am, but I’m not lazy.’

  Alison could hear the desperation and sadness in his voice. ‘I was looking, and looking – but you know how it is, the NHS. Some of the jobs that used to be there just don’t exist anymore.’

  ‘I know that, Pete,’ Alison said, but her patience was gone now, ‘and I understand it’s hard – but what are you going to do, just give up?’

  Pete stared at her blankly. She pushed past him in the doorway, went down the hall and slammed the front door.

  Chapter 21

  Jenny

  Nothing took my mind off my own problems quite like handling one of Chloe’s emergencies. We were tucked away in an empty office that afternoon, with warm cups of tea and some Bourbon biscuits I’d sneaked out of the office supplies cupboard.

  ‘It’s my dad’s sixtieth – that is clearly a big deal, Jen,’ Chloe said, holding back tears.

  ‘Yep, I’d say so,’ I said, putting my arm around her. I hated seeing her upset like this.

  ‘It just made me realise that Jon’s never going to understand what I need from him, Jen. I mean he’d known about Dad’s party for months – and then he tells me he’s going to Ravi’s stag instead. It’s over. Completely over.’

  Chloe was working the mascara-streaked look better than most. It wasn’t elegant, but if you squinted it looked more sixties chic than office heartbreak.

  I passed her a Bourbon.

  ‘Why are you squinting at me?’ Chloe asked, puzzled. ‘Anyway, I know I’m still young,’ she furrowed her brow. ‘I mean, twenty-five is still young, isn’t it?’

  I nodded, ‘Of course it is, you fool.’

  ‘And I want to focus on my career, for a while anyway,’ she went on. ‘But I don’t want to be on my own for ever, Jen. The thing is, I’ve been with Jon for so long now I don’t think I’d know how to be with anyone else – or even find someone else.’ Chloe was yoga-toned, warm and naturally pretty. I’d give her five minutes on the singles’ market, if that. So long as she could stay away from Jon for good this time, that was.

  Through the frosted glass I saw a group of journalists approaching the door. ‘Ah, Chloe,’ I said, slapping a hand to my forehead. ‘I forgot I switched the rooms for the editorial meeting. They’ll be in here in a minute or two, we’re going to have to duck out.’ I reached over and used my sleeve to wipe away the most obvious mascara drips from under her eyes, before standing and helping her to her feet.

  When we stepped outside the journalists were chatting to one another and didn’t even seem to notice us walk by. But Ben, a cocky young reporter who’d just started and had been hovering around Chloe’s desk since day one, spotted us – well, Chloe – right away. Sensing his chance he called out ‘Cheer up Chlo, it may—’ but shut up when I gave him a glare.

  Work was full-on and Zoe was still being a nightmare, but it was proving to be a welcome distraction. Back at my desk I got on with updating a document of articles, images and advertising required as we neared the print deadline – it was our busiest time and this month I was grateful for it. Things between me and Dan had been pretty strained since our row, and we’d reacted to the tension as we always did – by staying out of the house more than usual. As for my children’s book … Whenever I picked up my pen or a paintbrush I’d go blank. Nothing came. My ideas for the story had dried up, and when I worked over existing outlines the results were clumsy – I’d end up leafing through old copies of Smash Hits, or staring out of the window. The conversation with Dad and Chris ran through my mind again and again. I’d started to question why I was spending all this time planning our wedding when Mum was there now, looming over it.

  I sent the finished document on, then checked my emails. Stationery orders, meeting rooms to be booked. All fine. And one personal one. From Susan Haybridge. Subject line: Hello. Haybridge. My mum’s maiden name. A chill ran through me. I clicked out of the inbox and looked over at Chloe, sitting at her desk with a sorrowful look on her face. ‘Tea?’ I mouthed. She shook her head, nodding in Gary’s direction to show she was snowed under with work.

  I’d emptied my in tray, processed all the invoices, visited the water cooler twice, tidied my desk, sorted out Zoe’s files, ordered Chloe those cat-shaped paperclips she liked – and it was still only quarter past eleven. Finally I opened the email from my mum. I felt dizzy. I could just delete it. I could just ignore her email, like she’d ignored us for the last however many years. What did I owe her? Nothing. Nada. Niente. But my eyes drifted back to the screen. Dear Jenny, I read.

  Hello there. When your cousin Angie told me you were getting married all I could think was – my baby is all grown up. That’s amazing, it really is.

  I’d love to be there to see you tie the knot, Jenny. You know how proud I’d be.

  Me and Nigel are down in Eastbourne. Maybe you know that. Anyway, it wouldn’t take long to get to you, on the day.

  Hope you are well sweetheart, Angie said you’ve found yourself a good man.

  Please write back.

  Love, Mum xx

  I closed the email before I was tempted to reread it. ‘Love, Mum.’ ‘You know how proud I’d be.’ The words were hollow and empty. How could she pretend to love me? How could she think she had a right to be proud of me? I was furious. Had she ever even known what it meant to love someone? She’d rejected Chris because he wasn’t perfect – Chris, who we all adored, who everyone cared about, who looked after other people far more than they’d ever had to look after him. Now this stranger, Mum, Susan, with her nice little life by the sea, with Nigel (who ever he was), had decided it was time to love me again? It wasn’t the right time. It would never be the right time.

  I opened up a new blank email message – then closed it.

  How could she do this? What gave her the right?

  Taking a deep breath, I opened a new message window again and began to type:

  Hi Chloe,

  Some cat paperclips are on their way to you – in blue, pink and yellow. I’m sure they’ll help you become a super-journo in no time. Or at least take your mind off things with Jon
this week.

  Jen x

  I clicked send. Mum couldn’t touch me, unless I let her. All I had to do was put her back in a box and shut the lid. Easy as that.

  ‘This is great,’ Dan said, eating a big forkful of chilli con carne at our kitchen table that evening. He broke the pervading silence for a second; I’d never realised how loudly the kitchen wall clock ticked until tonight.

  ‘There’s loads, so dig in,’ I said. There really was a lot of food, particularly as I’d hardly put any on my plate. The shock of Mum’s email was still fresh and I couldn’t summon up any appetite.

  ‘OK, Jen,’ Dan said, ‘as much as I’m crazy about chilli – and you know that’s a lot,’ he looked over at me, his gaze wavering and uncertain, ‘I’d much rather know what’s going on with you.’

  I looked down at the table.

  ‘So are you going to tell me?’ he said, taking a sip of beer. ‘It’s been over a week now with you hardly talking, and I’d really like to have my girlfriend back.’ He covered my hand with his and for a moment I felt calm, and safe.

  I didn’t want to talk, to analyse. I just wanted everything to go back to normal. I’d closed the box, hadn’t I? So nothing should be spilling out here.

  ‘I’m fine, Dan. It’s just the wedding stuff. You know how it is – there’s still a lot to sort out.’

  Dan shook his head. ‘I don’t believe you, Jen. You love organising things, and anyway you were fine earlier last week, really excited in fact. But the night Russ was over, you were like a different person.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ I shrugged it off. ‘Just, you know, the pressure,’ I said, pouring myself some beer out from his can.

  ‘Jen,’ Dan said, his voice more insistent now, and with a slight edge to it, ‘don’t lie to me, please. Look, I know what’s going on. Don’t shut me out.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said, my hackles rising.

  ‘Chris told me,’ Dan said slowly. ‘About your mum getting in touch.’

  The defences I’d built up so carefully, to protect the precious bubble that was me and Dan, came tumbling down in that moment.

  ‘Why didn’t you say something, Jen? Chris has been really worried about you, said you just walked out of your Dad’s last Friday without even saying goodbye. He wanted to check that you were OK, so he told me what happened.’

  ‘So you’ve been talking about me behind my back?’ I snapped, my cheeks flushing. ‘And why all the questions now if you knew all along?’

  Dan stayed silent, then said, ‘I wanted you to talk to me, Jen. I wanted you to tell me yourself.’

  ‘This is absolutely nothing to do with you,’ I said, getting to my feet, my chair screeching back. Dan’s jaw clenched at my sharpness. ‘Nothing at all,’ I repeated, but quietly now, my eyes filling with tears.

  My questions slipped away, unanswered. Dan reached out to touch my arm. Looking into his warm brown eyes, I realised there weren’t any replies he could give that would fix the way I felt. I couldn’t let my mum do this to us, I wouldn’t let her. I closed the box again and locked it this time. Tears started to spill on to my cheeks.

  Dan got up and took me by the hand, leading me slowly towards our sofa. He held me then, not saying anything, just stroking my hair, gently. I touched his chest, turned to kiss him, felt his lips against mine, familiar, comforting. I knew now I would find a way to tell him about my mum – how I felt about her, what she’d said – and that somehow he’d help me decide what to do. But now, this evening, I just wanted to feel like myself again, to lose myself in Dan’s warmth, to feel his stubble against my face, to be close to the man who I wanted to spend my whole life with. He kissed me again.

  Chapter 22

  Alison

  As soon as she had slammed the door on her row with Pete, Alison realised she’d locked herself out. That afternoon she’d walked for miles, far too proud to go back to the house and face him again. She and Pete had always bickered, what couple didn’t? But this had felt different, more serious. This time she had allowed that thought into her head, the one she usually tried to ignore – Would it be easier? The question was relentless: Would it be easier being apart?

  The fresh air helped clear her head a little, although the edges remained frayed. Ali had walked up the hill to the left of their house and over into the cornfields, following a sprinkling of poppies that marked a loose path. She’d clambered over stiles, the wind gently ruffling her hair, grateful she’d at least grabbed her cardigan before she left. As she climbed over a low stone wall to walk down by a stream, she thought about marriage.

  How were you supposed to stay in love with each other for decades and decades, when you were both changing all the while? Then there was money, kids, ageing parents, the multitude of things life threw at you every day. Alison pulled her cardigan tighter around her. Even her parents hadn’t made it, and everyone had assumed they were the perfect couple. She’d seen her friends hit the hurdles during married life, and quite a few had fallen. Why did there seem to be a rule book for everything apart from marriage?

  When Alison had got home later that afternoon, Pete had let her in without question or acknowledgement, clearly no readier to talk than she was. She’d said hello and gone straight through to her workshop. As she walked through the door an idea came to her. It was silly, really, but all the same she couldn’t shift it – she’d always believed that things happened, and people came into your life, for a reason.

  She switched on her laptop and typed the name, Mrs Derek Spencer, into the search engine. The name on the box the teaset had come in. She added the place: Charlesworth. Her mind buzzing with possibilities, she pressed the return button and waited to see what fate had in store.

  *

  Willow Tree Close. It was a part of town that Alison knew well, a place as calm and quiet as the high street was bustling. She looked around at the houses and thought back to her own. She and Pete were like strangers to each other still and their bedroom felt hollow. Was she really deluded enough to think she’d find the answers she was looking for here?

  Being in these hidden-away streets again brought back memories. It felt like she was discovering a secret tin of photos and cinema tickets that she’d buried as a child. As a little girl the shaded communal gardens here had been her escape – on the way home from school she and her friends used to push the loose railings aside and sneak in to make daisy chains; as teenagers they’d given each other leg-ups and landed the other side, heady with the same spirit of adventure. In the longer cool grass, under the weeping willow, there had been furtive cigarettes, stolen kisses and dozens of whispered secrets. The residents of the surrounding houses must have had keys to the gate, but they didn’t seem to use them, preferring to chat on their front steps, or while they hung up their washing in their backyards. Every time Alison had gone there the gardens had been empty, ready to be discovered all over again.

  Today Alison’s eyes were trained on the 1930s houses. Eighteen, twenty, she carried on along the row until she reached number thirty-two. From the online records it had looked like Mr and Mrs Derek Spencer could still be living there. It wasn’t very different than any other house on the close. The flowers around the door were a little neater, perhaps, the hedge more carefully tended. She stepped up to the door and pressed the bell.

  The woman who opened the door had a warm smile. ‘Hello,’ she said, almost as if she knew Alison. She was smartly dressed, in a yellow twinset and a sky-blue skirt that matched her bright eyes. It took a moment for Alison to register the hunch of her back, the deep lines in her face, her hands liver spotted and gripping a wooden walking stick.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Spencer,’ Alison said, glad she’d made the effort and put on a smart skirt and blouse for the visit. ‘You don’t know me,’ she said, searching for the right words to explain what had brought her there. ‘But I bought a teaset,’ she said, shuffling her feet. ‘And I think once it might have belonged to you.’

  Mrs Spencer’s eyes d
rifted downwards, as if she was trying to remember. How silly of me, Alison thought, to have come here. She must be at least eighty. Of course she doesn’t remember. Alison gave it one more go. ‘It had forget-me-nots on the cups,’ she said, ‘and a sugar bowl, with little silver tongs.’ She remembered the photo. She pulled the Polaroid of the teaset out of her jacket pocket and held it up so that the old lady could see it. ‘Here – this is it.’

  A flicker of recognition passed across Mrs Spencer’s face right away. ‘Ah, of course! Oh yes. Forgive me dear, my memory’s not what it was. We gave that to our neighbour Gareth just last month. They are ancient old things really but we were always fond of them. We were going to throw it out actually, but Gareth thought he might be able to make a bob or two so we gave it to him for the stall.’

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ Alison said. ‘I bought it with two friends and we think it’s beautiful.’

  ‘How nice,’ she said, genuinely.

  ‘I’m Alison,’ Alison said, holding out her hand for the older lady to shake.

  ‘Ruby,’ she replied with a wide smile, her handshake firmer than Alison had expected. ‘Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ Alison replied.

  Mrs Spencer – Ruby – walked Alison through into a tidy little living room that smelt faintly of biscuits, with framed photos of children on the mantelpiece and crochet coverings on every other surface. In the armchair facing out to the window with a book in his hand was a grey-haired man in smart trousers and a white shirt, wearing thick, dark-rimmed glasses.