Afternoon Tea at the Sunflower Café

by Milly Johnson

  Next stop was her appointment with Brandon Locke. Connie drove on to Box House but when she reached the Dick Turpin’s Arms she knew she must have passed it and turned back. She almost missed the opening to the drive again but managed to brake in time. The drive from the main road down to Box House was very overgrown with big ugly hedges and skeletal branches of trees, but what a pretty house lay at the end of it: Victorian double-fronted with two huge bay windows and the biggest front door that Connie had ever seen. There was an old-fashioned brass bell pull at the side of it which was incredibly stiff and needed a generous squirt of WD40 in her opinion. As she stood on the doorstep and waited, she imagined, from the sound of his voice on the telephone, that Brandon Locke would be a sedate older gentleman, slightly built, smartly dressed, with short-cropped hair, if any, looking like a retired solicitor. When the door eventually opened, she could see how wrong she had been. He was much younger, taller and broader than she’d pictured, with mad wavy hair falling to his shoulders in natural stripes of black, white and grey. His eyes were twinkling and dark brown – happy eyes, her mum would have called them. His nose had a bump in it, as if he’d had it broken playing rugby, but it was a nose that suited him and sat in harmony with his other features. She hoped her pupils weren’t dilating so much that he could see.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, his voice brimming with welcome and his hand extended towards hers.

  ‘Hello,’ echoed Connie.

  ‘Am I glad to see you, Miss Smith. Do come in.’

  ‘Marilyn, please.’

  ‘Come in then, Marilyn. I’m Brandon Locke, nice to meet you.’

  The smell of chocolate hit her as soon as she had crossed the threshold. It flooded her brain so much that she could not appreciate what a beautiful space she had just stepped into because she was trying to concentrate on breathing in as little of it as possible.

  ‘I’ve not been in here very long, as I think I explained,’ said Brandon, clapping his hands before beginning to talk. ‘This is my post-divorce purchase. It was a bit of a tip and the builders have just finished all the essential work like rewiring and new skirting boards, and as you can see there is plaster dust everywhere. It’s an impossible task to keep on top of it. It’s driving me insane,’ and he sneezed loudly.

  ‘It does tend to outstay its welcome,’ agreed Connie. Not that she would know first-hand. She would have killed for some after-renovation plaster dust in her house.

  She walked behind him into the front room and the smell of chocolate followed her. He must have been baking buns or muffins, she presumed. Sunlight poured through the bay window and highlighted hundreds of motes of plaster dust drifting aimlessly.

  ‘This is the lounge, obviously,’ said Brandon.

  ‘What a beautiful big room,’ said Connie, still trying to breathe in a way that stopped her smelling the chocolatey air.

  ‘I’m pleased with it, I have to admit. This is the only room that’s finished so far, though. The carpet is new and super-bouncy but it’s moulting.’ He bent down and picked up a handful of loose fibres. ‘I’m always clogging up the vacuum.’

  ‘The peril of a new carpet,’ smiled Connie, not that she’d experienced the feel of a new lounge carpet in many years either. And even when it was freshly laid it wasn’t that bouncy because Jimmy had insisted on saving some money by choosing a cheap, thin underlay.

  Brandon led her into a huge kitchen which took up the total back length of the house. It was tidy except for one long work surface which had bowls and spoons spread all over it and a chrome machine that was whirring with motion. Here the smell of chocolate was at its strongest, heavy and cloying. With the scent came a wave of memories from so many years with Jimmy. Years that had been full of hard work, laughter, tears, love – or so she had thought. Tears jerked to her eyes as her stomach bucked.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Brandon Locke as Connie’s hand shot up to her mouth.

  ‘Er, yes, fine,’ she said, nodding vigorously.

  ‘I’ve never had anyone retch in here before,’ he sighed, but appeared amused. ‘I’m very worried now.’

  Connie was embarrassed. ‘Please, don’t be. It’s just that I don’t . . . don’t like chocolate.’

  Brandon laughed at that and it was a very merry sound. ‘A woman who doesn’t like chocolate? I didn’t know you existed. I hope it isn’t catching, you’ll put me out of business.’

  ‘Business?’ That ruled the baking a cake or tray of muffins theory out then.

  ‘I make chocolates,’ he explained. ‘I have a small factory in Oxworth which produces them, but this is my man-cave for product development. Chox – have you heard of me?’

  There was barely a brand of chocolate that Connie wasn’t familiar with and yes – she had heard of them, and eaten quite a few boxes of Chox in her time, and very nice they had been too, though Jimmy hadn’t bought her any of them.

  ‘Yes, I have,’ she replied, sweeping her eyes slowly around the kitchen and marvelling at how large it was, yet it still managed to feel homely. She turned back to Brandon and found him studying her.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought . . . No, doesn’t matter,’ he waved away whatever had been in his head. ‘Let me show you upstairs.’

  Up the very grand oak staircase were five bedrooms and two bathrooms and another staircase led to two attic rooms. It was a huge house for one man – at least she presumed he was single after the comment about the divorce. There was certainly no evidence of anyone else living here, as only one of the bedrooms showed signs of being occupied and only one toothbrush was standing to attention in a glass tumbler in his ensuite.

  ‘I could really do with someone hanging curtains too, if you offer that service. I’m waiting for some to be delivered. I can do it, I’m not useless,’ he added quickly, ‘but it would help. Do you change beds? Putting my quilt cover on is something I hate even more. I end up inside it; it’s as if the thing is trying to eat me.’

  ‘Yes, we can do that all for you,’ nodded Connie, smiling. Brandon Locke was incredibly charming and very likeable. He wouldn’t be single for long, she thought. Someone who looked like that with his own chocolate firm? He’d have them queuing up in no time. ‘I can come next week for three hours and see how we get on at that, if you’re happy with our price and terms.’ She handed him an envelope containing the Lady Muck paperwork.

  ‘Where do I sign?’ he asked, taking it quickly from her hand. ‘I absolutely agree to every term and condition you can throw at me.’

  Chapter 25

  Cheryl knocked on the door to Brambles, tried the handle and walked in with a frustrated sigh.

  ‘Edith? Edith, are you in?’

  ‘Yes dear, I’m in the study,’ came the old lady’s voice.

  ‘What have I told you about keeping that front door locked,’ Cheryl admonished her old client gently. ‘I could have been anyone walking in off the street.’

  ‘I’m expecting Lance at three o’clock, dear, that’s why I unlocked it.’

  ‘That’s hours away.’

  ‘Oh, is it?’

  Cheryl found herself shuddering. She didn’t trust Edith’s prodigal nephew Lance Nettleton as far as she could throw him. It was none of her business, of course, but she couldn’t shake off the feeling that Lance’s motives were sinister more than they were sly. He made the hairs on the back of her neck rise whenever he was near her.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ called Cheryl.

  ‘Not yet,’ called Edith. ‘I’ll have one when I’ve found what I’m looking for.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  Edith’s head popped around the door and she smiled her adorable old lady smile.

  ‘Nope,’ she said. ‘It’s in here, I know it. I put it in a safe place but I can’t remember where that was, but I do know that it is definitely in here somewhere.’

  Cheryl got straight down to work then and left her to it. It was the turn of the lounge and the dining-room curtains to be washed this we
ek. Cheryl climbed up the stepladder and unhooked them, then put them on a delicate wash in the machine. Then she sponged down the sofa and all the cushions and they looked like new when she had finished. She gave Edith’s pretty pale pink bedroom a spruce and changed her sheets, dusted and vacuumed all around and then rehung the curtains when they were still a little damp, knowing they’d soon dry and the weight would pull out any creases. She always ended up staying at Edith’s longer than she was paid for because she wanted to. Edith was a pleasure to work for and in summer she always insisted Cheryl sit in the stunning garden and have afternoon tea with her. She still made her own scones and jams from the wild strawberries which she grew in pots and the raspberries which rambled over the back fence and everything was delicious – Sunflower Café standard. Cheryl was folding up the stepladders when Edith trotted into the hallway holding an envelope.

  ‘I knew it was in there somewhere. I’d put it inside a book to keep it safe.’ She frothed with excitement. ‘Come into the kitchen, dear Cheryl, and let’s have that tea. I want to tell you something. I’ve meant to show you before but it slipped my mind.’

  ‘Let me put the steps away first, Edith. I don’t want anyone tripping over them.’ Except Lance, she added to herself. Then, when she had done that, she went through into the kitchen where Edith was spooning loose tea into a large brown teapot. She refused to use teabags because she said they never tasted as good.

  ‘Shall I take over?’ asked Cheryl.

  ‘No, you sit there and wait,’ Edith replied firmly.

  Cheryl watched the old lady setting cups and saucers out on a tray with hands that shook a little more with every passing week. The duchess hump on her back was becoming more pronounced too, and yet Cheryl had never once heard Edith complain about any aches and pains she might have – and she must have had them. Her knuckles were large knots of arthritis and her gait was unsteady because of a worn-out hip.

  ‘Sit,’ Edith commanded, as Cheryl rose to her feet to take the tray from her. Cheryl obeyed, but at least she won the battle over who should pour out the tea.

  ‘You look tired, dear. Are you all right?’ asked Edith. She placed her thin hand over Cheryl’s and that small, sympathetic act was enough to bring tears flooding to Cheryl’s eyes.

  Cheryl searched her pockets for tissues, but there were none. ‘Sorry, Edith,’ she apologised, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand until Edith produced a cotton handkerchief from up her sleeve.

  ‘It’s not been used,’ she said.

  It was pressed and soft with many years of washing and had a pink E embroidered on it. It smelt faintly of violets, the scent of Edith.

  ‘Sorry,’ Cheryl apologised again. ‘It’s been a very mixed week. One of those ones I wouldn’t want to repeat in a long time.’

  ‘I could see you were sad when you came in today,’ said Edith. ‘You were smiling, but not in your eyes. That gave the game away. Here.’ Edith nudged the cup of tea towards Cheryl. It was her best china, with the tiny yellow daisies painted on it.

  Cheryl took a sip and wished her eyes would stop leaking, but they wouldn’t.

  ‘I’m guessing it’s a man who is making you upset,’ said Edith, peering over the top of her glasses.

  Cheryl nodded. ‘I had to end my relationship with Gary last week.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Edith. ‘You’d been together quite a long time, hadn’t you?’

  ‘Just over ten years,’ sniffed Cheryl. ‘We met on my twenty-first birthday.’

  ‘And you finished it? If someone like you does that, it tells me that you’d reached a limit and there’s no turning back.’

  Cheryl couldn’t believe how astute Edith could be sometimes. Most of the time she was away with the fairies, but when she was in the room, she was almost psychic.

  ‘We . . . well, I had been saving up for IVF. We haven’t had any luck conceiving naturally, even though there’s nothing wrong with either of us, because we’ve had all the tests. Unexplained infertility, is all they can come up with. I made sure that we both wanted to go ahead with having a baby. I know it can put a lot of strain on a relationship, but we were okay.’

  Cheryl paused to wipe her nose.

  ‘But?’ prompted Edith.

  ‘He spent all my savings, Edith. He gambled them on a horse.’

  ‘And it wasn’t the first time?’ Edith asked softly.

  Cheryl shook her head, unable to speak.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Edith topped up Cheryl’s cup with tea. ‘And your heart wishes that you’d never found that out because you still love him.’

  Cheryl nodded, tears coursing down her face.

  ‘But your head is telling you that you can’t have a relationship with a man who could do that to you, especially when it’s far more than money that he’s taken from you.’

  Cheryl threw her arms around Edith – she couldn’t stop herself – and sobbed on the old lady’s shoulder. She could smell Edith’s sweet floral perfume and she realised that she loved her more than she did any woman she had ever known.

  ‘I miss him so much, Edith. My whole life feels as if it’s been emptied of hope.’

  Edith pulled Cheryl away from her, held her arms firmly and stared hard into her eyes.

  ‘Now you listen here, young lady, you are worth far more than to settle for second-best in life. A relationship can’t survive on love alone, whatever tosh some people try to tell you. There has to be trust and respect. Both ways. If there isn’t, then . . .’ She left the sentence hanging, but Cheryl understood. The old lady wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t know already.

  ‘You know, before I met Ernest, I was very much in love with an older man,’ said Edith. ‘I was innocent and he was worldly to the extent that he ran rings around my heart. He would break up with me and then come thundering back into my life until abandonment and reconciliation dictated our whole relationship. I wanted to trust that I was safe with him, but I never could. I was constantly being tossed between despair and ridiculous joy of having him return to me. It was exhausting, and not in a good way. It took every bit of strength I had to break away from him, and I cried for a long time, but I knew deep down that it wasn’t the sort of love I was destined for. I was meant for a man who cared for me and put my feelings before his own, a man whom I could care for and put his feelings before mine. I found that man in Ernest. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’

  Cheryl nodded. She was tired of forgiving Gary, tired of the fights, the confrontations, the disappointments and the apologies. Love wasn’t about having a battalion of soldiers stationed around her heart in case of emergency. She needed to do what Edith had done and be strong. There was an Ernest out there waiting for her but he wouldn’t get near her if her heart was full of Gary.

  Edith’s hand came out to cup Cheryl’s face.

  ‘I want to see that chin lifted from now on. Sometimes you have to accept that the cards you are dealt can’t be changed. I couldn’t have children and yes, I cried a lot about that, so Ernest and I had to have a different life to the one we would have chosen.’ The old lady leaned forward and placed a kiss on Cheryl’s cheek.

  ‘If I’d had a daughter, I would have wished she were just like you. You’d have made me very proud.’

  Cheryl started sobbing again and Edith chuckled.

  ‘I wish my mum had been like you,’ said Cheryl. ‘She shouldn’t have had kids and you should have. Life isn’t fair, is it?’

  ‘No, and the sooner that’s an accepted universal fact, the happier everyone would be,’ said Edith. ‘Now, whilst I seem to be in control of my faculties, which is a rare enough occurrence these days, let me show you this.’ Edith got out of the chair and crossed to the work surface to retrieve the envelope she had placed there.

  ‘It’s my will,’ she announced.

  ‘Oh, do you want me to witness something for you?’

  ‘Shhh, Cheryl,’ Edith gently slapped Cheryl’s hand with her knobbly wrinkled fingers. ‘I want you to l
isten. Lance, as you know, is my nephew . . .’

  Cheryl tried not to sneer. The thought of him being in Edith’s life for five minutes and inheriting all she had would make her feel sick if she let it. He wouldn’t treasure Brambles, he’d sell it for a quick buck.

  ‘. . . my elder sister Ivy’s child. And I can’t say that having him come back into my life hasn’t stirred up some memories of when Ivy and I were younger. We did have some happy times. Before she married Bill Nettleton and the pair of them cheated me and Ernest out of thousands of pounds, which was an awful lot of money back then.’

  Cheryl’s eyebrows sprang up. She wasn’t expecting that.

  ‘It’s an awful lot of money these days too, Edith,’ she said.

  ‘My own sister and that . . . that man. The pair of them together were a proper folie à deux, I can tell you. It broke my heart at the time. And Ernest’s. Bless him, he was always so ready to think the best of people.’

  ‘Don’t upset yourself, love.’

  ‘It was all very long ago.’ Edith smiled sadly. ‘But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t still pain me to think of it. I missed my sister so much. Despite what she did to us, I missed her. It was as if my head were sensible but my heart was stupid.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ nodded Cheryl.

  ‘And I missed seeing Lance. He was such a sweet baby.’

  Cheryl tried to imagine Lance as a sweet baby but couldn’t. She supposed that Edith’s contact with him must have been cut off very early on. She conjured up a picture of Lance in a pram, with an adult head and that horrible black spiv moustache, pulling wings off butterflies.

  ‘You never made it up with Ivy, then?’ Cheryl asked.

  ‘No.’ Edith’s tone was hard. ‘The stress of it all contributed to Ernest’s heart attack. He was taken from me too soon and I am convinced I would have had him for years more had they not done what they did, so no. How could I? They’re both in the ground now but I still can’t forgive them. I could stand the loss of the money, but never the loss of trust.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ said Cheryl, though it came as little surprise to learn that Lance hailed from dodgy stock.