Afternoon Tea at the Sunflower Café

by Milly Johnson

  Connie decided that she would make herself a hot drink today. She went into the fridge to get milk and found it stocked to the gills again with cakes: fresh cream chocolate profiteroles – chocolate on every shelf, even bottles of chocolate milk shakes. She took the carton of milk from the shelf and tried to shut out the sweet sickly smell. Whilst the kettle was boiling, she held her hands against the old cast-iron radiator and her mother’s voice sounded in her head: ‘You’ll get chilblains and then you’ll know about it.’

  Connie would risk it this morning though, as the radiator was cosy-warm and was hitting the spot. Her mother would have loved this house, she knew. The inside reminded her of Sunset Park, the premium residential home that she had gone to look around some years ago. She’d thought then, My mum would be happy here, because it’s full of all the things she likes. Putting her mother in a home had been heartbreaking, but she had needed specialist care that only a home could give her, or a private nurse, which they couldn’t afford.

  A small noise broke Connie out of her reverie: a gentle knocking against the wall. No doubt the radiator pipes battling with airpockets. Or someone bricked up in the cavity, as one of the Diamond Shine women had believed; so Della had told her with a chuckle.

  Connie drank her tea quickly because she wasn’t the type to stand around doing nothing for long. She took out her window cleaner and a chamois and climbed up onto the work surface so she could get to the glass. It was like the early days of Diamond Shine all over again, except she couldn’t chat to her mother any more whilst they were scrubbing and wiping. Ghosts. Connie hoped Mr Savant’s house was haunted, for then it would give her hope that her mother was looking out for her, watching her tackle the smears on the glass, telling her that she’d missed a bit.

  *

  Mrs Hopkinson was in an unreasonably picky mood, which stretched Cheryl’s patience to its limit. She had decided to dock Cheryl an hour’s pay for not cleaning her bath properly the last time she came. There was a definite ring around it, she insisted, which Cheryl knew was a complete lie, but she hadn’t got the strength to argue and would let Della sort that out. The advantage of working with an agency was that when things went wrong, there was back-up and Cheryl knew that however frosty Della might have been, she had complete confidence in the abilities of her workers, at least the ones she had employed, and would back them to the hilt.

  Cheryl had a thump of a headache which was building to a crescendo and she wished she didn’t have to do Mr Morgan’s house today. She was not only tired from not sleeping well but nervous about what he might say to her after Astrid’s visit. She called in at the newsagent at the end of Mr Morgan’s street for some paracetamol which she hoped would rid her of the annoying pulse in her temple and a can of Red Bull to give her an energy boost.

  She was relieved to find that Mr Morgan greeted her as if nothing had happened. In fact he was most effusive in welcoming her inside. Again the house was so warm that Mr Morgan’s dark brown toupee appeared to be sweating. He wiped the sides of his face with a large handkerchief and asked if she was better and, in turn, she asked him if his backache was cured. He seemed delighted that she had asked that.

  ‘So,’ he clapped his hands together, when she had taken off her own coat. ‘You know exactly what you are doing here this week then?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure I do,’ nodded Cheryl.

  ‘Excellent, excellent . . . Right then, I’ll go in my music room and let you . . . prepare upstairs. Then you can . . . do my downstairs at . . . let’s say quarter to two.’ He gestured towards the large grandfather clock in his hallway which, on cue, rang out a small jingle to mark that it was quarter past one.

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t give me a lot of time to do upstairs,’ replied Cheryl.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Mr Morgan. ‘I’d rather you concentrated on my downstairs and my organ. It hasn’t been tended to since Ruth left.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ nodded Cheryl. Della had said he was insistent that his pride and joy should be the main focus of her attention. Well, he was paying the wage so she’d do as he asked. It did account for why his upstairs had been neglected though. Half an hour to do a whole top floor was no good.

  Cheryl cleaned the bathroom and dusted around and at exactly quarter to two, as he requested, she picked up her bag of cleaning products and headed for his music room, thinking to herself that it was obviously National Finicky Day.

  *

  Connie was just about to let herself into Brandon’s house as she had rung the bell and left it a respectable minute, but no one came. Then the door suddenly swung open and luckily, it was no swishy-haired Helena who was standing there, but Brandon himself.

  ‘Come in, come in, into the warm,’ he said, beckoning her over the threshold, just as Mr Savant had done, except Mr Savant hadn’t made her feel quite as smiley when he helped her off with her coat as Brandon Locke did.

  The smell of chocolate weighed down the air but at least it didn’t make her retch this time. It was as if her nose had detected it and diverted it to a part of the brain where the unimportant stuff was, rather than the place which dealt with the high-alert concerns.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ said Brandon. ‘I’ve got some cream and honey on the boil and if I don’t get back to stirring it, it’ll caramelise and the world will end as we know it.’

  Connie chuckled. ‘It’s fine. You go ahead, I know my way around.’

  ‘Help yourself to a tea or a coffee whenever you want,’ he called behind him and Connie allowed herself to watch him stride back into the kitchen. He didn’t look like a chocolatier. From behind he looked more like a builder with his big back and wide shoulders. And his hands looked far too large to pipe the delicate shapes which decorated his creations.

  Plaster dust from all the renovation work Brandon had had done to the house was still circulating in the air, settling on any surface it could find only to float back into the air at the fearful sight of a cloth. As much as Connie cleaned, she knew it would be the same the following week. Plaster dust was the Ronnie Biggs of the cleaning world – unpindownable.

  She tackled the kitchen last, entering tentatively in case she was disturbing Brandon but he welcomed her in and told her that if he was in the way she should throw him out.

  ‘Is it medical?’ he suddenly asked her as she was polishing his kitchen table with wire wool and wax.

  Connie looked up. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’ve just been thinking about your aversion to chocolate. Is it medical?’

  ‘No,’ said Connie.

  ‘Psychological then?’

  Yes, chocolate makes me think of my husband bonking every available woman and twenty-four years of lies, she thought, but said instead, ‘Probably.’

  Brandon opened his mouth to ask another question, then closed it as quickly. ‘Forgive me, I’m prying and I have no right to.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Connie, trying to make light of her reaction to chocolate. ‘At least you can trust me not to steal your wares.’

  ‘I’m used to everyone raiding my wares,’ he laughed. ‘When my sisters come over I have to lock up my kitchen and place Rottweilers on the doors. Having said that, my brother is worse than those two put together.’

  There was a photograph of three young people at the top of the stairs and Connie wondered if those were his siblings. They were all good-looking with big smiles and kind faces. She always wished she’d had more children, but it wasn’t to be. Jimmy said they couldn’t afford more than one. She had respected his wishes, but now knowing what she did, she should have come off the pill and let nature take its course. She loved her daughter with her whole heart, but she had always wanted a son, a little boy who wore dungarees and played with cars, who grew up lanky and spotty and then matured into a man like that young estate agent, Tom Stamp. Connie pulled her thoughts away from him and transferred them onto the job in hand and imagined that she was wire-wooling every last vestige of Jimmy Diamond from her lif
e.

  *

  Cheryl opened the door to Mr Morgan’s music room to find the man himself stark naked and leaning over the stool of his organ, bum upwards. She dropped her cleaning products in shock as she ran out into the hallway and was followed moments later by a bumbling Mr Morgan in a dressing gown, quickly tying the belt around himself.

  ‘What’s wrong, Ruth . . . I mean Cheryl? It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’ he snapped impatiently.

  His tone of voice was enough to turn Cheryl’s upset to infuriation. What the bloody hell did he think was wrong? How did he expect her to react to the sight of a sixty-two-year-old so-called pillar of the community with his substantial naked backside on full view?

  ‘No, it most certainly is not why I’m here. I don’t know what you were expecting from me, Mr Morgan, but I think you are mistaking the word cleaner for the word scrubber. What on earth do you think you’re doing? I’m leaving and I won’t be back.’

  She grabbed her coat from the stand.

  ‘Wait, please,’ Mr Morgan’s tone had changed to one of confusion. ‘You said you were my new Ruth. I thought you meant . . . I thought . . .’

  ‘I am your “new Ruth” as you choose to put it, Mr Morgan. That doesn’t mean I was going to . . . What were you thinking?’

  A lightbulb flashed on in her head. Surely not. Surely he didn’t mean . . .

  ‘Mr Morgan, what did Ruth do here exactly? Ruth didn’t . . . did she?’

  Mr Morgan wrapped his arms protectively around his bulk.

  ‘Er . . . yes, she did,’ he said.

  Chapter 44

  ‘Marilyn, do you think you could help me out on a taste test before you go? Have you got time?’ asked Brandon, immediately lifting his hands palms out in a gesture of defence. ‘Not chocolate. Coffee. Are you okay with coffee?’

  ‘Erm, yes, I’m fine with coffee. And I do have time,’ said Connie, from the other side of the kitchen as she was packing her cleaning stuff away.

  ‘I’m testing out some new flavours to use in my mix.’ He jerked a chair out from under the newly waxed table and invited Connie to sit down on it. Then he disappeared behind her for a few moments and returned again with six tiny cups full of black coffee with numbers etched onto their fronts.

  ‘Shall I start at one, or is that a daft question?’ asked Connie, as Brandon watched her.

  ‘Whatever number takes your fancy,’ he replied. ‘You can count up, count down or be anarchic and hit number three first.’ When he smiled, she noticed he had lines around his eyes which aged him and yet made him seem even more attractive. She transferred her gaze from him onto the cups, reprimanding herself for even entertaining observations like that.

  ‘I’ll start at one,’ she said, lifting the first cup and sipping, rolling the coffee around in her mouth to touch all her taste-buds, but wishing she hadn’t. She had to swallow hard to get it down and if he had not been standing there she would have spat it out.

  ‘Ugh,’ she said. ‘That was awful.’

  ‘Cheap coffee substitute. A firm sent it to me as a flavouring agent, claiming that it’s indistinguishable from a premium-class Columbian roast.’

  ‘I can assure you that it is distinguishable from a premium-class Columbian coffee,’ coughed Connie. ‘And from anything drinkable.’

  ‘I thought the same. Nice to know that my tastebuds are reliable,’ said Brandon. ‘The others are much better, I can assure you.’

  Connie lifted the second one, wishing Brandon wasn’t watching her so intently. There must be voices sounding off in his head about how awful I look, she thought. I must be the polar opposite to stuck-up Helena. Then again, she batted back another thought: Why should he have any opinion of you at all? You’re a cleaner, you’re tantamount to invisible.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said, hoping the heat she could feel on her cheeks wasn’t manifesting itself as a red blush. ‘Vanilla, isn’t it?’

  ‘Try number three.’

  ‘Vanilla again, I think, but weaker. With a slightly funny aftertaste.’ Connie pursed her lips together and drew in some air above the cup, then took another drink, gulping at it soundlessly.

  ‘You look like a sommelier,’ Brandon said, giving her another crinkle-eyed smile.

  ‘I went on a wine-tasting course years ago with my . . . ex-husband,’ she replied. It felt strange to lie and call him that, but then again, it wouldn’t be long before that’s exactly what he would be.

  ‘Oh. Where was that?’

  ‘Wigan,’ she answered and he hooted with laughter, immediately apologising for it.

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought you were going to say France or Italy or some place where the grapes were grown.’

  ‘The grapes were grown there,’ said Connie. ‘Someone Jimmy met at a sales conference invited him to his indoor vineyard . . . don’t ask. He was the most pretentious prat I’ve ever met in my life. His grapes all got foot-rot or whatever the disease is called and “Vin de Vinny” never even made it to the shelves of Costco.’

  Brandon was still chuckling.

  ‘I’m not joking,’ said Connie, his laughter infecting her. ‘He wanted us to come on board and my . . . ex liked the idea of saying that he owned a winery but I’ve never seen such a sorry load of fruit in my life. I’d seen bigger currants in scones. As for the wine . . . ick!’ She shook her head.

  ‘Not good?’ Brandon said, wiping his eyes.

  ‘As wine, no. As a chemical weapon, I’m sure it had a great future.’

  Brandon released a fresh salvo of laughter.

  ‘Ooh, now number four is very nice,’ she said, taking another sip. ‘That’s my favourite so far. Very strong, very . . . velvety.’

  ‘Okay. That’s good.’

  ‘And number five,’ Connie sniffed it before trying it, ‘is not good. What is it? It tastes like someone has mixed up tea and coffee and then stuck a vanilla pod in it.’

  ‘That’s more or less what it is. A hybrid tea and coffee,’ explained Brandon.

  ‘You told me the rest of them were much nicer.’

  ‘I lied. Forgive me.’

  ‘Well, whoever thought of that “hybrid” should be shot. Or worse – forced to drink it. Never the twain,’ said Connie, standing up and shuddering.

  ‘We’re in complete agreement on all five,’ Brandon grinned. ‘Thank you. You have a good nose.’

  Connie’s hand shot up to her face. ‘No, it’s awful. I always wanted a long straight—’

  ‘No, I mean a nose as in a discerning one. For taste,’ Brandon interrupted to correct her. ‘Not that you don’t have a nice nose. On your face.’

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean.’ Connie knew she was blushing now. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Comes in very handy in a cleaning job, being able to differentiate between Prosecco and Um Bongo. I get asked a lot.’

  ‘Do you think that there’s some connection with your obvious strong sense of taste and your chocolate block, if you’ll excuse the pun?’ asked Brandon.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Connie. She was aware that she wasn’t rushing to leave and wished he had something else for her to test. She would even sample his truffles if it meant she could linger here and enjoy his company for longer. She didn’t want to go home. Mentally she had already moved out and found herself a small place with a sunny garden and new windows.

  ‘Well, I hope you have a lovely week,’ said Brandon.

  ‘You too.’

  ‘Thanks for helping me with the taste test.’

  ‘Any time.’

  ‘Here, let me help you to your car.’ Brandon picked up her bag, ignoring her protests. Connie tried not to look at his bum as she followed him out but it was impossible because it was a very nice one. She hoped to God he didn’t look at hers when he was behind.

  She popped the lid on her boot and he loaded her bag into it for her. His hand brushed against her and sent a feeling not unlike a rush of bubbles up her arm.

  Connie would have to watch herself there,
she decided as she turned out of his drive. She had a job to do and a heart fluttering for a man like Brandon Locke was a distraction she could well do without.

  *

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Cheryl.

  Mr Morgan had his head in his hands now and was sobbing. ‘Oh please don’t tell anyone. My life will be in ruins. I’ll not be able to play my organ in church any more.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t tell me everything, I shall have to go to the police,’ Cheryl bluffed, but the threat worked.

  ‘Mrs Fallis and I had an arrangement,’ he began, still shielding his face. ‘She did things to my downstairs after she’d prepared in the first half hour of our session.’

  ‘Prepared?’ Cheryl asked. Despite the fact that Mr Morgan was having difficulty meeting her eyes, she wasn’t going to stop interrogating him until the whole story was out.

  ‘Yes, prepared. She got into her dominatrix costume.’

  Cheryl swallowed. The idea of Ruth Fallis in shiny black faux leather and fishnets was too much for a Wednesday afternoon.

  ‘. . . and I got into position so she could use her tools on me.’

  ‘Tools?’

  ‘Feather duster, sweeping brush, dust shovel, mini vac.’

  Cheryl fought the urge to echo yet another word back at him; but really – mini vac?

  ‘Then after she had administered her attentions to my organ I would service her,’ said Mr Morgan, sniffing loudly and wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his robe.

  Cheryl was guessing now that he didn’t mean Ruth wiped down the keys of his Wurlitzer.

  ‘You had sex with Ruth Fallis?’

  Mr Morgan was quick to protest, ‘Not penetratively.’

  Cheryl didn’t know whether to scream, laugh or be sick. So that was why it looked as if the house hadn’t been cleaned in ages. Because it hadn’t.

  ‘I have to say, she was very good. Well worth the fifty pounds an hour fee. When I heard she had left, I thought she might contact me directly, but no, so that’s why I was so very pleased when Diamond Shine told me they were sending me another Ruth who would do exactly what she did to my organ.’