A Room at the Manor

by Julie Shackman

  From the moment I met her we became firm friends. With her rolled-up school shirtsleeves and pale blonde hair, she was the yin to my yang. I was flattered and pleased when she confided in me about her privileged background.

  ‘But please don’t tell anyone,’ she begged one school lunchtime. ‘Half the kids will hate me and think I rate myself, and the other half will suddenly want to be my best mates.’

  The desperation in her green eyes had tugged at my heart. ‘I promise I won’t say anything to anyone.’

  Her face visibly relaxed under her stripes of blusher. ‘Thanks. I just want to be liked for me, you know?’

  I nodded and cupped her hand in mine, my glittery pink nail polish shining under the dinner hall strip lighting. We’d held our skinny wrists side by side to admire our friendship bracelets. I’d crafted Morven’s from cotton threads in her favourite colours, purple and blue, and she’d done the same for me in red and orange.

  ‘Friends forever,’ we’d grinned cheesily.

  My mum was enthusiastically embracing a late-arriving anti-establishment stage when Morven and I met. She’d come home from a long day lecturing at college, enthused about how her women’s studies students were discussing her ideas. ‘We had a terrific debate at lunchtime today,’ she’d sparkled, unfurling her long cream scarf, ‘about whether men are simply a vessel to support the greater demands of women in today’s society.’ I remember sitting there, nodding in what I hoped were the correct places while not having a clue what she was talking about. What would she think of Morven, daughter of the successful Knight family, with their organic food empire?

  I need not have worried. Morven charmed my mother the first time she met her. I’d asked Mum if I could invite Morven round after school for dinner, and she duly arrived cradling a small wicker basket from an expensive skincare store. Sandwiched among the green ribbon and straw packaging were a bottle of peppermint foot lotion, a tub of satsuma plum hand cream and some honey body scrub.

  Mum blushed with approval. ‘So indulgent but, more importantly, ethically sourced. Thank you, Morven.’

  Our semidetached house, at the time decked out in Mum’s latest fad, African-inspired rustic, crouched at the end of a small cul-de-sac. The hall bookshelves sagged under the weight of autobiographies and literary essays, the newer ones mainly of a feminist bent. And despite Dad’s sudden death years before, his presence still flitted from room to room like a ghostly whisper. His blue walking fleece hung expectantly from the coat rack. A pair of bashed-up old trainers he used to wear in the garden slouched among Mum’s sandals. Even in our bathroom Dad’s shaving kit was still perched beside the radio in a red ceramic mug.

  My mother was fiercely independent, fired up to defend the female race. And yet she touchingly maintained 94 Hopetown Terrace in homage to her husband’s memory and to the father I could barely remember. It was as if our house was in a state of perpetual alert, waiting for Paul McDonald to stride back through the door. On my bedroom windowsill there was a photograph of me and my dad. I couldn’t recall when it was taken but I was small, with an expectant face and spools of red curls. Dad was smiling as he cradled me in his arms, his dark hair gleaming against his pale Irish complexion.

  There was a constant scent of vanilla candles or spicy cranberry incense in our house. Morven appreciated the carefully draped mustard fabrics, textured print cushions and earthy cedar tables and chairs. Such a typically conservative home on the outside, with its paved drive and privet hedges, but an abundance of Serengeti-inspired culture on the inside.

  Three months before, Mum had gone through a monochrome phase. Before that she was all about shabby chic. Often I’d come home and think I’d inadvertently wandered into the wrong house. Privately, I was sure the endless makeovers were a reaction to Dad’s death—she seemed desperate to evolve. Officially Mum would say, ‘A modern woman should regularly embrace her artistic desires,’ conveniently forgetting how content she had been before losing Dad. There had been no frantic purchases of zebra throw cushions or distressed armchairs back then.

  When Morven arrived that first afternoon for dinner, I offered her a plate jostling with my latest baking effort—chocolate-chip muffins. She eagerly took one, easing it out of its paper case and biting in. ‘Wow! These are fab!’

  My toes curled in appreciation as she rammed the rest of the muffin into her mouth and chewed ferociously. ‘Thanks. The first time I made them they ended up a little bit dry.’

  Mum had appeared in the kitchen, her mouth forming a firm line. ‘Lara, I know you enjoy baking but please remember that it can limit a woman’s potential by perpetuating a stereotype.’

  ‘It’s a chocolate-chip muffin, Mum, not a ban on freedom of speech.’

  Morven held the last bite of muffin in her cheek like a greedy hamster. As soon as Mum’s red kaftan swished out of the room again we erupted into giggles.

  I’d told Mum about Morven’s background but she never asked questions about her family success, or about her parents. Though I could see from across the top of our plates of shepherd’s pie that she desperately wanted to.

  Instead, Morven asked about Mum’s college work and I brought up her growing interest in fair trade products. Between us, like a politically correct tag team, we managed Mum well.

  After Morven left, having thanked my mum profusely for dinner (‘The jam roly-poly and custard were delicious, Mrs McDonald’), Mum filled the kettle and said, ‘She’s a very likeable girl. I’m pleased you’re such good friends with her.’

  A glow of pleasure lit me up inside. ‘Thanks, Mum. Me too.’

  ‘After all,’ added my mother, ‘if we can lead more of these privileged youngsters to a political understanding we can topple the system from the inside.’

  Oh good grief.

  After leaving school, Morven got involved in the marketing side of her father’s business, also taking on charity work whenever she could. I always feared we’d eventually lose contact, that she’d end up married to some guy who regularly popped up in Scottish Society magazine, and produce four kids who always wore Alice bands (not the boys, obviously).

  So far, it hadn’t happened. Morven was dating Jake Ramsay, a rakish but likeable second-division footballer for Hawthorn United, who’d brazenly strode up to her at a sports charity do and exclaimed, ‘Sorry for staring, but you look so much like my next girlfriend.’

  Morven’s parents weren’t overly keen on Jake because of his rumoured track record with women. However, they knew from past experience, as did I, that Morven was likely to do the exact opposite of what you suggested, like drag Jake to Las Vegas for an impromptu wedding. Better to let her get Jake out of her system naturally.

  My stomach decided to let out a rip-roaring gurgle. ‘Do you fancy a stir-fry?’ I asked.

  Morven rubbed her hands gleefully. ‘I’ll say.’

  She followed me into the kitchen and as I rattled the wok into action the interrogation began in earnest.

  ‘So how do you feel about that arsehole now?’

  I measured out the rice and pulled an agonised face. ‘Angry. Hurt. I know that was all crap about our relationship coming to a natural end.’ Switching on the kettle, I added, ‘I think the natural end had a pair of 36C boobs and was called Tanya.’ An image of her bronzed bosom looming across Anton’s bar made my stomach tighten.

  I shovelled the spatula over the chicken pieces with exaggerated aggression while Morven sloshed white wine into two glasses. ‘Let it all out, Lars. I hate to see you feeling low.’

  My shoulders slumped. The frustration of the last few days came tumbling out before I had a chance to think. ‘I was made redundant from my job, the man I gave up everything for turned out to be a prize knob, and now I’m working for Darth Vader’s mother.’

  Morven opened her red mouth to speak but I cut across her. ‘And my own mother is living in Spain with a guy barely older than me. She’s having more bloody fun than I ever had.’ Jealousy tapped me on the shoulder. ‘So
rry for sounding so mean,’ I mumbled. ‘It’s just I loved Malta and thought I could make a life there . . .’ My voice tailed off into a whisper.

  ‘Things will get better,’ assured Morven, leaning across to squeeze my hand. ‘You’re an amazing, resourceful woman.’

  ‘Who’s currently working for a dictator,’ I mumbled, slapping the chicken again. ‘You should have seen the look that old bag gave my raspberry and coconut macaroons today.’

  I turned to look at her. My best friend’s face had broken into a wide smile.

  I tried not to laugh. ‘I’m glad you’re finding my personal life so funny.’

  Morven snatched up her glass, almost delivering a puddle of wine onto my kitchen floor. ‘You’re determined. You’re enterprising. And you can bake a mean cake or three. You will get there and have your own place one day, I just know it.’

  A little later, we sat down opposite one another at the kitchen table with our plates of steaming chicken stir-fry. I played with the stem of my wineglass. ‘I want to feel like I’m achieving something. You know, doing something for me.’

  Morven sat back, her green eyes brimming with concern. ‘What if I talk to my dad? See if there are any opportunities?’

  I shook my curls so fiercely I thought my head might drop off my shoulders. ‘Thanks, but no. Being bankrolled by your dad defeats the purpose.’

  Morven momentarily looked wounded. ‘You don’t want to be beholden to the likes of the great Richard Knight. I get it.’

  My sigh bounced around the kitchen. ‘I’m really grateful and it’s very kind of you. But I need to do something on my own.’ My face slid into a wry smile. ‘It must be terrible for you, Morvs, having such a successful father.’

  Morven pierced a piece of chicken on her fork. ‘I really do understand your reasons. I would like to do something else for a change. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy working with my dad but it would be great to get involved in something that didn’t have the Knight moniker stamped all over it.’

  There was a companionable silence for a moment. ‘Tell you what,’ I suggested, savouring the tangy pineapple sauce, ‘you can be my silent partner when I’ve got my tea room empire.’ Morven laughed throatily, only to stop in mock indignation when I quipped, ‘Only I’ve never known you to be silent in our entire friendship.’

  Five

  ‘Morning, Kitty,’ I said brightly.

  Kitty scowled from underneath her checked trilby. ‘Morning,’ she muttered back, alarming a couple of ladies as she stomped past into the back kitchen. I reached for my iPod to turn up the volume on the bright baroque music that gently danced through the tea room.

  Kitty’s head jerked back around. ‘What is that racket?’

  ‘I thought it added a bit of atmosphere.’

  Kitty’s expression darkened even further. ‘This is my business, not a haunted house. Switch it off.’

  Reining in my anger, I silenced the iPod with a jab of my finger. A triumphant smirk hovered at the corners of Kitty’s mouth. ‘That’s better, don’t you think?’

  It wasn’t. There was a heavy silence, except for the slosh of tea and clattering cutlery.

  ‘And what are these muffin things in my fridge?’ called Kitty from the kitchen. ‘They look more like rabbit food to me.’

  I popped my head around the door. ‘They’re healthy breakfast muffins. Carrot and apple with rolled oats.’

  Kitty couldn’t have looked more horrified if I’d robbed the till and made a run for it. She took a gulp of air, ready to verbally lambast me.

  ‘Why on earth did you turn the music off?’ questioned a clipped voice from behind us.

  Hugo Carmichael was shuffling towards the counter. He raked a hand through his silvery hair. ‘I was quite enjoying that.’

  This was getting to be a regular occurrence. If I didn’t know better I’d say the old grouch was becoming my guardian angel.

  Hiding a smile, I addressed Hugo. ‘Good morning, Mr Carmichael.’

  Kitty barged past me like a grey battleship. ‘Hello, Mr Carmichael,’ she simpered, bent almost double. ‘I just felt that music wasn’t suitable.’

  Hugo’s grey brows looked like they were fencing. ‘Why ever not?’

  Under Hugo’s and my own questioning gazes, Kitty reddened. ‘Er, well, if you consider our clientele . . .’

  Hugo scanned the customers currently seated at assorted tables. Cakes were being savoured amid the hum of chat. ‘They might be elderly but they’re not dead.’

  I snorted with laughter.

  ‘Yes, well,’ sniffed Kitty, angrily fastening her apron. ‘I’ll consider our musical choices another time.’

  Hugo gave me a conspiratorial wink across the top of today’s centrepiece, a coffee and walnut cake.

  Kitty thrust her hand out towards the heavily iced creation. ‘How about a slice of this, Mr Carmichael? I made it myself.’

  Hugo eyed it suspiciously. ‘I’ve not long had breakfast but thank you all the same.’ Then his attention alighted on me. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve rustled up any more of those scrumptious little macaroons, Lara?’

  I could feel Kitty’s eyes bore into my face as I turned to Hugo. ‘No macaroons today but I’ve baked some cranberry and macadamia brownies.’

  Hugo’s expression reminded me of an excited child on Christmas Eve. ‘Ooh, one of those, please, and an Earl Grey.’

  Kitty scribbled up his order before thumping it onto the wall behind.

  ‘We could sell the rest of my brownies,’ I suggested to her retreating back.

  She stopped short. I could practically see her hair bristling. ‘Put out half a dozen and charge one pound fifty each,’ she grudgingly bit out before disappearing into the storeroom.

  Well, that was a small victory.

  I prepared Hugo’s tray and carried it over. Morning sun was feeling its way across the tea room, highlighting the snowy tablecloths. He took a careful bite of the brownie and closed his eyes. ‘Just heavenly,’ he sighed.

  I turned to go but he pulled at my arm.

  ‘Sit a moment,’ he said, reaching for the teapot.

  ‘I don’t think Kitty would approve of that, Mr Carmichael.’

  ‘Please,’ he implored. ‘And stop calling me Mr Carmichael. It’s Hugo.’

  I quickly sat down opposite him, checking that Kitty was still in the depths of the storeroom.

  He regarded me across the table with those steely grey eyes. At first I wondered if I’d smudged my lipstick or had cereal caught in my teeth. Then he finally spoke again. ‘Thank you for helping me find my cane last night.’

  ‘Oh, you’re welcome, Mr Carmichael. Sorry—Hugo.’

  Hugo went to reach across the table for the sugar bowl but I got to it first and handed it to him. I caught him studying the bracelet as it slid up and down my wrist.

  ‘Lara, can you answer the phone, please? I’m busy.’

  Our heads jerked around to see Kitty inspecting her lipstick in the mirror of her gold compact. I offered Hugo a roll of my eyes and rose to answer the call, which was for Kitty anyway, regarding the latest milk order from her supplier.

  ‘I’ve got to go out,’ she bristled, patting her hair. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘But it’s almost lunchtime.’

  Her chilly gaze appraised me. ‘Yes, I’m aware of that, Lara.’

  She shrugged on a red jacket that made her look like a box. ‘I’ve got to meet a friend. It’s an emergency. See you shortly.’

  And with that she was out the door in a blaze of sickly sweet perfume that reminded me of toilet freshener.

  I proceeded to pace backwards and forwards from the counter to the floor, silently cursing not only Kitty but also the cheap plastic apron I had to wear. As I prepared a takeaway latte for a harassed-looking middle-aged man and slid two treacle scones into a bag for the elderly lady waiting behind him, a hunched figure trundled up to the counter.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  The scruffily dressed
woman, swamped in a raincoat and with a shabby straw sunhat perched on her head, eyed the cakes hungrily as she plonked two carrier bags down by her old boots.

  ‘Aren’t these cakes pretty?’ she gasped softly. ‘They all look too lovely to eat.’

  I nodded. ‘I wish I thought more like that. It would help my waistline.’

  The woman pointed a chipped fingernail at me. ‘You’ve got nothing to worry about there, dear.’ I was about to protest when she squealed, ‘Oh! Those look good. How much are they?’

  ‘These brownies?’ I grinned, flattered by her enthusiasm. ‘They’re a pound fifty each.’

  Her hands felt around her coat pockets. ‘I’ve only got eighty pence,’ she admitted after an embarrassed silence. ‘Never mind. Maybe next time, eh?’

  Before I could reply she had picked up her bags and turned to depart with a faltering smile.

  ‘Good thing Kitty isn’t here,’ muttered Hugo over the rim of his teacup. ‘She would have chased that unfortunate soul halfway down the street.’

  I watched her hitch the collar of her coat up and tug down the brim of her floppy hat before opening the door.

  ‘Hugo, would you keep an eye on the counter for me for a moment, please?’

  Hugo’s eyes widened. ‘What are you going to do? Don’t jeopardise your job, Lara. You know what Kitty is like.’

  I pulled off my apron. ‘Yes, I do know what she’s like. And thank goodness not everyone in the world is like that.’

  I slipped out the door, the clinking of cups and murmuring conversations disappearing abruptly as it shut behind me. ‘Excuse me!’ I called, pattering down the cobbles after the woman.