Alice's Secret

by Lynne Francis

  She settled herself rather gingerly in her seat, aware that it looked as though it might have held a dog or a muddy jacket until recently. She wrinkled her nose: yes, there was a definite aroma of wet dog. Alys looked away, gazing out of the window. The hill out of the town looked nearly vertical. Rob obviously knew the road well – he drove speedily but carefully. He didn’t say another word and Alys began to wonder whether she should try to make conversation. She looked at him surreptitiously out of the corner of her eye, registering wavy brown hair, a checked shirt topped with a ribbed navy sweater (holey at the elbows) and broad hands (none too clean) grasping the steering wheel.

  ‘Um, Rob – is that short for Robert?’ she ventured, to break the silence.

  ‘No,’ said Rob, shortly.

  ‘Oh.’ The silence grew, developing a portentous quality. Alys had the feeling that she had said something wrong.

  Finally, Rob sighed, shifted up a gear as the road levelled out, and said, ‘Robin’.

  ‘Robin!’ Alys tried to stifle a snort of laughter. The name really didn’t suit him.

  ‘Ok, I know.’ Rob glanced sideways at her. She was relieved to notice the hint of a smile lifting his previously stern expression. ‘Blame my mum. When she was expecting me she was stuck at home with bad morning sickness. She fed this robin in the garden every day, apparently. It got so tame that it would fly over to sit on her hand as soon as she stepped outside the back door. She saw it as some sort of good omen, so she promised to name her firstborn after it.’

  It was Rob’s turn to snort, sardonically.

  ‘Aah, that’s a lovely story.’ Alys was encouraged by how positively chatty he’d become. ‘Well, I don’t know who I’m named after. Alice in Wonderland, perhaps?’

  ‘Hmmm, that figures,’ said Rob, but before she could ask him what he meant by that, the Land Rover came to a halt and Rob leapt out, leaving the engine still running. He opened her door, and turned to haul her suitcase from the back.

  ‘Don’t forget your letter,’ he said. ‘The postbox is on the main street. Moira will be pleased to see you. That back injury has been making her feel a bit desperate. Can you manage now?’ He paused. ‘I’ll give you a hand with your case onto the path. It’s that door along there – the blue one. Don’t let Moira lay a hand on this case, mind, or she’ll be in hospital.’

  Clearly finding this funny, he chuckled to himself, settled back in the driving seat and drove off, leaving Alys to struggle her one-wheeled case along the path that ran between a row of cottages and the church. She had the distinct feeling that she hadn’t made a very good impression and she couldn’t for the life of her work out why she even cared.

  The blue door flew open before Alys reached it, and there was Moira, leaning heavily on a walking frame. Her short wavy hair was threaded with far more grey than when Alys had last seen her, and she looked pale and drawn, but she was beaming from ear to ear.

  ‘I thought I heard Rob’s Land Rover,’ she said. ‘You’re here at last. Come in, come in. There’s tea, and cake, of course.’

  Chapter Five

  Later that evening, after Moira had shuffled painfully up the stairs to rest in bed, and Alys had made sure that she’d swallowed her painkillers, before arranging her pillows to support her back and ease any pressure on her spine, Alys decided it was time to get her bearings and take a tour of the village before it got dark.

  Latching the door behind her, she headed along Church Lane into the cobbled main street. Seen up close, the cobbles came as a shock – she had expected smooth, polished, rounded stones of different hues of brown. She’d seen something like that before, but where? Perhaps in a museum in York, when she was small? The Northwaite cobbles, however, were pretty much uniform in size and looked as though they might have come from a garden centre. Alys wasn’t sure that the local tourist authority would appreciate her description, but they’d added nothing to her journey along the road in the Land Rover. She’d be surprised if any of the cars around here still had their suspension intact.

  She spotted the postbox: a flat, red panel set into the grey-stone wall, a tub of bright daffodils beneath it. She hesitated a moment – the letter now looked a bit of a mess. Tim wouldn’t be happy. Then she shrugged, and posted it. After all, he’d be even less happy when he’d read it …

  Turning her gaze to the road ahead, she took in the grey-stone houses fronting the street, hugging it on each side. Window boxes and flower tubs and, in one case, a tiny stone seat, had been squeezed into the available area between the front windows and the pavement, the strong colours of the spring flowers throwing the blackened and weathered stone into sharp contrast. The front doors opened straight into the sitting rooms and, where lights had been turned on inside, Alys could see that the rooms were dominated by huge stone fireplaces that seemed out of place in such small spaces.

  Pausing to catch her breath as the road climbed steeply out of the village, she found herself already high up and quite exposed, gazing out at three surrounding and distant hills of a similar height. The road swept off into the distance over one hill, a monument topped a second, moorland the third. Lights were starting to twinkle here and there in the gathering dusk.

  Although it was past eight in the evening it was still not quite dark. The light had the strangest quality, tinged with both a grey and a yellow hue. Dark clouds were gathering over to her left and Alys could see a mist sweeping through the valley. It looked as though rain was heading her way. Her hair, whipped by the wind, was springing free of the elastic band and blowing across her eyes. She shivered, wishing she’d worn something warmer under her cagoule. She remembered Moira’s advice before she’d left London. ‘Pack some warm clothes. It always feels about ten degrees colder up here.’ Perhaps this wasn’t the right evening to continue her explorations?

  She turned, heading back towards the lights of the village. The last cottage on the high street was more noticeable viewed from this angle. She’d been struck by its ornate stone gatepost and the front door with a carved stone arch above it as she’d headed out of the village. It had seemed unusually grand for a cottage. She now saw that there was a side door, too, with a little niche cut quite high on the wall beside it, similar to the type of thing you might see in a church. This was also decorated with a stone arch, and a pillar candle burned in a glass storm lantern placed in the niche. It was a nice touch, thought Alys, hurrying back towards the haven of Moira’s cottage as the first drops of rain began spattering the paving stones. She hoped the flame would survive the coming storm.

  Chapter Six

  The key felt weighty in Alys’s pocket, where it sat along with the code for the café alarm on a folded piece of paper that she turned through her fingers as she walked. She felt a mixture of trepidation and excitement: trepidation that she would fumble the alarm code and trigger the alarm, and excitement at getting a proper look at the café for the first time. It lay in the opposite direction to the one she had taken when she had explored yesterday evening. The memory of posting her letter came back to her and she experienced a frisson of worry as she walked. Her letter would be on its way to Tim now. When would the consequences be felt?

  At breakfast that morning Moira had said, ‘Why don’t you take the keys and go and have a look around the café? Then maybe we could think about baking and you could open it on a part-time basis until I’m feeling a bit better, so that my regulars don’t think I’ve abandoned them.’

  Then she’d given Alys directions and the instructions for the alarm and so here she was, standing outside the door. The Celestial Cake Café was well placed, on a bend shortly after you came into the village. They must have driven right past it after Rob had collected her from the station the day before, Alys reflected, but she had failed to register it. The café had one large window and a smaller one on either side of the front door, which was set back, providing shelter from the weather. Yesterday’s rain had given way to clear skies and a brisk wind that had buffeted her on her walk and Alys
appreciated the moment’s respite as she prepared to open the door. The door handle, fingerplate and letterbox were made of ornate brass, polished and with a lovely soft sheen that suggested years of use. The exterior paintwork had been freshly done, in a light-sage green to match the door, and ‘The Celestial Cake Café’ was lettered in a simple black script across the top of the façade. The most striking thing, though, was the pair of white angel’s wings that hung in the largest of the two windows. They looked as though they might have been taken from a statue. Alys smiled to herself – she wondered where Moira had got them. They were an original and memorable touch.

  She steeled herself to open the door and deal with the alarm but, as Moira had promised, it was perfectly straightforward and, with the beeping of the keypad stilled and the door closed behind her, she could examine the interior at leisure. The whole room was half panelled in duck-egg blue tongue-and-groove, and the upper part of the walls was painted to match. Framed prints of cherubs and line drawings of angels were intermingled with small watercolour sketches that looked as though they might be of the local area: waterfalls, woodland paths and views of grey-stone cottages. Mismatched wooden chairs painted in a soft palette of colours – blues, greys, greens and stone – had been provided with seat cushions in an Indian paisley fabric that added a bright splash of hot pink, turquoise and orange. There was a window seat under the angel’s wings, piled with cushions in the same soft shades as the chair colours, and a wooden serving counter looked as though it had been created from recycled hefty wooden planks, marked here and there with black strips and holes where iron fixings or nails had been removed.

  The café interior was L-shaped and the back section held tiny tables and a wood-burning stove. It was now cold but Alys could imagine how the room with its stone-flagged floor would benefit from the heat in the colder months. She peeped out of the narrow window in the sturdy back door to catch a glimpse of a small courtyard, lined with tubs filled with spring bulbs in full flower: scarlet and orange tulips, creamy yellow narcissi and bright-blue grape hyacinths. Scrubbed tables folded against the wall told her that this would be an extra seating space in the warmer months. All in all, Moira had done a wonderful job, Alys thought as she looked around. And the place was spotless, not a crumb or sticky smear to be seen. She tried to imagine what the café must be like when it was busy with the buzz of conversation, the smell of coffee in the air, the serving counter piled high with cakes and biscuits ready for the customers.

  One or two people had passed by the café and Alys noticed their curious glances through the window. She decided that it was time to head back to Moira’s before it became necessary to turn customers away so, with the alarm reset and the door locked behind her, she turned her steps back up the hill. She felt a surge of impatience. She wished that she was coming straight back, cake tins and boxes already full, ready to open up the café and get to work. As it was, there was much to be done and her head whirled as she mentally listed all the things she would need to ask Moira about. First things first, though. There were cakes to be made.

  Chapter Seven

  The larder in her aunt’s kitchen was a thing of delight to Alys. A relic of days gone by, its neatly ordered shelves held all manner of ingredients that Moira used for cake making. Apart from paper sacks of flour from a local mill there were eggs supplied by a nearby farm, slabs of chocolate, packs of sugar in shades from purest white through caramel to dark brown, packets of coconut, and oats, and pats of butter wrapped in paper.

  Her introduction to this Aladdin’s cave of baker’s delights had come on her return from the café when Moira, resting on a chair at the kitchen table, had told her to go and open the door in the corner of the kitchen. Half expecting to find a storage cupboard or a hidden staircase, Alys had stood transfixed on the threshold. Within, all was cool, ordered calm. One section was reserved for Moira’s own household needs but the rest was given over to baking. Alys didn’t need to ask why the butter and eggs were stored there, rather than in the fridge. She knew that it made it much quicker to bring them up to ideal room temperature for cake-making; the larder, which was tiled, was cool in both winter and summer.

  Alys could almost feel her fingers twitching as she surveyed the ingredients. She wanted to make a start right there and then, to fill the kitchen with the wonderful aroma of baking. But something told her to proceed with caution. Moira was in pain and although she’d asked for help to run the café, now that Alys was here she could see that her aunt needed help around the house too.

  ‘Let’s move you through to the other room,’ Alys said, helping Moira up from the hard kitchen chair. ‘I’m going to make you a cup of tea, then you can tell me a bit more about the café. And we can make a plan.’

  With Moira settled by the wood burner, and tea on the table beside her, Alys sat down on the sofa. ‘So, tell me the story of the café. How did you come up with the name? Where did the lovely cushion fabric come from? And the angel’s wings?’

  Moira eased herself back against the cushions that Alys had stacked behind her, and over the next hour she described how the transformation of the business had come about. She had taken possession of the café a couple of years previously, when the style of the interior had still reflected the previous owner’s taste. It had floral wallpaper, rather faded curtains at the windows and the general feel of being stuck in a 1950s time warp.

  ‘I just ripped off the wallpaper and gave it all a lick of paint. The wings came first, though,’ Moira said. ‘They inspired me to give the café its new identity. I spotted them in an antique shop in Nortonstall shortly after I took over the lease. I just had to have them – they were so unusual. I thought they would be made of wood or plaster and really heavy but they’re not. Otherwise, I would have hung them on the wall rather than in the window. Wouldn’t like to think of them falling and squashing the customers.’ She chuckled, and then winced – her back muscles were very sore. ‘I think they must have been carved out of a block of polystyrene and then given a paint job. Maybe they were a prop from a theatre or something?’ She paused to sip her tea. ‘So, the name of the café came from the wings, really. I liked the way it sounded, too. Alliterative.’

  Alys grasped at some half-remembered fact from her schooldays. ‘All the C’s at the beginning?’ she asked. ‘Celestial Cake Café?’

  Moira nodded. ‘Then it was a case of trying to do the place up as cheaply as possible,’ she continued. ‘The chairs came from a junk shop and I painted them to use up the tester pots I’d bought when I was trying to get the colours right for the walls and the front door.’

  ‘And the cushions?’ Alys asked. ‘They’re such glorious fabrics.’

  ‘Lovely, aren’t they?’ Moira was smiling. ‘I’d had the fabric stashed away for years, wondering what to do with it, and it seemed to work perfectly. Otherwise, I think the place would have looked a bit too tasteful. I wanted it to look smart but also feel relaxed and homely.’

  Moira went on to describe how she had built up the business. Apart from the Post Office and a general store, the café was the only other shop in the tiny village. Locals dropped in for bread, for cakes to take home for tea, for a takeaway sandwich as a change from what was to be found in the fridge at home. Wet mornings found them drawn in for coffee and the chance for a chat and a gossip with the other villagers. Her other customers were tourists, who found their way off the beaten track to visit the imposing church with its beautiful stained glass, or hikers striding out on the trails that took them down into the valley and up again, to the open moorland and the Pennine Way.

  ‘I’ve mainly concentrated on building up the clientele, finding out which cakes people like best,’ Moira said, but Alice could tell that despite her modest assertion she was really pleased with what she had achieved. The picture that Moira painted, of a thriving, bustling business with many loyal customers, made Alys all the more determined to have the café open again as soon as possible. Moira was clearly thinking along much the same l
ines.

  ‘I made a phone call this morning,’ she said. ‘To Flo, who helps me out when it’s busy in the summer. She’d be happy to come in and work alongside you for a while, to show you the ropes, help you with the coffee machine and the cash register until you get the hang of it. And until I feel more able to be there.’

  ‘That sounds great!’ Alys was enthusiastic. ‘But who’s going to look after you? You can’t stay here alone all day. You can barely move as yet.’

  ‘It’s not quite that bad,’ Moira protested. ‘I’ve got a couple of friends in the village who will pop in and help me out – make me some lunch, get me a cup of tea, that sort of thing. And I need to keep moving otherwise I will stiffen up. I can’t be just sitting around all day.’

  Alys was longing to experience the café routine that Moira had described to her but she insisted on probing further to make sure that her aunt was going to be properly cared for over the coming days. Finally reassured, she got to her feet to prepare some lunch.

  ‘And then,’ she announced, ‘you’re going to have a rest and I’m going to bake.’

  Baking had been an important part of Alys’s childhood. It wasn’t an interest she had inherited from Kate, who had shown only puzzlement when nine-year-old Alys spent her Sunday afternoons turning out fairy cakes and chocolate cake from packet mixes. She’d graduated to homemade scones after a family summer holiday in Devon, where the whole family – apart from Kate – had embraced cream teas with enthusiasm. Kate had got over her worry about the amount of cake that she might be forced to eat, and the number of calories it contained, when she realised that David, along with Alys’s older siblings George and Edward, were only too happy to fulfil their duties, and hers too, in that respect. She left her daughter to it, buying whatever ingredients she requested.

  By the time Alys was thirteen, she was in demand among friends and family for birthday cakes, millionaire’s shortbread, flapjacks, Bakewell tart, and ginger parkin for Bonfire Night. Then, almost overnight, she’d stopped baking. Kate had suspected that it wasn’t cool for a Nineties teenager to be into baking. The usual teen interests had taken over: music, fashion magazines and flushed and giggly phone conversations achieved by dragging the household phone out into the draughty hallway for some privacy.