‘But there is risk in everything we do,’ Clarrie argued. ‘Crossing tramlines, slipping on wet steps, being trampled by a bolting horse. You can’t go through life being scared of something that’s never likely to happen.’
‘You’re young and don’t see the need for caution,’ Herbert countered, ‘but I do. I have already lost one beloved wife and I know I couldn’t go through such grief again. That is why, God forgive me, I have never consummated our union. Please say you understand.’
She looked into his tortured face. His fear was plain to see. But where did that leave their marriage? It would continue to be a pretence and perhaps become a topic of ridicule if the truth of their separation leaked out. She did not know if she could bear the loneliness of such a platonic relationship. But what choice did she have? She gulped down her bitter disappointment.
‘I understand,’ she answered. Turning from him quickly, so he would not see how sad he had made her, she led the way downstairs.
CHAPTER 25
Contrary to Bertie’s predictions, the census affair harmed neither the Stocks’ legal business nor Clarrie’s cafe. That autumn, when the hoped-for reform bill was talked out of Parliament, sparking a militant campaign of window-breaking, Herbert was asked to represent two of the WSPU in court. They were fined and chose to go to prison instead, but Clarrie was grateful that her husband had stood up for them, especially in face of Bertie’s anger with him for taking on the cases at all.
As for the tea room, Clarrie had a rush of interest from other political groups in hiring her meeting room. Lexy and her youngest sister, Edith, who had taken her place at the laundry, lived rent free in the flat above in return for opening up early and closing late. Herbert’s Tea Rooms became well known as an informal debating house for radical branches of the Independent Labour Party, trades councils and women’s groups. Clarrie revelled in the mix of people who came and went, weary shoppers and the elderly rubbing shoulders with artists and union leaders.
She did not always agree with some of the politics discussed around her tea tables, but it gladdened her to see both men and women eschewing the pub for the cafe and viewing it as a safe haven. When the school holidays came, she would lay on cut-price teas for families and give out free apples, bananas and sweets to children on their birthdays. Herbert’s became renowned for its wholesome food at modest prices, its cheerful, hard-working staff and the attractive, ivory-skinned Mrs Stock who inspired their loyalty as well as the growing affection of the West End s working-class inhabitants.
The radical reputation of the cafe spread and the avant-garde and bohemian of Newcastle came out of curiosity and stayed. They liked its colourful decor and proletarian chic. Olive got a couple of commissions for her vibrant paintings with their startling mix of oriental birds and northern scenes. Nobody had seen anything like them before. Clarrie was glad that Olive was making a go of her art and keeping occupied, for she no longer had time to do things with her sister, or even her friend Rachel. The cafe consumed her every waking hour.
One busy winter afternoon, when the windows were misted up with the warmth inside and rain drummed on the pavement outside, a tall man entered shaking the wet from his umbrella. Clarrie went to take it from him to put in the stand and flinched in shock.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Stock.’ Wesley smiled stiffly, removing his hat. Rain glistened on his handsome face and dripped from his dark sideburns.
‘What are you doing here?’ she gasped.
He looked nonplussed for a moment. Then his green eyes took on their usual appraising look. ‘I’ve come to drink tea. That is what you’re advertising outside.’
‘Of course,’ she said, recovering hastily. ‘Let me show you to a table, Mr Robson. There’s room at the back.’
She threaded her way between the crowded tables. The atmosphere was fuggy with tobacco smoke, damp wool and cooked food. The scrape of cutlery and clatter of cups punctuated the chatter and laughter. Clarrie led Wesley to a small table tucked behind a potted aspidistra on an old stand that Olive had painted yellow. It was Florence and Nancy’s favourite spot, out of the draught from the main door where they could discuss suffrage business undisturbed. If they came in it would not be until this evening. Clarrie smoothed the linen tablecloth and pulled out a seat for him.
‘I’ll send Lexy to take your order, Mr Robson,’ she said without making eye contact.
Back behind the counter, Lexy raised her eyebrows.
‘Yes, it’s Wesley Robson,’ Clarrie confirmed, ‘come to spy on us, no doubt.’ She nodded at Lexy. ‘Go and take his order — and find out what he’s after.’
Clarrie was kept busy with the flow of customers seeking refuge from the downpour outside that was turning to sleet. People squeezed together two on a seat and she pulled up her sleeves to help with the demand for food and hot drinks. An hour later it occurred to her that she had not seen Wesley leave.
‘He’s still there,’ Lexy confirmed, ‘and on his third pot of tea. Taking notes, bold as brass. Says he wants a word with you before he goes.’
Clarrie’s heart began to race. She had no desire to speak to him but was curious as to what he was up to.
‘Probably wondering where some of his posh customers have gone to,’ Lexy winked. ‘He’ll hate this place doing so well.’
Clarrie laughed. ‘We’re hardly a threat to the Robsons’ tea houses.’ But she was secretly pleased that Herbert’s was so well known that even Wesley had to sit up and take an interest. In less than a year she had achieved what she had set out to do: prove that a high-quality tea room could thrive in working-class Elswick.
Half an hour later, the rain abruptly stopped and the cafe began to clear.
‘He’s asking for you,’ Lexy said, nodding to the back of the room.
Clarrie took a deep breath to still her nervousness, pushed stray tendrils of hair into place and went to deal with Wesley.
‘Is everything to your liking, Mr Robson?’ she asked, smoothing clammy hands against her dress. She was twenty-five, married and a successful businesswoman at last, yet he made her feel like a gauche girl with his mocking look.
‘Very much, Mrs Stock. May I congratulate you on the quality of your tea? I must admit to being surprised by how quickly you’ve made your mark in the cafe business.’
Clarrie gave him a dry smile. ‘Didn’t think a Belhaven could make a success of anything?’
A smile flickered across his lips. ‘So you are still a Belhaven at heart? I’m glad to hear it.’
Clarrie coloured. ‘I was being flippant, of course. I am proud to be Mrs Herbert Stock, as you can see from the name of this place.’
‘Indeed.’ Wesley eyed her.
‘Is there anything else you would like before you leave?’ Clarrie said pointedly. ‘Or have you seen enough to report back to your business partners?’
Wesley gave a short laugh. ‘You think I’ve been spying on you?’
‘Haven’t you?’
He murmured, ‘No more than you did when you were planning your tea room. I believe you visited my new Empire branches with that pretty friend of yours, Mrs Garven, isn’t that her name?’
Clarrie’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘I never saw you.’
‘No,’ he said with a smile of triumph, ‘but there’s not much I don’t see or get to hear about.’ He saw her discomfort and added quickly, ‘Please, have you a moment to sit down with me? There is something I would like to ask.’
Reluctantly, Clarrie pulled out the chair opposite and sat upright on its edge, her hands clasped in her lap to stop them shaking.
‘I’ve heard a lot about this place,’ Wesley said, dropping his voice to a low rumble, ‘and I’m very impressed by what you’ve done. It’s an interesting social experiment.’
‘Not an experiment,’ Clarrie replied, ‘but a necessity. I saw such a need here when Olive and I first came.’ She was doubtful about how much she should tell him, but decided it no longer mattered now she was Herbert’s wif
e and had standing in the community. ‘We lived in a pub two streets away from here and had to serve beer and spirits to men until they fell over blind drunk. We tried to avoid getting hit as they punched each other senseless on a Friday night. It was very frightening. A far cry from the genteel society of Shillong.’
Wesley frowned. ‘Go on.’
‘I know from bitter experience how liquor can ruin lives, poison people’s souls as well as their bodies. Worse than what it did to the men was what the women had to put up with. Lasses like Lexy would come in to warm up, escape the drudgery of the washhouse for twenty minutes and numb it all with a couple of whiskies or a glass of stout. They were seen as the lowest of the low; my cousins despised them and my friend Maggie was regularly beaten by her drunken husband for being a drinker. It was no way to live. Women like them deserve better than that.’ Clarrie nodded towards the counter. ‘Look at Lexy now. She never touches a drop — she’s kept far too busy for one thing.’ Clarrie smiled briefly. ‘But she doesn’t need it; she’s got her self-respect instead. Nobody would dare come in here and call her names — they’d be out that door quicker than you can say King George.’
She held Wesley’s gaze. ‘You might think from all the fuss over suffragists and the like that this place is a hotbed of revolution. Well, if it is, then that’s by the by; it’s really for lasses like Lexy and Ina. A little bit of paradise. Some of us are lucky enough to glimpse it in our lifetime. Belgooree was mine. Why shouldn’t they have a little bit on their doorstep too?’
Wesley looked at her in such a strange way that Clarrie wondered if she had been foolish to say such things. Why had she? He might twist her words about revolution and paradise to denounce her as a political troublemaker and damage her business.
He leaned across the table, his look intense. ‘Why don’t you expand your idea — these Utopian cafes — to other working-class areas? You’ve proved the business model works.’
Clarrie felt a stab of annoyance. ‘It’s not a business model — it’s about real flesh and blood people in this particular community. It works because we know them and they know us. I don’t know about other areas.’
‘But you make a profit, don’t you?’ Wesley said eagerly. ‘And it’s hugely popular. Whatever your reasons for beginning the venture, it’s proving highly successful. You should be capitalising on that success — spreading out to other areas. Or don’t you want the poor in other quarters to benefit from a bit of your paradise?’
Clarrie could not decide if he was really a convert to the idea or planning to exploit it in some way. ‘I do not have the funds or the will to expand; all my time and energy is taken up here. I’ve put myself into it, heart and soul. This is where I want to stay.’
He gave a look of impatience. ‘I could finance an expansion.’
‘You?’ Clarrie gasped.
‘Yes,’ he said, eyes alight. ‘Come into business with me, Clarrie!’
Her heart jolted at the unexpected offer. ‘No,’ she said at once, ‘certainly not.’
‘Why not?’ he demanded.
She was momentarily lost for words. Had she not at one time thought of that very solution when Herbert had kept putting her off?
‘We’re incompatible,’ she managed.
‘I’m quite aware of your dislike for me on a personal level, Mrs Stock,’ he said drily. ‘I’m merely offering a commercial arrangement.’
Clarrie blushed. ‘I understand that. But our ideas about business are quite opposite — I’m content with keeping things small-scale just as long as the business pays its way. The people matter more than profit.’
‘That’s just being naive,’ Wesley retorted. ‘The more profit you make the better you can pay your staff.’
‘Your staff are no better paid than mine despite your profits,’ Clarrie retaliated. ‘But no doubt the pockets of your relations and shareholders are heavy with dividends.’
Wesley flushed. She had rattled him. ‘The Robson tea rooms are more likely to weather a slump in trade because of such prudent financial backing. Yours won’t. And when the next one comes, where will that leave your precious staff?’
Clarrie was scathing. ‘I’m touched that you’ve come all this way to show your concern about whether I stay in business or not.’
‘I’m offering you a chance to ally yourself with the Empire Tea Rooms,’ Wesley said impatiently. ‘Between us we could have cafes all over the north-east. You could become a wealthy woman in your own right, no longer dependent on your husband’s largesse.’
‘But dependent on yours? It might sound tempting to some, but I have no intention of being at the beck and call of the Robson shareholders. Here, I can run things as I like and rent my meeting room to whoever I please.’
‘That wouldn’t change,’ Wesley insisted. ‘The shareholders don’t care about that sort of thing.’
‘Then why was I the only proprietor who would hire out my cafe to the WSPU on census night?’ Clarrie challenged. ‘You didn’t dare.’
Wesley threw up his hands in incomprehension. ‘Why are you so stubbornly against me?’ he cried.
‘Because I don’t trust you,’ Clarrie said, holding his look.
His face was taut with frustration. ‘Why not?’
‘I know how you Robsons do business,’ Clarrie said. ‘I’ve seen it in India and I’ve seen it here. You’re not happy until everyone is either working for you or squeezed out of business.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Wesley retorted. ‘I don’t want to see you out of business — I want to help you grow bigger.’
‘Do you?’ Clarrie asked. ‘Or do you just want to grab a bit of my success? I don’t believe for one minute that your family would agree to your funding a “social experiment” unless they thought there was something in it for them. I think you Robsons are jealous at my doing well. You see something flourish and the next thing you have to control it.’
Wesley’s eyes narrowed. ‘By God, you’re as infuriating as your father to do business with,’ he accused. ‘He could never see the bigger picture either. Stay small if that’s what you want, but without my backing you won’t last more than two or three years at the most.’
‘Is that a threat?’ Clarrie asked indignantly.
‘No it is not,’ Wesley said angrily, ‘it’s economics.’
‘Then I’ll take my chance,’ Clarrie declared. ‘I’m used to weathering storms. I thank you for your offer, but I will never take Robson money.’
They glared at each other. Wesley sat back, his jaw tense. Clarrie got up to go. He stood and caught her arm as she moved away.
‘I can see through your proud Belhaven act, Clarrie. You sneer at my offer, but you were not too proud to marry an old man for his money so you could set yourself up in this place.’
Clarrie gave him a blazing look. ‘I did nothing of the sort. I married Herbert for—’
‘For love?’ Wesley said derisively. He gave her a knowing look. ‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’
Clarrie went hot with indignation, pulling away from his hold. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I’m not judging you,’ Wesley said, ‘but others do.’
‘You shouldn’t listen to idle gossip.’
‘I’m not talking about title-tattle below stairs.’ He blocked her way. ‘You are wrong to think I’m the enemy. There are some who do wish to see you fail, but I’m not one of them.’
Abruptly, he seized his coat and hat and strode through the tea room, hardly breaking his stride to lift his umbrella from the stand. Clarrie watched him tip his hat to an astonished Lexy as he thrust a ten-shilling note into her hand and then left.
Ten minutes later her heart was still hammering from the encounter as she helped clear tables.
‘That was generous of Mr Robson, wasn’t it?’ Lexy said, eyeing Clarrie. ‘What did he want?’
‘What he always wants,’ Clarrie muttered, ‘a piece of someone else’s business.’
Lexy snorted. ‘I
hope you told him to gan jump in the river!’
Clarrie laughed. ‘Yes, in so many words.’
‘Quite right,’ Lexy said. ‘Lads can’t stand it when lasses make a go of some’at all by their selves.’
Clarrie swung an arm round her friend. ‘Thanks, Lexy.’
‘What for?’
‘Making me feel better about turning my back on Robson’s money.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be right, would it? Not after what you said about him being all high and mighty with your poor da,’ Lexy said with disapproval. ‘Money’s not everything, is it?’
CHAPTER 26
1912
A year after opening, Clarrie threw a birthday party for Herbert’s Tea Rooms. Even though the weather was still wintry, with flurries of icy rain to mar the pale sunshine, they set up extra tables in the street and decorated the outside with balloons and paper flowers. They served piping hot ham and lentil soup, steak and kidney pies and curried fish and rice. For desserts there were steamed puddings and custard, and cakes and biscuits iced in the cafe colours of green and orange.
Scores of people were fed that day and there was an article about it in the Newcastle Chronicle with a photo of Clarrie and her waitresses standing outside the tea room. Daniel Milner was also interviewed for his part in supplying the high-grade tea.
‘One of Newcastle’s most popular tea rooms celebrates its first birthday,’ Herbert read out with pride over supper the following evening. ‘Tea merchant Mr Daniel Milner said, “Mrs Stock is very particular about her tea. She likes to sample the blends before buying. She’s a very valued customer.” Then it goes on to say, ‘Mrs Stock, the wife of esteemed solicitor Mr Herbert Stock, is an Anglo-Indian by birth and grew up on a tea garden in Assam.’ Herbert glanced at Clarrie over the newspaper and smiled. ‘Mrs Stock said, “Tea is our national drink more than anything else. Everyone enjoys it. At Herbert’s we serve the best quality we can at a price everyone can afford.”’
THE TEA PLANTER'S DAUGHTER:A wonderfully moving story of courage and enduring love: First in the India Tea Series Page 28
