Most of the dailies carried variations on the same story, and then I seemed to have lost my charm for the readers, because there was only one further update, in the Mail:
The baby abandoned near a local landmark on Blackdog Moor in West Yorkshire has been named Alice, after the late wife of the farmer who found her. Although slightly premature, she is now doing well and will have an operation to correct a cleft lip as soon as she is strong enough. A medical source said that it was amazing what early surgery could do in such situations and there was a good chance of an excellent outcome with little, if any, scarring …
‘Well, they were right about that,’ Bel commented, looking up.
‘Despite extensive police inquiries, the mother has not been found,’ continued the article, ‘so the baby will be fostered once her medical treatment is completed.’
‘They say the Oldstone is near Haworth, but didn’t you tell me it was actually much closer to another village?’
‘Yes, Upvale is a lot nearer. I expect they only put Haworth because everyone’s heard of it.’
She got a map and showed me and really, it was miles from Haworth, while Upvale was tucked right down next to it, in a small valley.
‘I suppose I must have been born somewhere round here, but maybe not Haworth after all.’
‘She must have been local enough to find her way through the back lanes to the Oldstone, though,’ Bel pointed out. ‘The only other route is the hiking trail that passes it and I can’t imagine she went that way in the dark.’
‘Assuming it was my birth mother who took me there,’ I said. ‘It could have been someone else.’
‘I suppose it could, now I come to think about it, but they still had to know the way because, at the time, only a handful of tourists used to visit the Oldstone. It’s more popular now because of the Charlotte Brontë connection to a nearby farm. They found a diary last year saying she was inspired to create Mr Rochester by the farmer living there. Did you read about that?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, it was discovered by one of my favourite novelists, Eleri Groves, and she went on to marry the current owner of the farm,’ I said, and then something struck me. ‘Didn’t it say in that article that the farmer who found me was called Godet? Only Eleri married a Henry Godet.’
‘Oh, yes, so it did – but I think there are loads of Godets round there and they’re all related.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ I said. ‘It’s so odd how these coincidences keep happening. I mean, I’ve actually met Eleri Groves! Years ago I won afternoon tea with her at Framling’s Famous Tearooms in London – that’s what sparked my idea for the tea emporium!’
‘It’s serendipity, and truth being stranger than fiction,’ Bel said.
‘Yes, and it means that at least I should be able to track down the farmer who found me, with that name. When I feel brave enough, of course …’
‘There might be more detail in some of the small local papers,’ Bel suggested. ‘The Upvale and District Gazette is the biggest and it covers Haworth, too.’
‘I’ll look another time,’ I said. ‘I want to take in what we’ve found first – and it’s getting late.’
‘OK, one step at a time,’ Bel agreed.
As I drew my bedroom curtains against the dense, starless darkness of the night, I thought of the ancient stone topping the distant hill and shivered.
I’d have to make a pilgrimage up to the bleak spot where I was found one day soon, and I couldn’t say I was looking forward to it.
I completed my medical training with flying colours, having no interest in the student drinking culture and general silliness that distracted so many of my peers.
At one time I considered becoming a pathologist, since the dead don’t require their doctors to exhibit any kind of bedside manner and I was forever being told that I didn’t have one.
But in the end I joined a general practice near a well-known Scottish golf course. Having initially taken up the game in my early teens to please Father, I had soon become the better player and found it a pleasant and healthy exercise. A relaxing non-alcoholic beverage or two in the members’ clubhouse afterwards formed the main part of my social life and I was perfectly content.
17
Beetle Drive
Next day I was to meet Rory at noon in the main car park near the Brontë Parsonage Museum, which would be easier than his attempting to find the way to the back of the café alone. A friend who was studying at Leeds University would then pick him up and they’d spend a couple of days together before he returned to Scotland.
Bel had told me that Nile usually stayed at Oldstone until after Sunday lunch, before returning to his flat, and she volunteered to drive me into Haworth instead.
‘We could set off early and get the paint for the flat on the way, if you like?’ she offered. ‘Unless you want to try the test pots first?’
‘I think I know what I want for the flat now, so that would be great,’ I told her. ‘I’ll need to get some brushes and rollers, too, I suppose.’
‘Unless you’re going to paint the walls with your fingers,’ Nile commented, having wandered in in search of breakfast.
He hadn’t yet shaved and his hair was unusually rumpled, which oddly I found rather more attractive than his normal vision of manly perfection … in fact, my heart seemed to stop for a moment and then resume with a heavy thud. I looked away quickly, though I could feel myself blushing.
‘Would anyone like to cook my breakfast for me?’ he asked, with a winning smile.
‘No, but you’ve got plenty of time to cook your own, because I’m driving Alice in,’ Bel told him.
‘Is your car on the way?’ he asked me.
I busied myself with clearing away my plate and mug, so I didn’t have to look at him. ‘Yes, Rory sent me a text very early when he set out, so you won’t have to worry about having to give me lifts any more.’
‘I wasn’t actually worried,’ he said enigmatically, then began getting out the ingredients for what looked like a breakfast banquet for six, so we left him to it.
‘If I can paint the flat before the bed comes on Friday, I could actually move in at the end of the week,’ I suggested to Bel later, as we headed back to Haworth with the paint.
‘I think I’d make the official move next Sunday or Mum will be upset and think you don’t like staying with us,’ Bel said with a grin. ‘You could go back after lunch, like Nile does.’
‘Well … if you think so,’ I agreed.
She dropped me off at the back of the café and I carried my purchases up to the back door in relays: paint is surprisingly heavy.
Then Rory sent me another text, this one saying he was running a little later than he’d expected, so it would be some time after one when he arrived. I decided to fill in the time by having a leisurely walk around the village, ending up at the Parsonage. The sky was gloomily overcast, and I thought how bleak it must have been for the Brontës looking out on the graveyard, especially once the siblings began to die, one by one. How short their lives had been, yet so full in many ways.
I remembered how I’d embellished with increasingly ridiculous flourishes Dad’s story about my being left on the Parsonage steps, like the Wicked Witch arriving in a pumpkin carriage to curse me with the harelip and how one of the horses accidentally turned back into a rat and bit her …
The breeze was too chilly for me to stand around for long, so I had a bun and a cup of coffee in a nearby soon-to-be rival establishment, so that I was on hand when Rory finally arrived.
He said the car had driven beautifully, he’d just been held up in a queue because of an accident. Then, once I’d greased his palm with petrol money and a bit extra, his friend came to collect him.
Rory did kindly offer to go back with me to the café to help unload first, but I could see the boys had things planned for the rest of the day, so I assured him it would be no problem.
Really, I could have done with some help, because after carrying all thos
e cans of paint earlier, I was convinced my arms had grown two inches longer. Still, I’d manage.
I found my way round the back streets and up the alley to my parking space without any problem and then I had a cup of coffee before starting the slow process of ferrying everything from the car to the house.
Next time I went shopping I vowed to get one of those little carts for trundling heavy objects about … or at the very least, a sturdy wheelbarrow.
Edie and Rory had carefully packed into the Beetle all the boxes, bundles and bags I’d left ready in the chalet, together with my folding easel, some bubble-wrapped pictures and a selection of battered suitcases. Edie was a great one for delegating, so I expect she just stood and directed where each item would fit, like doing a giant jigsaw by remote control.
But I discovered she’d somehow managed to insert a house-warming gift into the rear footwell, too: a Dundee cake in a tin and a bottle of Scotch whisky.
There was a kind note attached to the bottle that suddenly made the tears come to my eyes and I was standing there, resolutely blinking them back, when Nile’s car appeared and parked next to mine.
‘So, flower power is still going strong in the highlands?’ he asked, getting out and surveying the freshly repainted and improbably coloured blooms up the side of the green Beetle.
‘Vintage Cornish old hippie style,’ I told him. ‘It’s a surf dude special.’
‘It’s going to stand out like a sore thumb round here.’
‘Shouldn’t you still be at Oldstone, with your feet in the trough?’ I asked coldly, and he looked at me in surprise.
‘No, lunch was ages ago, and actually I’d have been here even sooner if Sheila hadn’t insisted on making you a picnic lunch so you didn’t starve to death. Not that you seem likely to,’ he added, looking at the cake tin I was holding.
‘House-warming gift from my friend Edie,’ I explained. ‘But woman can’t live on cake and whisky alone.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said, handing over a large plastic sandwich box and a fat, short Thermos. ‘You might want this hot soup and the chicken and stuffing rolls, after all.’
‘I do,’ I said, feeling ravenous. ‘How thoughtful and kind Bel and Sheila are!’
‘I’m kind, too,’ he told me. ‘I’ll just drop my things off at the shop and then carry all this stuff up for you.’
‘Oh, I can manage, don’t bother,’ I said airily. I mean, I’m not exactly a fragile little flower and on the whole men seem to expect me to get on and do things myself. But I was feeling tired, so when Nile returned and insisted, I gave in gracefully and watched as he ferried everything up to the flat, where we stacked it in the smallest bedroom. I could unpack it at my leisure when I’d painted and perhaps got a bit of carpet down – something else I’d need to buy.
‘It’s certainly clean as a whistle in here,’ he said, after depositing the final box, which because it was full of cookbooks made a heavy thump as it hit the floor. ‘But apart from the built-in kitchen units and the sink, there doesn’t seem to be any furnishings at all.’
‘No, Mrs M cleared the place, but now I’ve got all my things I’ll soon have it looking like home. Once the bed arrives I can manage until I find some inexpensive furniture. It’ll have to be cheap, because I’ve got the whole of the café to refit and paint, and I can’t do all of the work myself.’
‘I expect Bel will give you a hand with some of the painting, and so will I, when I’m around,’ he offered, to my surprise. I didn’t have him down as the handyman type. ‘And tomorrow I’ll take you to see a friend who has a big old barn full of furniture, where you can probably find a few bargains.’
‘Well, that’s kind of you, but if you give me directions I could go on my own, now I have my car,’ I pointed out. ‘It’ll have to be in the afternoon anyway, because my telephone landline is supposed to be reconnected in the morning and I think I need to be here for that.’
‘But you don’t know your way around yet, so it would be easier to go with me the first time,’ he said. ‘Chill – take help when it’s offered, because you still have plans to make, suppliers to find … more of those endless lists to write. Every time I see you, you’re scribbling down something new.’
‘They’re not endless, it’s just that as soon as I cross one thing off, I think of several more.’
‘That’s what I meant.’
‘Well, at least I won’t have to try to persuade Mrs Muswell’s suppliers to deal with me, because everything except the bread will be prepared or baked on the premises, and the ingredients will be top quality, not bought in bulk on the cheap,’ I told him.
‘Very grand: I hope you know what you’re doing.’ One dark eyebrow went up quizzically, in a way I was starting to find familiar.
‘I’ve spent most of my adult life working in cafés and teashops so I know exactly how I want my own to be, and I’m not going to be skimping on the food, that’s for sure.’
‘The opposite of Mrs Muswell, then,’ he said, then added, ‘Just a thought: have you got a handset to plug into the phone landline when it’s reconnected? Only I haven’t noticed one about.’
I stared at him. ‘No – you’re right, there isn’t one. I’d forgotten about that.’
‘I’ve got a spare somewhere. I’ll dig it out and bring it over first thing in the morning,’ he offered.
Then his mobile rang and when he looked down at the number he turned partly away while he answered it, so I assumed it was a girlfriend.
‘No, I can’t come at the moment, Zelda,’ he said in reply to some query. ‘But I’m hoping to pick up a very special piece at a local auction for one of my London clients and, if so, I’ll be down next week to deliver it personally.’
Presumably, this was not what his caller wanted to hear.
‘I’m sorry,’ he added after a minute. ‘I know I haven’t seen you for a while, but I can’t get away before that. You can always email me whatever the problem is if you don’t want to discuss it on the phone. Look, I’ll ring you back later. I’m a bit tied up at the moment.’
He grimaced as he put the phone back in his pocket, but didn’t give me any explanation. ‘Well, I’d better get off,’ he said, back to being Mr Terse, which was just as annoying in its way as Mr Bossy. ‘I’m away to Keswick, in pursuit of a bit of Ming. Or alleged Ming, which would mean a wasted journey.’
‘Ming the Merciless,’ I said absently, still wondering about his caller. A man so handsome, even if he was a bit on the bad-tempered side, must have hordes of women after him and it sounded as if this Zelda was one of them.
‘I didn’t have you down as a Flash Gordon fan,’ he said, looking at me in amusement, and I amended that thought to ‘sometimes bad-tempered but can suddenly turn on a stun-ray of a smile’.
‘My late fiancé … it was his favourite film,’ I explained.
‘Oh, right,’ he said, the smile vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.
Left to myself, I went up to the flat and unpacked my kitchen equipment into the cupboards, then flattened the empty cartons. This time I’d get rid of them because I was determined that I was here to stay.
It was chilly in the flat – having the boiler overhauled so I could switch the radiators on was right at the top of my priority list – so after I’d discovered that most of my curtains were long and narrow, while the flat windows were shallow and wide, then painted test patches on the walls and skirting boards, I gave up and drove myself back to Oldstone.
Nile still hadn’t returned, so I hoped he’d found his Ming and it was all that he had hoped for.
Back in my comfortable room at the farm, I wrote another scene before dinner.
‘My prince is coming to free me and we’ll live happily ever after,’ Beauty said.
‘But it might not be the right happily-ever-after,’ said the mouse. ‘Something’s wrong with this enchantment, or you’d have stayed asleep till your prince had kissed you. This must be a prince from the Here-and-now, w
hile you need one from the Once-upon-a-time. You’d better wait.’
And indeed he was quite right. Where once a forest had flourished, an estate of shabby, rundown houses, with gardens growing crops of rusty cars and old prams, had encircled the bower without the occupants realizing it was there.
Now, as the enchantment faded, it would beckon to them like a jewel in a sea of mud.
Dinner was just me, Bel and Sheila again, which was cosy. I was starting to feel very at home at Oldstone, considering I’d barely been there five minutes.
‘Nile is taking me somewhere tomorrow afternoon to look at second-hand furniture and antiques, but I thought I’d start painting the flat in the morning while I’m waiting for the phone engineer,’ I told them. ‘And maybe I can get hold of someone to come and service the boiler in the flat, because it’s freezing up there without the heating on.’
‘I’ll come and help you paint in the morning for an hour or two,’ Bel offered. ‘But then I’ll come back and work: I’m exhibiting with two other potters at a gallery in York before Christmas, so I’ll have to start stockpiling pieces.’
‘Only if you’ve got time and feel like it,’ I said.
‘I’m putting you in my debt, so you have to help us plan out and convert our little café before spring,’ she said. ‘It’s my cunning plan.’
‘I’d do that anyway,’ I told her.
After dinner, Sheila said she was going to the studio she’d created out of what was once a small Victorian orangery at the back of the house, a concept I would have thought as entirely alien to the surrounding moorland as the carving of a bunch of grapes over the front door.
When she’d gone, followed by her shadow, Honey, Bel told me she’d checked out some local newspapers online that afternoon and had printed out what she’d found.
‘I hope you don’t mind, but I couldn’t resist it.’
‘No, it will save time,’ I assured her. ‘Did you find anything interesting?’
‘Yes, and there was a lot more detail in the Upvale and District Gazette than any newspapers on the Haworth side.’
The Little Teashop of Lost and Found Page 13
