Instead, I headed like a homing pigeon to Oldstone Farm, where I thawed out over hot chocolate in the kitchen with Bel. It was quiet – Sheila was working in her pottery, while Geeta, Teddy and the baby had gone out.
‘They do open the office at weekends if people book an appointment, but autumn is a slow time for ordering pools,’ she explained. ‘Anyway, it’s Geeta’s mother’s birthday and there’s a big family party, so they’ve gone to Bradford. Geeta was wearing her best sari and some of her gold wedding jewellery and she looked stunning.’ She sighed. ‘I wish that sort of thing suited me.’
‘How did she and Teddy meet?’ I asked.
‘Teddy’s best friend at university is her brother, and when Ted went to the house it was love at first sight. Her parents took a bit of winning round, but they adore Teddy now – and the baby.’
‘I think I’m way too tall to carry off a sari,’ I said, ‘though I could probably get away with salwar kameez.’
‘I’m only about an inch shorter than you,’ Bel said. ‘I take after Dad’s side, the Giddingses were all tall.’
‘You know, one of the nicest things about moving to Haworth is how many tall women there are – even Tilda, one of the Branwell Café staff, is almost my height.’
I’d told Bel yesterday that I meant to go and visit the Oldstone on my way here and now she said, ‘So – what did you think of the Oldstone?’
I shivered, despite the warm kitchen and the mug of hot chocolate. ‘It’s bleak and deserted up there,’ I said. ‘And the question of where my birth mother came from is wide open, because I can see that while she might have been from a nearby cottage or farm, she could just as well have driven – or been driven – from almost anywhere else.’
‘The police will have checked out all the houses within walking distance, so I think you can rule that one out,’ Bel said. ‘I mean, this Emily Rhymer may have walked up there from Upvale in the dark, but it’s not something most women would contemplate.’
‘No, and I’m looking forward to talking to her, in an odd kind of way, because she sounds eccentric, to say the least.’
Sheila came in just then, her moss-green corduroy trousers liberally besmirched with clay, followed by her shadow, Honey, and asked us what we were going to do today.
‘Really, you should have a rest, Alice, before tackling the café renovations next week. Jack told me he was managing the whole thing for you between jobs for his regular clients and I think that’s a really sensible idea.’
‘I’d originally meant to do as much of it as I could myself to save money, but once I’d met Jack I realized that would be a false economy,’ I agreed.
‘We’re having a busman’s holiday today, Mum,’ Bel said. ‘We’re going to measure up the coach house and work out the plans for our café so Teddy can draw them up. And I was just about to tell Alice that we’ve decided to go all Norwegian with the food!’
‘Do you mean Norwegian cakes, like those delicious-sounding Bergen buns you mentioned?’ I asked.
‘No, we’ve scrapped the cake idea for something more unusual: we’re going to serve Norwegian waffles with sour cream and black cherry jam.’
‘Or any good home-made jam,’ Sheila said. ‘I like them with strawberry.’
‘Are Norwegian waffles different?’ I asked.
‘They’re floppy and you spread the cream and jam on one side, then fold it over to eat.’
‘They sound delicious.’
‘I must make you some,’ Sheila promised. ‘And I’ve come to the conclusion that it will be better to employ someone in the café than try to run it ourselves.’
‘I think that’s very sensible, and the catering facilities will be simple if you’re going to need only a large waffle iron and tea- and coffee- making equipment.’
‘It’s going to cost a bit to turn the coach house into a café, but it’s an investment to draw in the visitors,’ Sheila said. ‘A sprat to catch a mackerel.’
‘I know. I keep going through my figures and trying to find ways of keeping the costs down that won’t affect the quality of the teashop,’ I said. ‘But some things you just can’t scrimp on.’
‘So, you think a little Norwegian waffle house would be a draw?’ asked Bel.
‘A sign saying “Waffle House” would certainly make me turn off the road,’ I assured her. ‘It’s your unique selling point, just as offering grown-up afternoon teas is mine.’
‘Now I want waffles,’ Bel sighed, ‘and I’ve only just had a late breakfast.’
‘I’ll make some at lunchtime – I only came back for a cup of coffee really,’ Sheila said, but when she’d made it she sat down again at the table. ‘It will just be us three for dinner today, though I’m sure Nile will be back for his Sunday lunch tomorrow, come hell or high water!’
‘He never misses one if he can help it,’ Bel agreed, ‘and he calls me greedy!’
‘Nile said he’d told you about how he came to be part of our family,’ Sheila said to me. ‘I’m so glad, because normally he’s very reserved about it.’
‘He’s normally reserved, full stop,’ Bel said. ‘Except with the family, of course.’
‘I hadn’t noticed that,’ I told her. ‘But then, I seem to rub him up the wrong way.’
‘Oh, I think he likes you really,’ Sheila assured me, though I expect that was more the result of her sunny optimistic nature than anything.
‘I was very surprised when he told me he was adopted too. I suppose it gives us some common ground, though his experience was entirely different from mine, of course, because he knew his mother.’
‘Yes, his early years were very traumatic, poor boy, and he saw some terrible things, though I’m sure that in her way his mother must have loved him.’
From what he’d said, it sounded to me as if she’d loved drink much more … which was just as tragic, in its way, as my being left in the middle of nowhere like a bit of discarded rubbish.
‘My adoptive mother was cold towards me, but I had a wonderful, loving father. My best friend Lola’s parents were great, too – really laid-back – and we had the run of their smallholding, with goats and hens and a donkey, so I suppose it was all a bit Enid Blyton.’
‘And now you and Nile are forging your own careers and have turned into fine young people,’ Sheila said.
‘Not so very young,’ I said wryly. ‘I’m thirty-six!’
‘Teddy and I are a couple of years younger than you, but Nile’s thirty-eight, the poor old thing,’ Bel said.
‘Not so much of the old,’ protested Sheila.
‘Isn’t Zelda about to hit the big four-oh, Mum?’ asked Bel, then explained to me, ‘Nile’s partner spent a couple of gap years working her way round the world before she went to university.’
‘You know, I think you’re right,’ Sheila said, looking struck. ‘Time flies – and she’s such a lovely girl that I’m surprised she hasn’t settled down and had a family by now.’
‘Oh?’ I said, trying not to sound as curious as I felt, for Zelda was an unusual name so she had to be the one who had phoned him that time, and from my end, it hadn’t sounded like just business. ‘She and Nile aren’t a couple?’
‘I don’t think they’ve ever really been anything other than friends,’ Bel said. ‘She’s had a couple of long-term relationships, but they fizzled out.’
‘Bel used to see a lot of her, because her ex-husband is a doctor at one of the London hospitals,’ Sheila explained.
‘I hated living in London,’ Bel said. ‘And in the end, I hated my husband, too! Once he became a consultant he seemed to expect everyone, including me, to obey his every word. And when I didn’t, he would look at me as if I was a bad case of some nasty disease. And then having a fling with someone I thought was a friend was the finishing touch.’
‘You were a bit of a mismatch from the start,’ Sheila said. ‘He was very handsome, though.’
‘I think we both thought we were marrying different kinds of people,�
� she said. ‘It didn’t work out – and now I don’t want to be married to anyone ever again. I’m going to live at Oldstone for ever and do my own thing.’
‘I used to go out with a dentist years ago, when I lived in Cornwall,’ I said.
‘Really? Did he fix your teeth for free?’ Bel asked interestedly.
‘No, I was lucky and didn’t need anything doing to them, because he was a rotten dentist. He was a lot more interested in his hobbies –surfing, white-water rafting, and hang-gliding – anything a bit dangerous.’
‘At least he sounds fun.’
‘He was, and I was very fond of him, but he emigrated to Australia eventually and I didn’t want to go with him.’
‘Do you still hear from him?’ asked Sheila.
‘Oh, yes, but usually when his latest girlfriend has dumped him and he’s feeling lonely and sorry for himself. Then the next one comes along and he goes silent again. He’s quite attractive in a big, boyish kind of way, though almost totally self-centred,’ I added. ‘I think he only gave me his old Beetle car because he forgot to sell it before he left.’
‘Aren’t they all,’ Bel said gloomily.
‘Then I moved to Scotland and got engaged to a climber – Dan Carmichael. You may have heard of him.’
‘Of course – but wasn’t he killed—’ began Sheila and then stopped. ‘I’m so sorry, Alice. You did say you’d had a recent bereavement.’
‘It’s about six months ago. Dan died in a freak climbing accident at the start of March,’ I told them, and felt a sudden pang of guilt that I should have been attracted by Nile so soon. But then, the dark chasm of depression I’d fallen into after Dan died made it feel as if it had happened a lot longer ago. Now I only felt a poignant sadness when I thought of him.
‘It was a shock,’ I said, ‘almost as much as finding out he was still married to his first wife just before the funeral.’
‘Really?’ Bel said, wide-eyed, so I told them all about Dan’s dreadful wife, Tanya, coming out of the woodwork and grabbing everything with her pointed turquoise talons.
‘But she couldn’t grab Dan’s insurance policies, because he’d named me as the beneficiary in them, and when they paid out I had enough to buy the café and flat. I hoped there’d be enough to live on if I was frugal, only now I can see it will all vanish into the renovations.’
‘But it’s an investment and I think it’s going to be great!’ enthused Sheila. ‘We’ll book a table for the very first sitting and all come!’
‘That’s kind of you and I hope you’re right,’ I said, and then she got up and headed back to her studio.
Bel and I collected clipboards and tape measures and soon followed her, to plan out the Norwegian waffle house. By the time we returned we’d got to the stage where we were bouncing silly promotional slogans off one another, like ‘Jam yourself into our café for the waffle of the century!’ and, my favourite, ‘Waffle on in – Norwegians would!’
Next morning Teddy, Geeta and Bel went over to the Pondlife office to work on the waffle house plans, while I retired to the house’s library with my laptop to contemplate the novel I was supposed to have almost finished by now.
I wasn’t entirely sure where it was going and feared this horror fairy tale with a twist might well end up more twisted than most.
‘There’s something else you ought to know, too,’ added the stepmother, and the prince looked pensive: it was all sounding very tiresome and he was by nature exceedingly lazy.
‘The original curse, cast over Beauty’s cradle, bestowed on her a beautiful face, but an evil nature,’ her stepmother explained.
‘A curse can be undone,’ said Prince S’Hallow.
‘Yes, but what if when you kiss her awake, breaking the enchantment, she has an evil face but a beautiful nature?’ she asked.
The prince, who expected his bride to be the slenderest and fairest in the land, shuddered slightly.
‘Then the deal would be off,’ he said firmly.
True to Bel’s prediction, Nile had set off from London so early next morning that his dark Mercedes estate came bumping down the track well before the palatial Sunday lunch of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding went on to the table.
He appeared to be in morose mood, but when I asked if the collector hadn’t liked the pair of early Meissen shepherd and shepherdess figurines that had been the reason for the trip, he said that on the contrary, he’d been delighted.
Then he seemed to haul himself back from some deep thoughts with an effort and added, ‘While I was down there, I asked around and one of my friends knows someone wanting to sell a job lot of café tables and chairs – all simple, good-quality white wood. I went and had a look and I’ve got some pictures and the dimensions on my phone.’
‘That was very thoughtful of you, Nile.’
‘Well, you needn’t sound so amazed,’ he said, then got out his phone, flicked to where they were and handed it across. ‘They’re solid, but they might want a fresh lick of paint.’
‘That doesn’t matter if they’re the right size,’ I said, scrutinizing the pictures. ‘I wanted a mix of round tables and smaller rectangular ones, so if the measurements are OK, these look perfect!’
‘I think I’ve found a home for your current Formica monstrosities, too,’ he told me. ‘Zelda knows a dealer who buys retro furniture, so if you like I can contact him and see if he’ll make you an offer? It’ll probably be peanuts, though.’
‘Really?’ I said, amazed. ‘They’re so vile I thought I’d have to pay someone to take them away!’
‘Your tearoom is going to look very elegant,’ Bel said, leaning over to look at the photographs. ‘But our Norwegian waffle house will have a more homespun, country kitchen feel to it.’
‘Waffle house?’ repeated Nile.
Kim, the cleaner at Upvale, was a serious, silent and efficient woman with whom I had always been on perfectly good terms, so I was certain her warning was kindly meant.
And, once my eyes were opened to the possibility of Father’s carer having designs on him, I recalled certain signs that she was right.
Father had recently ceased to press me to move home more quickly and, in fact, had only a day previously assured me that the current arrangements were very satisfactory and there was no rush.
Clearly, this was not so, and decisive and quick action was necessary. In the autumn of 2004, less than a fortnight after the warning letter, I was installed in Upvale, along with my rather elderly Bichon Frise, Drogo.
At my sudden advent, the chagrin of Father’s carer, Patsy Dodds, was barely concealed, though she greeted me on the doorstep with the graciousness of a chatelaine welcoming an unexpected guest into her home.
I informed her in no uncertain terms that I required no assistance in finding my way about my own home and that she should return to the duties for which she was being handsomely paid.
Clearly, her pretensions were in sore need of a good squashing.
22
Slightly Listing
I’d meant to go back to the flat right after lunch, but time flew by while we were talking, so it was late by the time I set off home.
Home – that was a strangely permanent-sounding concept! And no one could take it away from me … or not unless the teashop bombed and I lost all my money. But I consoled myself with the idea that even if that happened, the premises would still be worth so much more than I’d paid for them, with a renovated and habitable flat and an updated café.
Oldstone Farm now felt like a second home too, one where I always seemed to be welcome.
Nile wasn’t returning to Haworth until next morning, so when I parked behind the café everything was still, dark and deserted. And after I’d fallen over the recycling bins and then had to feel my way to the kitchen door, I vowed to get an outside light put in.
Inside the rear entrance hall, my fridge-freezer, oven and washing machine were still lined up at the bottom of the stairs – I’d entirely forgotten about them over t
he weekend. I’d have to try to hijack a strong man or two next day.
With Nile away and no other neighbours facing into Doorknocker’s Row, the flat felt isolated, and yet, when I opened the front window a crack I could hear people talking on the main street beyond the end of the passageway.
It made me remember the many times in the past when, at the end of a long, hard day’s work, I’d sat listening to distant voices in the street below and the random yelps of seagulls, feeling content in my own little world.
I opened the laptop I’d laid down on my new desk and began spinning dreams, just as I always had: the baby princess left for the wolves in the forest, Heathcliff, the infant abandoned on the moor, Moses in the bulrushes and the child cursed at her christening by the evil fairy godmother …
Or, in the case of the current story, did the curse just work on what was already in Beauty? Thoughts swirled and sparks flew, until the shape of the next chapter began to form around Sleeping Beauty’s dark heart.
Kev had walked along that street every day of his life – to school, to skive off school, to buy fags, to go to the pub with his mates and on his way to perform a spot of petty theft. He had no idea why he’d never noticed the overgrown plot full of trees, brambles and quickthorn before … or the domed roof of a small building rising above them.
It gleamed like dull gold in the orange streetlight, but it couldn’t be gold. Maybe it was bronze, something like that. It would make his fortune in scrap value, that would …
There was no one about at this time of night; he was only on his own because he’d had a row with Shaz and left her in the pub. His house was two doors down and so he fetched a replica Samurai sword he’d nicked from a basement flat in a flash part of town, and began hacking his way in through the brambles.
Nile must have driven in early, because his car was already there when I set out next morning to buy paint for the café and kitchens. It was the same colour scheme as the flat, of course, just gallons more of it: that horrible mushroom paint everywhere would take some covering.
The Little Teashop of Lost and Found Page 17
