The Little Teashop of Lost and Found

by Trisha Ashley

  ‘Like I said,’ Nell remarked, once they’d finally gone, ‘a little snirp!’

  When Nile texted late in the afternoon to say he’d come round later and put the spare bed together, I didn’t protest in the least.

  To be honest, I’d had so much else to do that it had gone right out of my head and anyway, there’s independence … and then there’s sitting back and letting someone else do the tricky stuff.

  It took him about fifteen minutes to put the brass bed together – I expect he was ace with Lego as a boy. Then he unwrapped the mattress, which had arrived earlier, and laid it down on top.

  ‘You look as if you’d like to fall on it and sleep for a year,’ he said, looking at me in amusement.

  ‘So would you, if you’d been running up and down a flight of stairs all day, while trying to work, answer the phone and chase up deliveries,’ I snapped.

  ‘I spent a quiet day going through sales catalogues and ringing contacts and clients, but that is my work,’ he said mildly. ‘I thought Jack was doing everything and the boy – what’s his name?’

  ‘Ross. Jack is organizing everything, but he seems to want me to go downstairs about every fifteen minutes – and then I had an unwelcome visitor earlier.’ I told him about Jim Voss and the way Nell had seen him off.

  Then I yawned. ‘I’m too tired to do any writing tonight, that’s for sure.’

  My legs suddenly felt a bit wobbly and I sat down on the edge of the pristine white mattress.

  ‘I think you’ve been overdoing it – and what did you have for lunch?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think I had any – though I ate a bit of Nell’s lardy cake this morning and I think that might be still clinging to my ribs.’

  ‘A piece of cake isn’t enough. Come on, get your coat and we’ll go round to a good pub I know and have a bit of dinner.’

  I was too tired to resist and the pub was quiet, dark and warm, with good, plain food. I felt better once I’d got some steak and kidney pie and chips inside me.

  ‘You’ve got some colour back,’ Nile said approvingly, when I’d cleared my plate and, declining dessert, asked for coffee. ‘You’re doing so much already that you mustn’t let Sheila rope you in to helping out at Oldstone at the weekends too,’ he added. ‘She seems to think we’re all going to spend a jolly Saturday scraping off wallpaper in the bedroom opposite yours, and I, for one, will be out most of that day at an auction.’

  ‘She did ask me for the weekend again and I don’t mind pitching in with whatever wants doing. It’s fun planning out the pottery café with Bel, too.’

  ‘I hadn’t realized, until Bel told me, just how many health, safety and food hygiene rules even a small café has to comply with,’ he said. ‘I only hope they can recoup the cost.’

  ‘It’s quite a large initial outlay, when you’re creating something from scratch,’ I agreed, ‘but I’m sure it will bring more visitors to the pottery.’

  ‘I’m not sure about the waffle house aspect – I thought it was just going to be coffee and cake.’

  ‘Oh, I think that’s a stroke of genius!’ I enthused. ‘When tourists spot the sign they’ll be turning off in droves – and once they see Bel’s lovely work, especially the jewellery, they’ll buy that, too.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘I wonder if Henry Godet will be cross when he finds out there’s a rival for his Hikers’ Café only a few miles away?’ I said.

  ‘I shouldn’t think it would affect his business, because the Hikers’ Café has been there a long time catering for walkers, and now tourists are heading for it, because of the Brontë connection.’

  ‘Any tourists heading there from the Haworth direction will have to pass the Norwegian waffle house sign first,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Better not mention that when we go there for dinner, then,’ he said, to my surprise.

  ‘Are we going there for dinner?’ I asked, staring at him.

  ‘I told Henry we would and it’s already got a reputation for good food so I’d like to try it. Wouldn’t you like to go?’

  ‘Well … yes, I suppose it would be nice,’ I agreed, wondering exactly what kind of date this was – a friendly date, a bossy older brother date … or a date date?

  ‘Is this a date?’ I blurted, then felt myself going pink.

  ‘I suppose it’s a getting-to-know-each-other-better date – if you’ve no objection,’ he said, raising one dark eyebrow.

  This didn’t really answer my question, but when he added casually, ‘I’ll book it for next week then and let you know when they can fit us in,’ I decided there was nothing romantic about the invitation.

  This was just as well, given how the pretty barmaid had flirted with him while he was ordering our food and the way he’d smiled at the two leggy blonde backpackers in the corner, who’d been eyeing him more hungrily than their scampi and chips.

  I relaxed a bit. In fact, I was by now feeling so relaxed and sleepy from warmth and food that even the surprisingly good coffee couldn’t wake me up.

  ‘It’s another strange coincidence that Henry should be related to the farmer who found me on the moors, isn’t it? My whole life is a series of strange coincidences,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not so strange when you think where you were found, because it’s all Godet sheep-farming land round there.’

  ‘I’ll go and talk to Joe Godet soon. He must be getting on a bit by now. His son doesn’t sound very pleasant, does he?’

  ‘I could always come and protect you, if you’re nervous,’ Nile offered.

  ‘I’m big enough to protect myself,’ I said with dignity. ‘I just need a little time to think things through first and then I’ll track him down … and Emily Rhymer.’

  ‘I can understand why you’d like to talk to them and hear the story of how they found you first-hand,’ he said, ‘but if you’re hoping they’ll reveal some clue to your identity, then I think you’ll be in for a disappointment.’

  ‘No … no, of course I don’t really think that,’ I said. ‘But they must have been on the scene soon after I was left, or I wouldn’t have survived, so they may have seen something.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up. And the offer still stands: if I’m not away somewhere, then I’ll come with you,’ he said, which was very kind of him, though actually I thought it was something I’d prefer to do alone.

  I sighed. ‘I do accept I’m unlikely to find my birth mother, it’s just an outside chance – though I could try Bel’s suggestion and contact the local paper to see if they’d like to do an article about me. How I was found on the moors and now have come back to open my own teashop in Haworth – that kind of thing. It would be good publicity even if she didn’t see it and come forward, but she might.’

  ‘I’d advise against it, but that’s only my opinion. I’d hate you to find her and then … be hurt because she doesn’t want anything to do with you.’

  ‘One final rejection,’ I agreed. ‘But perhaps then I’d feel I’d done everything I could and I’d be ready to move on with my life.’

  ‘I suppose there is that.’ His face had that brooding, dark, inward-looking expression again.

  ‘Did you never want to try to trace your real father, or any other relatives?’ I asked him curiously.

  ‘Dad – Paul – asked me that once. He was keen on family history research and he’d just taken a DNA test through one of the genealogy websites to see if he could link up with any other relatives on the database. He suggested I try it, too.’

  ‘I didn’t even know you could do that! Did you have a go?’

  ‘No, because I already knew my father was a Greek waiter. My mum told me once that he’d gone back to Greece soon after I was born, saying he’d send for her when he’d told his parents, but that was the last she’d heard of him.’

  ‘That’s so sad,’ I said.

  ‘I suppose it is, but I’m sure family pressure was brought to bear, once he got home.’

  ‘Yo
u tried to find him, didn’t you?’ I guessed, and saw by his expression that I was right.

  ‘Yes. I managed to trace the village he came from and went there … but he’d died a few years before in an accident. I’ve seen a photograph, so I know I look very much like him and I could see his family knew about me, but they denied it because they seemed to have the idea I’d come to claim my inheritance, such as it was.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, it must have been horrible for you,’ I said gently.

  ‘I was more curious than anything and it did show me the background my father had come from,’ he said, shrugging. ‘I didn’t tell Sheila and Paul what I’d done because they were my real parents and I didn’t want to hurt their feelings in any way.’

  ‘I won’t mention it then,’ I assured him. ‘And I can see now why you don’t think searching for my birth mother is a good idea – though not all experiences will be the same. If I go public with the story and she doesn’t come forward, then that’s it, I really will let it drop.’

  ‘Then I suppose you’d better go for it,’ he said.

  ‘Did your dad’s research throw up anything interesting about the Giddingses?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t even know you could trace your family history through DNA.’

  ‘You can if there are any matches on the database, and he found several. It’s a very old family, with lots of branches and several eccentric characters … like Teddy.’

  ‘Teddy’s lovely and not eccentric at all!’ I protested.

  ‘Wait till you’ve seen the scale of the model train layout he’s got in one of the attics, or caught him wandering round the house in his replica Victorian stationmaster’s uniform,’ he said with a grin.

  I myself like to chill out in a long, voluminous, Victorian-style, flounced and frilled white cotton dressing gown, which I call Miss Havisham …

  I decided not to mention it.

  Now that Nile had opened up to me a bit about his childhood, I could see that in many ways we’d been shaped by the same forces: abandonment, redeeming love and the search for who we really were. I felt I understood him better and that despite the way we seemed constantly to strike sparks off one another, deep down, we had a real connection.

  It was odd that after giving practically no thought to the events of that dreadful night in the intervening years, once I was living in Upvale again I not only had the impulse to write down the details of what happened, but also found myself strangely drawn to the area around the Oldstone.

  But then, the dog needed daily exercise, and since there was a convenient parking area nearby, it might as well be there as anywhere else.

  Early in the morning I was unlikely to see anyone else up there, even during the summer months when one could barely move on the moors for Brontë-driven tourists, so there was no danger of my liking for the spot being noticed and commented on.

  26

  Perfectly Preserved

  Lola drove herself up on Thursday and since the skip had departed again, we managed to squeeze her small hatchback into the parking place next to my old Beetle, while still leaving room for Nile, who appeared to have gone off somewhere early.

  He was certainly home last night, though, because the flat lights were on. I think I’m becoming a curtain twitcher …

  There were no workmen around, though Jack would be in later after another job, bringing the tiles we’d chosen for the kitchen and customer cloakrooms, and I knew Ross would begin sanding the café floorboards next morning, which sounded like another noisy kind of day.

  We took Lola’s overnight bag up to the flat and I gave her a guided tour, which, given the size of the place, took all of five minutes.

  Then I made coffee and sampled some of the contents of the whole basket of tiny jars of jams, preserves, pickles and chutneys she’d brought for me to try. They were all so delicious that I decided that, as well as using them for the teas, I’d sell them from the counter in the café, too.

  Lola showed me a picture on her iPad of the display stands she’d had made for stockists who were taking a range of Dolly and Lola’s products.

  ‘I haven’t got room for a stand in the tearoom, but I wonder if Bel and Sheila would be interested in having one in their waffle house next spring?’ I suggested. ‘Remember I told you about that?’

  She nodded. ‘Oh, do you think they might?’

  ‘They’d certainly have room, because their café will be in a former carriage house, so you can show them the photos when we go up to dinner later.’

  ‘We’ve had some small carrier bags printed with our logo so I can bring you a supply of those for behind the counter, if you like?’

  ‘It’s OK, I’m having some upmarket doggy bags printed with our logo, for anyone who wants to take any leftover sandwiches and cake home from their tea, so we can use those,’ I said. ‘They’re white card, with our logo up the side in a dark teal colour.’

  ‘That sounds quite swish,’ she said. ‘What do you think of the lemon curd?’

  ‘That and the orange version are so yummy, they’d make great tart fillings, garnished with just a twist of candied peel.’

  I looked down at the pot I was holding, realized I’d eaten almost the entire contents of the orange one, and put my spoon down quickly. ‘I’m glad you’re making horseradish sauce too, because I’ll need it for the roast beef sandwiches.’

  ‘Dad started growing it a few years ago, along with the herbs, and Mum tried out lots of recipes till she came up with this one: it’s not too explosive, but still strong enough to add a bit of zest.’

  ‘It does that all right,’ I agreed, and then we screwed all the lids back on the jars and went downstairs. I’d already sent her lots of photos of how the café looked before we started on the renovations and then some of the ensuing chaos, but now I’d painted the teashop itself, at least she could get some idea of what the final result would be.

  ‘I love the colour scheme – it’s just like the flat!’ she enthused. ‘All these chalky blues and whites and creams – light but somehow not cold.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought. I nicked the idea from my bedroom at Oldstone Farm. Sheila Giddings is part Norwegian and she’s decorated it in what Bel – that’s her daughter – calls Scandi-style. It goes with the blue and white patterned china, too, in an odd kind of way.’

  ‘I like the way the big mirror behind the counter at the back of the room reflects the light from the bow window.’

  ‘I think it must have been there since the place was the Copper Kettle, and so had the signboard, because you could still make out the letters of the last two names before the Branwell Café. It’s gone to be properly sanded down and repainted.’

  I led the way out of the front door into the little cobbled courtyard, which was dappled by weak sunshine.

  ‘I think The Fat Rascal is an inspired name choice,’ Lola said. ‘Are you going to have them on the menu?’

  ‘Yes, miniature versions. In fact, I’ll have a Fat Rascal Tea as an option to the Classic Tea with scones.’

  ‘Good idea!’

  ‘You can see where Jack has mended and undercoated the Victorian trellis porch,’ I pointed out. ‘I’m having all the outside paintwork dark teal picked out in white, to match the new sign.’

  She caught sight of Small and Perfect opposite and said with interest, ‘That must be Nile’s shop? But it looks shut.’

  ‘It isn’t often open, because he makes his living finding expensive bits and pieces for wealthy collectors. His car wasn’t there earlier so he must be off somewhere, which is a shame because you could have had a look round.’

  ‘And I’d like to catch a glimpse of this mythical beast, too,’ she said with a grin.

  We went across and peered in the window anyway, though the distorting bull’s-eye-glass panes gave everything a slightly rippled effect, not to mention a faintly bilious tinge of green.

  ‘He has some lovely things, especially that small paperweight with the millefiori flowers,’ Lola said,
pressing her nose to the glass.

  ‘It is pretty, isn’t it?’ I agreed. ‘I love that tall, narrow blue and white jug with the pastoral scene on it. If I have any money left when I’ve finished the renovations, I might ask him how much it is, but the way things are going I expect to be totally skint.’

  ‘You’ll need to try to keep some in reserve to cover the running costs and staff wages till the tearoom takes off, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve already set aside enough to keep us afloat for three months and if it isn’t paying its way by then, I don’t think it ever will, but I may have to use some of that money if anything major happens, like the boiler goes bust or something.’

  ‘Well, then, fingers crossed it doesn’t,’ Lola said optimistically.

  ‘I’ll get some money from my publishers once I’ve sent them the new book – an advance on delivery – but it won’t be a lot. If  I ever finish it,’ I added darkly.

  ‘Of course you will! And won’t it be wonderful to see it on sale in bookshops, not just on the internet?’ she said encouragingly. ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘When Beauty Goes Bad. They might change the title, though, I suppose.’

  We went back into the café and Lola stood in the middle of the empty room, half-closing her eyes. ‘I can visualize what the tearoom will look like when it’s finished – very restful and swish and grown-up. The tables covered with white linen cloths …’

  ‘Easy-care linen-look, with matching napkins,’ I amended. ‘I’ve seen samples and they’re just what I want, so I’m about to place an order. And I’ve found a local laundry that’ll collect and deliver daily.’

  She closed her eyes again, like a medium summoning up the spirit of a tearoom: ‘The quiet clink of cutlery …’