The Little Teashop of Lost and Found

by Trisha Ashley

  I found I was droning out the song about someone taking another little piece of my heart and a sheep had bobbed up from behind a clump of heather and was giving me a deeply disapproving glare.

  Nile had beaten me back to Doorknocker’s Row: his car was parked behind the teashop and the boxes of cake stands were stacked on the table in the utility room.

  He’d left me a note, too, saying he’d brought back some of Sheila’s broccoli and Stilton soup and crusty rolls, so he’d bring them across later for supper. Then he’d added a postscript that he wouldn’t be hanging about afterwards, because he was off on his travels again early tomorrow morning.

  ‘Who wanted you to hang about anyway?’ I told the note crossly. ‘In fact, who invited you to come over at all, with or without supper?’

  Feeling ruffled, I unpacked the cake stands, washed and dried them, then stood them in rows in the big cupboards in the utility room.

  When Nile arrived, I found I didn’t need my freshly hardened heart to discourage any advances, because we seemed to be back on our usual friendly – if slightly spiky on my side and reserved on his – terms.

  He did end up staying later than he intended, but it was his own fault: when I told him that after he’d gone I was going to tweak the café website I’d made, he couldn’t resist helping me, which was just as well, since he knew much more about it from designing his own than I did.

  When the advert was published on Thursday it would include the website address, so I needed to put the menus up.

  ‘We’ll take bookings through the internet or by phone,’ I told him. ‘They’ll all be written in a book kept behind the counter, for Tilda and Nell to consult … and I really must buy another laptop for the office. Tilda says she can take email bookings if I do, because Daisy’s taught her how to use a computer, but Nell thinks the internet is the Devil’s work and won’t have anything to do with it.’

  ‘Well, I suppose she might have a point,’ he said, grinning. Then he got up and said he’d have to go. ‘As I said, I’ve got an early start in the morning.’

  I resisted the urge to ask him where he was going, but it was a close-run thing.

  And I needed to be up early tomorrow too, because the teashop was having its official inspection and I wanted to make sure it was perfect.

  And it must have been, because it passed everything with flying colours and the only recommendations were that I give my staff special training on aspects of health, hygiene and safety before I opened for business.

  I thought that would go down well with Tilda and Nell, but I rang and invited them to come and be trained on Wednesday. Or at any rate, to come and have tea and discuss it.

  Then I set up Facebook and Twitter pages for The Fat Rascal, linked them to the website and uploaded a really good photograph of the round table set for afternoon tea that I’d taken on the day all the Giddingses were there. I felt like a complete technobabe after that.

  On impulse I looked at Robbie’s Facebook page while I was on there and it still didn’t mention that he wasn’t currently in Australia. But then, mentally he always did seem to be on another continent – a drifting one.

  On Tuesday I woke up with a hollow feeling in my stomach and the realization that in exactly a week The Fat Rascal would be open – and immediately had a major meltdown, even though I was sure, or almost sure, that everything was ready.

  It was as if I’d had a premonition, because the moment I got downstairs the boiler switched itself on – and then made a horrible noise like a prolonged death rattle and expired.

  When I got the man who’d serviced the one in the flat out to look, he confirmed my worst fears: it was dead as a dodo. I’d need a new one – and I’d have to have it, even if it would totally wipe out the contingency fund meant to keep the teashop afloat for the first vital weeks.

  I thought Nile was still away, but he must have returned some time last night, for he appeared minutes after a flurry of panicked messages hit his inbox.

  And what’s more, after soothing me down to a gentle simmer, he patiently stayed and helped me work through all my lists, check the books, the stock, that I’d ordered the fresh bread and milk … everything.

  ‘It’s all going to be fine,’ he assured me patiently. ‘And since they’re starting to put the new boiler in tomorrow, that will be ready in plenty of time, too. Stop worrying.’

  ‘But it’s costing so much! If the one in the flat goes as well, then I’ll just have to live in an icebox. I’ll be chilled but perfectly preserved by spring,’ I said gloomily.

  ‘That’s right, look on the bright side,’ he urged me, with a grin.

  ‘If the customers don’t flood in and keep coming, I won’t be able to pay the suppliers, or the staff or—’

  ‘Stop right there,’ he ordered. ‘I’ve already told you: the customers will pour in, it will all be a success, and Princess Alice will live happily ever after in her fairy teashop castle.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I said.

  ‘And if the finances get really desperate, I’ll bail you out.’

  ‘Oh, that’s kind!’ I said, totally taken aback by his generous offer. ‘But—’

  ‘I won’t need to, you’ll see. Come on, what else is on that never-ending list of things to be done?’

  ‘Lola’s making a flying visit up on Friday, just for one night, to deliver the jams, pickles and sauces, but other than that, I think we’re done.’

  ‘Then all you need to do now is relax – and then cook up a storm.’

  ‘I’m not sure I know how to relax any more,’ I said ruefully, ‘but thank you for going through it all with me, Nile. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘You could demonstrate your appreciation by taking me out to lunch,’ he suggested. ‘And we’ll kill two birds with one stone, because afterwards we’ll spread some of that glossy pile of Fat Rascal leaflets all over the village.’

  And we did, too – and some of the outlying hotels and guesthouses, all of which had information racks ready and waiting. We gave the Gondal Guesthouse a wide berth, though.

  Nile went back to Small and Perfect when we returned. He still hadn’t said where he’d been all of the previous day, which, of course, was none of my business.

  Then Sheila rang with the glad tidings that she’d just had an indication that planning permission was likely to be granted for the development of the café in the stables.

  ‘That means it’s pretty likely to go through, doesn’t it?’ I said.

  ‘I think it will, so I’ve asked Michelle, the sister of Casper’s nanny, if she’d like to run the café for me. She said she’d love to, so I’m going to teach her to make waffles. She’s a very nice girl.’

  ‘Great, because I’m sure during tourist season you’ll have more than enough to do looking after the paying guests.’

  ‘I don’t actually do very much really, except cook dinner if they want it,’ she said. ‘Bel does the breakfasts and the cleaner changes the beds and towels. Oh, and Alice, Thom might become our first resident craftsman next year, if we convert another stable!’ she added brightly. ‘If he charged more for those lovely big pieces of reclaimed wooden furniture Bel showed me pictures of, he wouldn’t have to bother so much with upcycling smaller items.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I agreed. ‘I did love the tree bookshelf he was making and I’m certain people would pay a fortune for those.’

  ‘His neighbours have been complaining about the noise when he’s sawing and sanding wood. Some people have no soul. But it doesn’t matter to us and it will be rather nice to have another craftsman working here – perhaps nice in more ways than one, because I can tell Bel’s very taken with him.’

  ‘I’d noticed, but I’m sure she’s not in any hurry to start a new relationship – and neither am I, come to that,’ I added pointedly, since I was now certain from her hints that she was cherishing hopes.

  ‘You know, that’s exactly what I told Nile when he called in on his way up to that country house
sale in Northumberland. Take things slowly, I said.’ She smiled at me, undeterred.

  ‘Oh, so that’s where he was?’ I said involuntarily.

  ‘Yes, did he forget to tell you? I’m sure he thought he had – and he says you’re both going to the pub tonight, with Bel and Thom.’

  ‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it!’

  After I’d put the phone down, I thought that Nile made too many assumptions about me and I really ought to tell him I had something else to do tonight, except it would probably be fun for us all to go out together.

  And we did have a nice, relaxing evening and then went back to Nile’s for coffee, which he brewed up in a big snazzy machine. Then Thom drove Bel home, meaning he’d be spending half the night crisscrossing the moors, and I pleaded exhaustion and went home too.

  Nile didn’t try to persuade me to stay with him a little longer, but then, that was what I wanted, wasn’t it? So there was no reason for me to feel disappointed …

  On Tilda and Nell’s training day I sat them down and explained about the new boiler.

  ‘So you see, since I’ve spent all my money on replacing it, there won’t be any left to pay your salaries, or anything else, if the teashop isn’t an immediate success.’

  ‘It will be, and anyway, we’ll wait for our wages, if necessary,’ Tilda said.

  ‘Why not sell that old tea set Jim Voss came round after?’ Nell suggested. ‘There was one just like it on the Antiques Roadshow on Sunday and it fetched about five thousand pounds. I were struck dumb.’

  ‘I don’t think it can be the same as that one downstairs – it’s so ugly!’

  ‘Oh, yes, it were just as hideous,’ she assured me. ‘It were French,’ she added, as if that explained it. ‘I’ve brought that snap out of the album that shows the ladies having their tea from it, like I said they did once a year.’

  The black-and-white photo was small, but the details surprisingly clear: two rather Edwardian-looking ladies were sitting behind a small bamboo table on which, unmistakably, was the tea service. There was a younger version of Nell standing next to them, her white cap pulled down low over her brow.

  ‘Well … I did mean to get Nile to take a look at it,’ I said doubtfully.

  ‘Maybe do it sooner than later, then, flower,’ suggested Tilda. ‘If it’s valuable, no wonder Molly Muswell was so keen to get it back!’

  I wasn’t convinced, but I agreed I’d definitely ask Nile’s opinion, and we got on with the training, which was a hoot.

  I solemnly read through all the rules for ensuring safety in the workplace, food preparation, and general good hygiene and how to wash your hands.

  ‘I haven’t killed any bugger yet,’ Nell said.

  ‘Paper towels are the most hygienic option for drying hands and you can use a clean one to turn off the tap,’ I continued, sticking to the script. ‘The dirty laundry – that’s the tablecloths and napkins – should be bagged and put in the rear hall ready for collection each evening, and the clean laundry put away in the designated cupboard until needed.’

  ‘Well, I’ll go t’ foot of ower stairs,’ said Nell sarkily.

  ‘All tea towels, handtowels and dishcloths will be run through the washing machine on a hot cycle every single day …’

  I turned a page and said with relief: ‘Lastly, be careful to tick off the boxes on the whiteboard when daily and weekly cleaning tasks are completed, and the stock charts logging in the dates of perishable items.’

  I sat back. ‘There, that’s about it.’

  ‘Go teach your grandmother to suck eggs,’ Tilda said, having sat with folded arms and an impassive face as she listened to the whole thing.

  ‘Well, I know that you know, but I had to do it anyway.’

  ‘Never mind, it was right entertaining, like a play,’ said Nell. ‘Did you say our aprons have come?’

  They were Victorian-style with a bib top, frilled edges and a generous wrap-around, and when they tried them on I think Nell’s would have gone around her twice, except she threaded the strings through holes in the waistband and tied them in a large bow in front.

  ‘That’s how we did it when I worked at the Copper Kettle,’ she said.

  They had decided between them to wear black tops and trousers underneath, and Nell had requested the sort of headband with a white frill attached that I’d only previously seen in ancient films.

  It’s surprising what you can get on the internet.

  ‘Not long now till opening day, and I’ll come along early with our Tilda,’ Nell said. ‘We’ll be all revved up and ready to go, when the doors open.’

  She made it sound like the opening day of a sale, when we might be trampled by a crush of customers.

  ‘Eh, it’ll be grand to be back in harness again and somewhere proper, too,’ Nell said happily.

  ‘Before you go,’ I said, ‘there’s something I need to tell you about myself, before you read it in the local paper tomorrow.’

  ‘Go on then,’ urged Tilda. ‘You’ve got my interest right piqued now!’

  When they’d gone I rang Nile and said, ‘Can you come over? I’ve got something I want to show you.’

  ‘Promises, promises,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right there.’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up – it’s only your professional expertise I want,’ I told him, and he laughed.

  When he arrived I’d already brought the tea set upstairs to the back room and was unwrapping and laying it out, piece by piece, on the old table.

  ‘Where did that come from?’ he asked, picking a cup up and turning it over to examine the base.

  ‘You know I told you Mrs Muswell had sent Jim Voss to ask me for her mother’s tea set, because she’d left it behind, only it wasn’t in the cupboard where she said it was?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Well, it was there after all, just tucked out of sight. Nell knew where it was and she said it dated back to the Misses Spencer, who had the Copper Kettle, so Mrs Muswell had lied about it being her mother’s. Nell even has a little black-and-white photograph showing herself serving the Misses Spencer tea with it – she brought it to show me earlier.’

  ‘So Mrs M had only just remembered it and was trying to get it back?’

  ‘Yes, I expect Jim Voss told her about our finding the willow-pattern china in the cupboard under the basement stairs, and that jogged her memory.’

  ‘Well, I’m not surprised – it’s quite valuable.’

  ‘Really?’ I stared at him. ‘Nell and I think it’s hideously ugly, but recently she saw something similar on the Antiques Roadshow.’

  ‘I think it’s ugly too,’ he agreed, ‘but it’s Sèvres, and there are lots of collectors out there who don’t share our opinion.’

  He scrutinized each piece carefully, then said finally, ‘It’s all genuine – there are a lot of fakes about – and complete with the original tray. In perfect condition, too.’

  ‘So how much do you think it’s worth?’ I asked eagerly.

  ‘I’ll have to check some auction estimates, but I think it’s good for at least four thousand, and possibly quite a bit more.’

  ‘Wow!’ I said. ‘I think the Misses Spencer just gave me back a bit of financial wiggle room!’

  I expect if they knew, they’d be pleased to be helping restore their beloved teashop to its former glory, and I was happy I could even the score with Mrs Muswell at the same time!

  I don’t usually read the local paper, but there was a pile of the latest edition on the counter when I was paying for my petrol in the village. A photograph of the Oldstone and the headline on the front page leaped out at me: ‘Woman abandoned as Baby returns to seek Birth Mother,’ it said sensationally.

  Of course, I didn’t buy a copy there, but instead stopped at a newsagent where they wouldn’t recognize me, when I was on my way to the surgery. When I had read the article I thought how tiresome of Alice Rose to want the schmaltzy happy-ever-after meeting with her birth mother that so seldom ever work
ed out that way. It certainly wouldn’t in this case.

  I blame all these TV shows for encouraging misguided people to search out lost relatives who, I am quite sure, would in nine cases out of ten have preferred to stay that way.

  42

  Perfectly Poised

  The day the newspaper article came out, I went out early to buy a copy – and narrowly missed bumping into Dr Collins, who came out of the shop and got into her car as I walked along the street. She drove off the other way, though, so I don’t think she saw me.

  On the way back to the teashop I felt exactly like a snail without its shell, though I don’t suppose many people had read the paper yet, or if they had, were interested.

  Would my birth mother see it? And if she did, how would she feel? I hoped she’d be happy that I was searching for her and eager to meet me, but there was a current of pessimism running through me (probably caught from Nile) that suggested an alternative scenario.

  I was so engrossed in these thoughts that I only came back to reality when I caught the sound of a loud altercation as I turned into Doorknocker’s Row – a shrill female voice and the more familiar deep tones of Nile’s.

  I stopped dead at the sight of Nile and an enormously fat woman engaged in what looked like a heated argument outside The Fat Rascal.

  It was unmistakably Mrs Muswell, but either she’d used an old photograph on the internet, or she’d put on a lot of weight recently, because her beady dark eyes were sunk deep into her doughy face.

  ‘I’m not listening to any more of your cheek!’ she told Nile.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere before you’ve paid me for those antiques of mine you sold.’

  Mrs M opened her eyes as wide as they would go – not far – and said innocently, ‘I told you, I just I forgot to put that cheque through your door before I left.’

  ‘Yes, just like you forgot to answer the letter I sent you through your solicitor.’

  ‘I’ve been moving around,’ she said evasively. ‘I haven’t caught up with my mail yet.’

  ‘I reported what happened to the police,’ he told her grimly.