Finally, Sherry announced that she should be off. Apparently she needed a new suitcase from town and was heading off to Argos. The sight of her car backing down the drive was sweeter than the pastry sitting in her fridge, which Molly could now tip safely in the bin. As Molly was waving her off it came to her how strange it was for Sherry to admit she was off to Argos. Sherry had once told her that she only ever bought Louis Vuitton luggage.
Molly had things to do today. She wanted to take a trip out to Holmfirth to find a suitable wedding anniversary present for the Brandywines. There was a lovely shop there which sold cruisewear: tuxedos, long dresses, costume jewellery, stoles and the like. The summer was finally here at last. It had been a long winter, but the sun was making up for lost time by shining its best and the drive out there was very pleasant.
In the cruisewear shop, she found a beautiful peacock-blue shawl fringed with feathers for Margaret – her favourite colour – and a matching bow tie and cummerbund for Bernard. She had already arranged, via the travel agent, for there to be a basket of champagne and chocolate and flowers and other goodies delivered to their cabin on the actual day of their anniversary too. Molly wished she was going with them. She had always wanted to take a cruise, but the Brandywines hadn’t fancied it until recently. She would miss her sister terribly; not that she would admit that and spoil it for them. She would send them off on their way at the weekend with a delighted smile.
Holmfirth was rich with lovely shops: tearooms, old bookshops, gift emporiums, antique shops and the gallery of the watercolour artist Ashley Jackson. Margaret and Bernard had an original Jackson in their sitting room: a moody view of the moors, the sky full of anger, threatening a downpour on a rugged landscape splashed with bright purple heather. It was understated and very beautiful. She had liked it so much, they had bought her a small print of it for her own bedroom and the artist had personally signed it for her and kindly written ‘Happy 65th Birthday Molly’ on it. Molly took a walk up to the gallery to look at the pictures in the window, then she crossed the road to Moores antique shop, around which she had enjoyed many a potter. Inside was a jumble of old typewriters, scythes, books and chairs, although the glass cabinets against the wall housed finer and more sophisticated pieces: china, vintage biscuit tins, glass vases, collectable toys of yesteryear. Upstairs there was more of the same. Nice to look at but nothing that she wanted to buy. Molly was about to turn back to the staircase when she spotted it on the bottom shelf of one of the cabinets, next to a stuffed hare: the Royal Doulton figure she had been searching for. She blinked hard. It had a nine-hundred and fifty pound ticket on it.
Molly went back downstairs to ask the shopkeeper if she could take a look at it. The shopkeeper unlocked the cabinet door then placed the figurine gently into her hands. Molly turned it over, hunting for a sign that it wasn’t hers – a mark, a chip, but just as her own was, this was in perfect condition.
‘I’ve never seen that one before. It’s very rare,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘And especially in as good a nick as that.’
‘Where did you get it?’ asked Molly, her throat dry enough to crack.
‘Someone brought it in and asked us if we were interested in buying it.’
‘Can you remember what they looked like? Was it a man or a woman? When was it?’ The shopkeeper shrugged. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember, we see so many people. I think it was about a month ago.’ He scratched his head. ‘It might have been longer though. Or was it a couple of weeks ago?’
‘Thank you,’ said Molly, handing it back. ‘I had the same piece but I lost it.’
The shopkeeper pulled in a sharp intake of breath. ‘Expensive loss that one. I’d have a good look around for it if I were you.’
‘Yes, yes, I will,’ said Molly. She couldn’t afford to buy it. She couldn’t prove it was hers and if it was, how on earth had it ended up in a shop in Holmfirth? The daft thing was, she knew it was hers. But she couldn’t explain it at all, and that frightened her.
Chapter 17
Today in the tearoom, it was Charles Dickens Tuesday. The last time he had visited, Mr Singh had called her chocolate and brandy cake ‘chocolate and Brandon cake’ following a conversation about Jane Austen, and it had given Leni the idea to have her ten-per-cent-off Tuesdays themed. Any object in the cabinets which had anything to do with the author was discounted today and she had special cakes – Oliver Twist strawberries and cream cake and Great Expectations violet and dark chocolate cake. She had just finished sticking a poster on the wall advertising her author-themed days when the bell on the door jangled, announcing a customer. She twisted around to find a small elderly lady, slim as a reed but very smartly dressed, with beautiful snow-white hair pinned into a pleat at the back. She looked slightly disorientated.
‘Can I help you?’ asked Leni.
‘Are you open?’ said Molly.
‘Absolutely,’ smiled Leni. ‘Take a seat. The menu is on the table.’
‘Thank you.’ Molly sat down on the nearest heart-backed chair and reached for the menu, propped between ceramic book-shaped salt and pepper pots. There was a small selection of dishes: choices of sandwiches – on granary, white, cold or toasted, a warm chicken and mushroom pastry, scones and cakes of the day (with a note saying, please ask for flavours). Molly chose a scone and a pot of tea and whilst Leni was preparing it, Molly pressed her head in her hands and hoped her fast-developing headache would subside. It had been coming on since she left the antique shop in Holmfirth. She had felt so shaky up the road that she knew she had to stop for a few moments or she would have crashed the car. Questions had been flying around in her head: how could that figurine be hers? But she knew it was. So how had it ended up there then? It didn’t make sense. It obviously wasn’t hers. But then where is yours? She racked her brains, trying to think if she had put out any bags for charity recently and might inadvertently have put her figurine in there; but she knew she hadn’t. She’d had a big clear-out before Christmas and had nothing left to donate, and the figurine had definitely still been in her house then, she remembered – or did she? Was her mental state slipping and she was the last to be aware of it? Is that why Sherry kept mentioning Autumn Grange?
She was going to pull in at Maltstone garden centre and take a driving break, and then she spotted the much nearer new development at Spring Hill, with a sign reading ‘The Teashop on the Corner’.
She let her eyes wander around. It was a pretty little place. The cabinets against the walls were filled with wonderful things that appealed to her love of both books and nice stationery. Molly got up to take a closer look. There was a beautiful set of notecards decorated with all the books the Brontës had written. No one wrote letters any more, she thought sadly. It was all email and texting. History was going to be robbed of detail if people weren’t careful. And poor lovers – how could an email replace a hand-written letter on heavyweight paper? She thought of all the letters she had in the bottom of her treasure box, tied together by a ribbon. Letters she had written and never sent. Letters that held all the secrets of her heart. All of them.
Harvey Hoyland. Why was he on her mind so much of late?
‘Here you go,’ said Leni, setting a tray down on the table. There was a plump cherry scone, curls of butter, a pot with clotted cream and one with jam. The teapot was a china one covered in roses. It didn’t match the delicate cup with bluebells on it, which didn’t match the gold-rimmed saucer yet the effect was all the more charming for it.
‘You have such lovely things in your shop,’ said Molly. ‘I didn’t know this place existed.’
‘I don’t think anyone does,’ laughed Leni. ‘Not yet anyway. I did have an open day and put an advert in the Daily Trumpet but they printed that the shop was in Penistone.’
‘That’s a shame, though sadly too typical of the Daily Trumpet,’ said Molly, sitting back down and slicing the scone in half. ‘I shall tell my sister. She would love it here. She and I are both great readers. I’ve already spotted her Chri
stmas present, I think. That stationery set with the Brontë books on it.’
‘You should wait for Brontë Tuesday then,’ smiled Leni. ‘There will be ten per cent off. It’s Charles Dickens day today.’
‘I shall,’ said Molly. ‘Thank you for telling me. That was very kind of you.’
‘Isn’t it sad that hardly anyone writes letters any more?’ said Leni, as if she had picked up Molly’s thoughts. ‘If we aren’t careful, there will be no records left for future generations.’
‘I used to love getting letters,’ mused Molly. ‘I can’t remember the last time I had one, though. The post only brings me junk or bills or advertising.’ She noticed there was a wall covered in postcards by the door. She thought of the postcard in her treasure box, the seaside donkey. Wish you were here.
As Leni busied herself behind her counter, Molly nibbled at her scone and drank her tea and felt her nerves settle as if the calm of the room had reached inside her. Fears about her mental state were steadying and were no longer fizzing and firing in her brain like unstable fireworks. She made a promise to herself that the moment she had another panic attack about her actions, she would book an appointment with the doctor.
Then the bell above the door tinkled, and another customer walked in. A woman with dark circles under her eyes; and Molly, just for a moment, wondered if this charming little teashop drew people with worries to it so that it could work its magic on them.
Chapter 18
Carla had done her shopping in the Tesco in Penistone. That way she was sure of not bumping into anyone she knew, because it was sod’s law that when you weren’t feeling or looking your best and were in no mood to chat, you instantly fell into an orbit of people who wanted to catch up. She didn’t buy much because she wasn’t hungry at all. She put some microwave meals, coffee, cheese and eggs, some headache tablets and a packet of multi-grain Ryvita in her trolley and added a hand of bananas to give her some energy, though she knew deep down that they’d go black and she’d end up throwing them out.
She headed back home a different way to the one she had come for some variety and noticed that there was a new building complex on the side of Spring Hill. The last time she had been up here, there had been a half-derelict old wire factory on the site. Now there was a stone quadrangle of half-built shops and a sign advertising the Teashop on the Corner. On a whim, she decided to indicate right and check it out. She was really starting to hate her marital home now. She didn’t belong there; it felt cursed by Julie, so the less time she spent there the better. Having a coffee would kill an hour at least, and give her something to think about other than the mess she was in.
The teashop was indeed on the corner, the door flanked by pots of cheerful flowers. She could guess from the outside what the inside might be like and she was right – pretty and chic and very inviting. There was an old-fashioned counter at one end, with cakes under glass domes and – my oh my – the most gorgeous displays of book-related items in glass cabinets.
An old lady was the only other customer and smiled a hello. There was a spiky-haired small woman behind the counter. Carla thought she looked like an elf, with her cheerful face and almond-shaped eyes.
‘Please take a seat. The menus are on the table,’ she called.
It was the weirdest feeling, thought Carla as she reached for the menu. She felt the tension which had been gripping her shoulders like eagles’ talons loosen off as if it was afraid of cake.
Molly poured out some more tea. She felt instantly better for a kind word and a few mouthfuls of scone. So much nicer than those monstrosities of confectionery that Sherry brought with her. She would come back to this place when Margaret was on her cruise and buy something from the cabinets to chase away some boredom. It had a lovely feel to it, and the shop owner was one of those people who had ‘laughing eyes’, as Ma Brandywine called them. You could fake a smile on the mouth, but never one in the eyes. Molly figured she must be in her mid-thirties, from the faint lines radiating from those eyes. With her spiky brown hair and her tiny, turned-up nose, she reminded Molly of an elf. A friendly elf. And the elf’s scone and tea had worked wonders to lift her headache away.
‘Warm today, isn’t it?’ she said to the dark-haired lady at the next table. She expected her to answer with an Italian accent, but she was a townie.
‘Very. We should be out sunbathing, not sitting in teashops.’
‘Indeed we should.’
Carla ordered a latte from Leni and a slice of the chocolate cake.
‘I’ve been to Holmfirth,’ said Molly. ‘I wouldn’t have known this place existed if I hadn’t passed it.’
‘Same here,’ said Carla. ‘I’ve just come from Penistone.’
The door tinkled and in walked Mr Singh. He seemed delighted that Leni had customers.
‘I think your discount Tuesday is working,’ he said.
Leni had heard the ladies admit that they’d driven in on a whim when passing, but nevertheless she nodded.
‘Today is Charles Dickens Tuesday,’ she told him.
‘I know. I have seen the poster in your window. I think I shall have some of that strawberry cake,’ said Mr Singh, rubbing his hands together and grinning at the two ladies.
‘It’s not strawberry cake, it’s Oliver Twist cake, I’ll have you know,’ Leni gently admonished him.
‘Oh,’ said Mr Singh. ‘And what flavour is the Oliver Twist cake?’
‘Strawberry,’ smiled Leni and Mr Singh laughed and so infectious was the sound that Carla and Molly chuckled quietly too.
‘Very good, very good,’ said Mr Singh. ‘Tea and Oliver Twist cake then please, Leni.’ And he sat down on one of the vacant tables.
I’ll definitely come back here, thought both Molly and Carla when they left. There was something about the little teashop and the friendly owner that took them away from dark places in their heads. It was a temporary magic, but it might just work again, they hoped.
Chapter 19
Theresa and Jonty arrived at Carla’s house with a Chinese takeaway and two bottles of red wine. Dear Jonty, the tallest and cleverest man she knew, enfolded her in a huge bear hug. By the time he had released her, Theresa had taken out the plates which were warming in the oven.
‘Come on, whilst it’s hot. I’m absolutely famished, so we can talk whilst we eat. Jonty – pour the wine, darling.’
‘Aye, dun’t worry. I’ve got it soor-ted.’
Jonty’s acccent was as broad Yorkshire as Theresa’s was cut-glass.
‘Don’t give me a lot of food, I’m not hungry,’ said Carla.
‘You’ll eat what you are given,’ replied Theresa sternly. ‘You’re going to need all the strength you can get.’
‘That sounds ominous,’ replied Carla.
‘We aren’t going to dress it up,’ said Theresa, ripping the top from a carton of egg fried rice. ‘It could be better news. Jonty and I have dissected all your paperwork.’
‘I’ve spoken to Freddy on your behalf. He’s put you a formal letter in the post outlining everything,’ said Jonty, screwing the top off the first bottle of red. ‘Bloody good solicitor, I have to say. You’re all right with me talking to him for you?’ he checked.
‘Of course,’ replied Carla. ‘I’m grateful for any help you can give me, and I know you’ve got my back, Jonty.’
Jonty pushed his gold-rimmed glasses further up his nose.
‘Sit,’ commanded Theresa, fitting a fork in Carla’s hand as if she were a five-year-old.
‘Julie is Martin’s legal wife, that checks out,’ began Jonty. ‘But we might still have a case for claiming something from the estate under the 1975 Inheritance Act if you can prove you were dependent on him prior to his death. When were you made redundant?’
‘About a month before Martin died.’
‘Hmm . . .’ replied Jonty, spearing a mushroom. ‘Well, I am absolutely sure there is a way to secure this as your home, at least until any claim you make has been decided upon.’
/> ‘I don’t want to,’ replied Carla. Pat Morrison’s words about starting afresh had never left the forefront of her mind. ‘I want to leave this house. I’m going to lose anyway in the end. Julie Pride told me herself that their money was in her name, and I’m sure she could prove that Martin was going to leave me. She’s pregnant with his child. I don’t have the money or the energy to put up a fight. I don’t want to end up in a newspaper as a sensationalist story, I just want to go quietly.’
‘Don’t be insane, darling,’ replied Theresa, raking a hand through her short red curls. ‘You contributed to the upkeep of this house. You have a case.’
‘Julie said I can have all the contents. I’m going to sell them and start again somewhere. There’s only two hundred pounds in our joint savings account, but I’ll transfer it out and close it down. I have Martin’s insurance policy and a couple of thousand pounds of my own so I’m sure I’ll be able to rent something.’
‘Have you had a look around for any of his bank books?’ asked Jonty.
‘Yes, but I can’t find them. He always used to keep things like that in a shoe-box in his wardrobe. I presume he must have taken them to Julie’s house so I couldn’t see them.’
‘Bastard,’ snarled Theresa, pronouncing it ‘bahhh-sted’ and making it sound a classy, desirable thing to be.
‘He is that,’ agreed Jonty. ‘What a chuffing nightmare for you, love. We’ll get you sorted though, don’t worry.’
‘Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to fight?’ asked Theresa. As a red-head, she hated to think of battle not being raised.
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