The Teashop on the Corner

by Milly Johnson

  Theresa and Carla both looked at each other, wanting to giggle. Will, having no response to his action, pushed the door open slowly, saw that Carla had a highly amused friend sitting at the table and he swallowed hard with embarrassment.

  ‘Sorry, I thought you were by yourself, Carla.’ He coughed.

  ‘No,’ twinkled Carla. ‘This is my friend Theresa.’

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Will.’ Theresa stood and extended her hand. Had her pupils grown any bigger, they would have enveloped the room in a black hole.

  ‘I . . . erm . . . thought you might like this,’ he said, holding up the Swiss roll. ‘I wanted to ask you something. I thought we’d have a coffee and . . . It’ll wait.’ He handed over the box and then scratched his head in a gesture of embarrassment. ‘I’ll go out to the gym now. Nice to meet you,’ said Will with a bashful wave in Theresa’s direction. ‘See you later, Carla.’ And with that he closed the door.

  Theresa waited until she heard Will’s feet on the stairs before opening her mouth.

  ‘Ooooh,’ she trilled. ‘He is nice. Chirpy cockney type. Perfect balance of gentleman and bit of rough. You never said he was a tall lean man machine.’

  Just what Carla didn’t want to happen.

  ‘And fresh out of a marriage and, like me, not looking for any sort of romance whatsoever,’ she admonished the giddy Theresa.

  ‘Still . . .’

  ‘Still nothing, you. Behave.’

  ‘He brought you a Swiss roll and wants to talk to you.’ Theresa nodded towards the said dessert which made Carla hoot.

  ‘It’s hardly an engagement ring.’ Though she did wonder what he wanted to ask her that prompted him to buy a cake to discuss it over.

  Later, when he was back from the gym. Will popped his head around the kitchen door where Carla was putting a load of washing in. ‘Has your friend gone?’

  ‘Oh yes, ages ago.’

  ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘Yes, I can,’ replied Carla with amused curiosity. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  Carla spooned some granules into two cups. She was all coffee-ed out actually, but she didn’t have to drink it. She could simply sit with it whilst Will said what he had to say, which apparently warranted a Swiss roll accompaniment.

  The awful thought skipped across her brain that maybe the cake was a softener, and he was going to ask to be released from his rental agreement.

  Will was very heavy-handed when cutting the slices of Swiss roll. Carla had to ask him to cut hers in half. Then they sat down at the table and Carla braced herself for what Will had to say.

  ‘Okay,’ he began, clapping his hands, as if he were about to sell her something. Which in a way, he was. ‘There I was painting a wall and I had an idea.’

  ‘Which was?’ prompted Carla. Was he going to ask if he could emulsion his flat?

  ‘I’ll start from the beginning,’ said Will, chomping into his huge slice of cake. ‘Imagine the scene: this woman definitely one hundred per cent wants to rent a unit from Shaun. No question of backing off, wants to move in asap, begs him to get it ready, so he rearranges his schedule to finish it off so she can have it and he can get his rent. He even makes her a bleedin’ sign for the front. Only she backs out at the last minute. And he’s fuming.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Carla.

  ‘This unit is really small. He’s going to have real problems renting it out. Architect cock-up apparently. Still, it’s got a front room, a back room, a loo and a sink. And a nice big front window. Someone else comes to look at it, rejects it for being too small. And someone else after that.’

  ‘Ok-ay.’ Carla nodded slowly, not sure where this was going.

  ‘Long story short – it’d make a great shop for a florist.’ Will sat back and folded his arms, letting that sink in. ‘What do you think, then?’

  Carla’s brain took a few seconds to work out what he meant. ‘For me, you mean?’

  ‘That’s what crossed my mind.’

  ‘I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t rent it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because . . . because I . . . I work for other people. I’m not the sort of person who has her own shop.’ She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. What a ludicrous idea. Her – Carla Martelli – owning a shop.

  ‘I thought you managed a business for years.’

  ‘I did but . . . I had a boss . . .’

  ‘Who sat on her bum and did nothing, you told me.’ Will interrupted her.

  ‘Well, yeah but . . . I just couldn’t do it.’

  Couldn’t you? A strange whispery voice sounded in her ear. No, I couldn’t, she answered back. She might have known everything there was to know about flowers, prepared display pieces that won awards which Marlene Watson claimed as her own. She might have run Marlene’s Bloomers single-handedly whilst her boss sat in the back room watching every soap from Australia, Britain and America on the colour portable with her packet of fags for company. She might have gone to the markets at five a.m. to pick the flowers, estimating how many they’d need, and getting it almost right every time. But to run her own shop? That was just mad. Anyway, even if she thought she might be able to, and she wouldn’t think that, she didn’t have the money. Well, she did, but she couldn’t gamble spending the savings that she needed to cushion her until she had a job. She was supposed to be working to earn money not investing in a business and spending it.

  ‘I think that Shaun would give you a month’s free rent,’ added Will, as if reading her mind. ‘To have the unit occupied makes the other unfinished units more attractive. You can always ask and he can only say no.’

  Once again Carla’s mouth opened to say that she couldn’t really. But no sound came out.

  ‘Just go and have a look and see what you think,’ said Will. ‘It may not seem like it now, but I’ve always had a great instinct for a business opportunity. I did ask him, on your behalf, and he said that you can go and have a look tomorrow.’

  Absolutely not. That was a ridiculous idea. Carla wasn’t the sort of person who was in charge.

  ‘Thanks but no thanks, Will. It’s not me, running my own business.’

  ‘Well it was just an idea,’ said Will, not forcing the issue. After all, he didn’t know Carla well enough to try to convince her otherwise.

  Chapter 63

  Ryan had a school bag with him when he turned up for work on the Saturday morning and a serious look on his face.

  ‘Mrs Merryman,’ he started, ‘is there any chance I could do my homework on the computer in your back room in my breaks?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes of course you can,’ she said, thinking that was an odd request. Why couldn’t he do it at home?

  ‘My laptop broke,’ he said, as if he had just heard her ask aloud. ‘I’d put most of it on my memory stick but I need to finish it off.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Well, you stay after work if you like, to finish it. You can print it out as well, I won’t charge you for the ink.’ She winked at him.

  ‘Ta.’

  He wasn’t quite himself today, she thought. There was a frown on his brow as he went into the back room to dump his bag and Leni noticed how much of his socks were showing below his trousers, though they were hanging off his waist. He had a dirty mark on his face as well, which she hoped he would see in the mirror in the back room and save her from having to point it out.

  She set him wrapping up some mail orders while there were no customers in the teashop. The handbags made from books had proved very popular and demand had exceeded supply. But then Leni had managed to get hold of some more; enough at least to fulfil the pending orders. Ryan’s wrapping was very neat, his handwriting even and professional. Leni could easily trust him with her precious stock, despite whatever Shaun McCarthy might have said.

  Leni saw his face at close quarters when she brought him a toasted sandwich for his breakfast and realised that mark wasn’t dirt after all.

  ‘Is that a bruise?’ she pointed ou
t.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Ryan with a shrug. ‘I got elbowed in the face at school playing football.’

  There was something about his answer that sounded rehearsed.

  ‘Play a lot of football, do you?’ she quizzed.

  ‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘It was a PE lesson.’

  ‘Well, I hope your teacher sent the boy off who injured you.’

  Ryan mumbled something that she didn’t quite catch. He was obviously uncomfortable with this line of questioning, so she lightened up the conversation.

  ‘How’s the saving for your Kindle going?’

  ‘Can I keep it here? My money? I’ve brought it with me. It’s in my bag.’

  ‘Yes, of course you can. I’ll lock it in the safe. And if you want to do a couple of hours for me after school on Wednesday, I’ll pay you a fiver extra.’

  ‘Cool. My dad’s left home to live with Orange Shannon. My brother’s looking after me,’ said Ryan, taking a huge bite of the sandwich. ‘He snoops in my room.’

  Leni remembered what Shaun had said about Ryan’s family, but she couldn’t imagine living in a house where a family member might steal from her, if that is what he was intimating.

  ‘Is he looking after you okay?’ Leni knew she was prying, but she couldn’t help herself.

  ‘Don’t see much of him. I can sort myself out.’

  But you shouldn’t have to, Leni said to herself. She could have wept, watching the boy who looked so young for his years tuck into the sandwich as if he hadn’t been fed for days. She could never understand how people could abandon their children. She would have died for Anne. Sometimes she wished she had.

  Chapter 64

  The weathermen had predicted a beautiful sunny week and, if Saturday morning was anything to go by, they were right. Molly and Harvey breakfasted in the garden. Neither of them had slept well the previous night. Molly had heard Harvey get up at least three times to go to the bathroom. She had lain in the dark, desperate for some sleep to drive the nagging voice in her head away. Tell him, tell him, tell him – the words had poked her brain over and over again. Twice she had opened her mouth to do exactly that and twice she had snapped it shut. He was asleep now, his chest rising and falling as he slumbered on the swinging chair. Any minute his heart could give out and he would die never knowing what she had kept from him. She knew what she had to do, but it was so difficult. She moved the empty plates and cups onto a tray, carried them into the kitchen and went up into the study bedroom. She took out the treasure box from the bottom drawer, removed the bundle of letters that was in there, and returned to the garden. The augmented shrill of an ambulance siren in the next street sliced through the air, disturbing Harvey’s sleep and his eyes flittered open.

  He stretched. ‘I feel as content as Mr Bingley,’ he said. ‘This is what it must feel like to be a cat. What’s that you’ve got?’

  Molly held out the stack of letters, tied together with the faded gold ribbon. Her hand was trembling.

  ‘They’re in date order,’ she said. ‘I want you to read them all.’

  Harvey straightened up in the chair. ‘Letters? Whose are they?’

  ‘They’re yours. I wrote them to you.’

  ‘To me? When?’

  ‘When you left me.’

  Harvey took them from her as if they were as fragile as tissue paper and he stared at her with a curious and confused expression.

  ‘They’ll tell you everything,’ she said, standing.

  ‘What do you mean, they’ll tell me everything? About what?’

  ‘About me,’ replied Molly, feeling that her legs might crumble at any moment. ‘Read them all. I’ll leave you with them. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.’

  And she walked off before he had the chance to protest. She didn’t want to say any more, the letters would do all the talking for her. This moment had been too long in coming. But she still wished it had never come at all.

  Chapter 65

  When Carla went into the kitchen it was to find a note next to the canister of coffee.

  Carla

  I have told Shaun that you will meet him at the florist unit at 11 a.m. You know you want to ;)

  Will.

  She flew into an instant panic. She couldn’t meet him. There was no way. Then she felt a sudden rush of anger. How dare Will make arrangements for her? Who did he think he was? There had been no mention of the unit since Will had told her about it at the beginning of the week and then he had the cheek to arrange something like this without warning.

  There might have been no talk of it, but that wasn’t to say that Carla hadn’t thought about it. In fact the truth of it was that she had thought of little else. Her dreams had been full of visions of running her own florists. On one night she had seen herself behind a huge oak counter making up a bouquet of white roses around a Bonsai tree. The back room was deeper than a wardrobe leading to Narnia. Another night the back room was a huge garden full of freshly blooming flowers and she had woken with a feeling of true euphoria, which faded as soon as she realised she was jobless. Her mobile rang and she didn’t recognise the number, so she let voicemail pick it up in case it was Will reminding her that he had made her an appointment with Shaun. When she replayed the message she found it was from Workpeople, asking her if she would be available for a few more days of data entry starting Monday.

  Carla fed the cat who was fussing around her as if he had been ignored for days, then she sat with a coffee that she had no intention of drinking whilst weighing up her options. The thought of going back to the bank made her heart feel as heavy as a concrete brick. She wanted to work with flowers again so much. Was running her own florist shop that distant a dream? Damn Will Linton, she thought as she threw her purse and a notepad into her handbag.

  She drove up to Spring Hill extra carefully because her whole body felt shaky. She arrived at the square just before ten-thirty so she called in to see Leni at the Teashop on the Corner. Leni was taking an order from an elderly couple, so Carla peeked in the cabinets. There were some paperclips in the shape of the Brontë sisters’ profiles now, joining those of Jane Austen. Not that any of them particularly looked like whom they were supposed to, but they were a lovely novelty and the tin they came in was very covetable. There were some earrings in the shape of small inkpens, a table runner with the quote ‘If music be the food of love, play on’ embroidered on it and the most adorable purse resembling an airmail letter, complete with stitched address on the front. This shop was dangerous to a bank balance, thought Carla, tearing herself away and to the table. She ordered a small coffee but nothing to eat. She felt sick with nerves.

  As she waited for her drink to arrive she stared through the window at the small shop unit nearby and imagined it being hers. She envisaged pulling up in a van and offloading all the flowers she had picked at the wholesalers that morning. She saw herself answering the phone: Hello, Carla’s Flowers. No . . . that wasn’t right. Martelli Flowers? Hello, Black Cat Flowers. Nope. Hello . . .

  ‘Hello?’ Leni’s voice broke into her reverie. ‘Earth calling Carla.’

  ‘Sorry, Leni. Thank you.’ She wondered if she should tell Leni about the shop unit and get her opinion on it. After all, she was a woman who worked for herself.

  She opened her mouth, but shut it again fast. What if Leni laughed in her face at the idea of her opening up a business in the same square? Then again, Leni seemed too nice to do that, even if she did think Carla was daft to even think it.

  ‘I’m here to view that unit over there,’ Carla blurted out with a sudden burst of bravery.

  Leni didn’t laugh with derision at all. ‘Which one? The little one? Oh, how exciting for you. What sort of shop would it be?’

  ‘Yes, the little one. I’m thinking about starting a florists. I’ve worked in floristry for fifteen years, although I’ve never had my own shop.’

  ‘Then it’s about time you did,’ smiled Leni. ‘If you don’t know what you are doing after fifteen years
, then there’s something wrong.’

  ‘Do you think I could?’ asked Carla, which was a ridiculous question, she told herself as soon as the words had left her mouth. How would Leni know the answer to that? ‘Sorry, that was a daft thing to say.’

  ‘I think you need a slice of my coffee and rum cake this morning. It’s filled with confidence-giving drugs.’

  ‘It’s true – I have no confidence,’ confessed Carla. ‘I came from a very traditional family, where the men were the breadwinners and the women were destined for domestic duties.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Leni held her hand up to stop Carla saying any more. ‘Then you met a man for whom that set-up was ideal. And any secret ambitions you might have had got buried under your obligations.’

  ‘Am I that obvious?’

  ‘You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.’

  ‘You sound as if you’re talking from experience,’ Carla said, taking a long sip of coffee.

  ‘I eventually realised that there had been enough people in my life trying to hold me back without myself being one of them.’

  ‘You’re divorced, I take it?’ Carla smiled.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Leni looked happy about it too. ‘I work best under my own steam.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’m able.’

  ‘There’s only one way to go when you hit rock bottom,’ said Leni, making the point of looking through the window across at the shop. ‘And that’s upwards.’

  ‘Should I go for it?’

  But even if Leni didn’t know the answer, she was no less than encouraging. ‘Sometimes you have to take a leap of faith, Carla. You know your craft; Mr McCarthy doesn’t charge stupid rents. It all boils down to whether you can afford to buy the stock, and can you drum up enough business to sell it.’

  ‘I think I can,’ said Carla.

  ‘You know you can,’ Leni corrected her.

  ‘Yes, I know I can,’ Carla said, feeling a swirl of excitement inside her. She had to go up and forwards. The road backwards led to data entry jobs in banks, and the likelihood of having to sell Dundealin and rent somewhere and say goodbye to Will. Blimey. She hadn’t realised until then how awful that would be. She wasn’t sure she was comfortable having him so embedded in her plans for a happy life.