by HANNA, H. Y.
“It’s because they have no concept of ‘staying power’,” Florence Doyle spoke up. Her simple, placid face was unusually earnest. “They’ve never been through the war and have no idea of rationing. They don’t know how to make things last as long as possible. People wash their hair so frequently these days.” She gave a shudder.
“Well, a wash and set once a week was good enough for my mother and it’s good enough for me,” said Mabel with an emphatic nod. She eyed me suspiciously. “How often do you wash your hair, Gemma?”
“I… um… only when I need to,” I stammered, thinking guiltily of my daily shower and shampoo. With a determined effort, I changed the subject. “What would you like to order for morning tea?”
“I’d like some of your delicious warm scones with jam and clotted cream—and a pot of English Breakfast, please,” Ethel Webb spoke up.
The quietest of the group, Ethel was a kindly, absent-minded spinster who used to be the librarian at the local library until she retired a few years ago. I remembered her gentle face smiling at me as she stamped the return date on my books when I was a little girl.
She gave me that same gentle smile now. “And I think you’ve done a lovely job with the tearoom, Gemma. I’m really proud of you.”
I looked at her in surprise, a sudden tightness coming to my throat. Since announcing my decision to ditch my high-flying corporate career for a village tearoom, the reactions I’d received had ranged from aghast disbelief to horrified disapproval. I hadn’t realised until now how much a bit of support meant to me.
“Thank you…” I said, blinking rapidly. “Thank you, Miss Webb. I… I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your words.”
Her eyes twinkled at me. “Now that you’re nearly thirty, Gemma, do you think you could call me Ethel, dear? I’m not behind the library desk anymore, you know.”
I returned her smile. “I’ll try, Miss… Ethel.”
I managed to take the rest of the orders without further comment on my bowels, my mother’s hair follicles or the young generation’s lack of economy, and hurried back to the counter in relief. My best friend, Cassie, met me on the way. She had been looking after a large group of American tourists, which had just arrived by coach and was now settled in the tables along the far wall.
“Looks like you survived another encounter with the Old Biddies,” she said with a grin as we both rounded the counter.
I rolled my eyes. “If I have to hear one more thing about Mabel’s ‘regular’ bowel habits, I think I’m going to take a running jump.”
“You’ll get no sympathy from me,” said Cassie. “You’ve only had to put up with them for three weeks so far. I’ve been putting up with them for the past eight years while you’ve been gallivanting off Down Under.”
Cassie and I had known each other from the time we both believed in Santa Claus. That moment when we’d first sat down next to each other in the classroom of our village school had been the start of an unexpected but wonderful friendship. Unexpected because you couldn’t have found two people more un-alike than Cassie and me. She was one of five siblings in a large, rowdy family where everyone talked constantly—when they weren’t singing, dancing, painting, or sculpting—and the house was in a constant state of cluttered chaos. Cassie’s parents were “artists” in the true sense of the word and believed that the most important things in life were creative freedom and personal expression. It was no surprise that Cassie had done Fine Art at Oxford.
I, meanwhile, was the only child of an upper-middle-class household where nobody spoke at any volume above a well-modulated murmur and certainly never with excessive emotion. My house was always a perfectly ordered sanctuary of cream furniture and matching curtains. My parents were “British” in the true sense of the word and believed that the most important things in life were a stiff upper lip and correct etiquette. You couldn’t do “Ladylike Decorum” as a degree at Oxford so my mother had had to settle for me doing English Language and Literature.
Like most artists, Cassie worked a series of part-time jobs to help make ends meet. When she learned about my plans to return to Meadowford-on-Smythe and re-open the tearoom, it had taken very little to convince her to ditch her usual day job and come work with me. In fact, her past waitressing experience had been invaluable. Even now, I watched in admiration as she expertly balanced several plates laden with scones, cheesecake, and crumpets—as well as a pot of tea and two teacups—and started to make her way to the table of Japanese tourists by the door.
A strange snapping noise caught my attention and I turned towards the sound. It was coming from a large man who seemed to be part of the tour group that had just come in. He was sitting alone at a table at the edge of the group and had his left hand in the air, snapping it impatiently, like someone calling a disobedient dog. I frowned at his rudeness, but reminded myself that I was in the hospitality industry now. Professional, friendly service no matter what. I took a deep breath and went over to him.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Yeah, I wanna glass of water.”
He had a strong American accent and an aggressive manner, which put me instantly on edge, but I kept my smile in place.
“Certainly.” I started to turn away but paused as he spoke again.
“Wait—is it tap? I only drink filtered water.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have a filter, sir. It’s plain tap water. But it’s very safe to drink tap water in the U.K. We do have bottled water on the menu, if you prefer.”
He scowled. “What a rip-off. Water should be free.”
I stifled a sigh. “You can certainly have water for free, but it’ll be tap water. We have to pay for the bottled water so I have to charge you for that.”
“All right, all right…” He waved a hand. “Get me a glass of tap water. And put some ice in it.”
I turned to go but was stopped again by his voice.
“Hey, by the way, the service is terrible. I’ve been sitting here forever and no one’s come to take my order!”
I stared at him, wondering if he was serious. Surely he realised that he had only just come in a few minutes ago? The rest of the group were still looking at their menus. One of the women in the group, sitting at the next table with her little boy, met my eyes and gave me a sympathetic smile. I took a deep breath and let it out through my nose.
“I’ll just grab my order pad, sir.”
“Yeah, well, be quick about it. I haven’t got all day.”
Gritting my teeth, I headed back to the counter. My mood was not improved when I got there to find Cassie with an exasperated look on her face.
“The shop’s empty again.”
“Arrrrgghh!” I said under my breath. “Muesli, I’m going to kill you!”
No, I don’t have an abnormal hatred of cereals. Muesli is a cat and, like all cats, she delights in doing the exact opposite of what you want. The Food Standards Agency inspector had been adamant: the only way I’d be allowed to have a cat on the premises was if it stayed out of the kitchen and dining areas. Easy, I’d thought. I’ll just keep Muesli in the extension where we had a little shop selling Oxford souvenirs and English tea paraphernalia. The fact that I thought of the words “easy” and “cat” in the same sentence probably tells you that I don’t know much about felines.
Okay, I’ll be the first to admit—I’ve always been more of a dog person. I think cats are fascinating and beautiful and look great on greeting cards. But not on my lap leaving hairs everywhere and certainly not in my tearoom, getting under everyone’s feet. So why, you wonder, is the tabby terror even here? Well, she came as a packaged deal with my chef. And Fletcher Wilson is a magician with a mixer and a spatula. Trust me, once you’ve tasted his sticky toffee pudding, you’d be ready to give him your first born child. So agreeing to let him have his cat with him at work seemed like a small price to pay in exchange for his culinary expertise.
The problem was, I hadn’t counted on the cat being quite so sociable. O
r such a great escape artist. Muesli had quickly decided that there was no way she was going to remain in the shop area when all the real fun was going on here in the dining room and she made it her life’s mission to escape at any opportunity. I couldn’t really blame her. In fact, I felt guilty every time I saw that little tabby face—with her pink nose pressed up to the glass—peering wistfully through the door that separated the shop from the dining room. But food hygiene laws were one thing I couldn’t ignore if I didn’t want to lose my licence.
“One of the Japanese tourists must have gone in the shop to check out some of the stuff and she slipped out when they opened the door,” commented Cassie.
I sighed and scanned the room, looking for a little tabby shape between the tables. I couldn’t see her. I crouched down to get a better view. All I could see was a forest of legs… I bit my lip. Where was that cat? I had to find her before any of the customers noticed her loose in here. The last thing I needed was for Mabel and her cronies to discover my Food Standards violation; the news would be halfway across Oxfordshire before the day ended.
“Hey! Can I get some service around here?” came an irate American voice.
I straightened up hurriedly. Oh God, I’d forgotten about Mr Charming. I gave Cassie a harassed look. “Keep looking for her, will you?”
I grabbed the order pad—then, on an impulse, also picked up a plate of fresh blackberry cheesecake, which had just come through the hatch from the kitchen. Well, they did say the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. I added a knife and fork, and a dollop of cream, then walked over and set it down in front of him.
“Sorry for the wait, sir. Compliments of the house. This is one of our specialties.”
“Huh.” He looked surprised. He picked up the fork and cut the corner off the soft, creamy cake, putting it cautiously into his mouth. His eyes glazed over slightly and his face softened. “Say… this is not bad.”
I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. Coming from him, that was probably considered high praise. Still, trying to be charitable, I told myself that maybe he was just one of those people who got really grouchy when hungry. I observed him surreptitiously as I took his order. He was a large, thickset man, with a blocky, almost square-shaped head, fleshy cheeks and prominent ears. His mouth drooped slightly on one side as he talked—the result of a stroke?—and I put him in his early forties, though he looked older. He seemed slightly incongruous sitting there with the other tourists. He was certainly dressed like a tourist in chinos, a loud shirt, and sports jacket, and he had a sort of knapsack on the chair next to him, but somehow he didn’t quite fit in.
“…and I gotta have the bread soft, d’you hear? I don’t want any hard crusts on the sandwiches.”
“All our tea sandwiches are made the traditional way with untoasted bread and the crusts cut off, so they’re all very soft to eat,” I assured him. I noticed the tourist map of Oxford spread out on the table in front of him and gave him a polite smile. “Visiting Oxford, sir?”
“What?” He glanced down at the map. “Oh… oh, yeah.” He gave me a sheepish grin. “Yeah, first-time visitor here; never been to Oxford before. Gotta figure out how to get around. Say, you know how long it takes to walk from the Bodleian Library to Magdalen College?”
“No more than ten or fifteen minutes, I should think. You can take the shortcut through Catte Street onto High Street, and then just turn left and walk straight down to the bridge.”
“Catte Street… that comes out opposite the bank, doesn’t it?”
I frowned. “You mean, the Old Bank Hotel?”
He blinked and a look of confusion flashed across his face, to be replaced quickly by a bland smile. “Sure, yeah, that’s what I mean.” He folded up the map. “Well, thanks for that. You gotta restroom here?”
I directed him to the door beside the shop, then hurried back to the counter to put his order through. I could hear raised voices in the kitchen and winced. I wondered if Cassie was telling Fletcher about his missing cat. I hoped it wouldn’t upset him too much. Fletcher was… “sensitive”, for want of a better word. He was painfully shy and didn’t relate to people like most of us did—in fact, he found it difficult to even make eye contact when he spoke to you. Animals seemed to be the only thing that helped him come out of his shell and I knew that having Muesli here played a big role in calming his nerves and helping him cope with things.
Remembering the request for water, I hurriedly poured a glass and added a few ice-cubes, then took it back to the American man’s table. As I was putting it down, the little boy at the next table jumped up with a yell and jostled my elbow. Water sloshed out of the glass and onto the man’s knapsack.
“Blast!” I muttered.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” said the woman at the next table. “Hunter, apologise to the lady.”
I gave the little boy a distracted smile. “That’s okay. It was an accident.”
I set the glass down and picked up the knapsack, trying to shake the water off. It was unzipped and a lot of water had spilled onto a folder inside. I hesitated a second, then pulled the folder out and grabbed a napkin from the holder on the table to mop up the moisture. My heart sank as I saw that water had seeped into the folder and wet the sheaf of papers inside. I could just imagine the American’s reaction when he came out and saw what had happened.
Hastily, I pulled out the sheets and dabbed at them with more napkins. The water had soaked through the first page. I hoped it wasn’t anything important. It had the look of an official letter, with the University of Oxford letterhead at the top, but what I was more worried about was the bottom where the signature—obviously done in fountain pen—had smeared across the page. I dabbed at it, thinking to myself frantically: most signatures were illegible anyway, weren’t they? This one, for instance, you could hardly make out what the name was. It looked like a “G” and then “Hayes” or “Hughes”, but in any case—
“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”
I gasped as a hand grabbed my wrist and yanked me back from the table. Conversation at the next table ceased and the whole room went silent as everyone turned to stare. The American towered over me, one hand clamped on my wrist, the other holding something that gleamed dully. My eyes widened as I realised that it was a knife.
READ MORE: AMAZON | AMAZON UK
Books in the Oxford Tearoom Mysteries:
A Scone To Die For (Book 1)
Tea with Milk and Murder (Book 2)
Two Down, Bun To Go (Book 3)
Till Death Do Us Tart (Book 4)
Muffins and Mourning Tea (Book 5)
All-Butter ShortDead (Prequel)
~ more coming soon!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
H.Y. Hanna is an award-winning mystery and suspense writer and the author of the bestselling Oxford Tearoom Mysteries. She has also written romantic suspense and sweet romance, as well as a children's middle-grade mystery series. After graduating from Oxford University with a BA in Biological Sciences and a MSt in Social Anthropology, Hsin-Yi tried her hand at a variety of jobs, before returning to her first love: writing.
She worked as a freelance journalist for several years, with articles and short stories published in the UK, Australia and NZ, and has won awards for her novels, poetry, short stories and journalism.
A globe-trotter all her life, Hsin-Yi has lived in a variety of cultures, from Dubai to Auckland, London to New Jersey, but is now happily settled in Perth, Western Australia, with her husband and a rescue kitty named Muesli. You can learn more about her (and the real-life Muesli who inspired the cat character in the story) and her other books at: www.hyhanna.com.
Sign up to her mailing list to be notified about new releases, exclusive giveaways and other book news: http://www.hyhanna.com/newsletter
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you once again to my wonderful beta readers: Connie Leap, Basma Alwesh, Jenn Roseton and Melanie G. Howe, for always finding time to fit me into their busy schedul
es—their thoughtful feedback plays a large part in making this book the best it can be.
And as always, I couldn’t do it without my amazing husband, and his constant support and encouragement. He is one man in a million.
***
Copyright © 2017 by H.Y. Hanna
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9954012-3-5
www.hyhanna.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, persons or animals, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the author. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author
