by H. Y. Hanna
“See what?” chorused Cassie and I together.
“The mouse!”
“What? We don’t have mice,” I protested. “We just had an inspection last week and everything was clear. There were no traces of mice or any other pests.”
“I don’t care what the inspection said. I saw it! A brown furry thing… It was there—scurrying under the table!” Dora said, waving the rolling pin around.
I bent to look under the table. “Well, I don’t see anything now. Honestly, I think you might have imagined it, Dora—”
“No, no—I saw it!” she insisted. “I didn’t imagine it!”
“Hey, you know what?” Cassie snapped her fingers. “The house next door is undergoing major renovations. It’s stood empty for months and now the builders are knocking down walls and breaking up ceilings—I’ll bet that the mouse came from there. There are always rats and mice living in derelict buildings and if the place gets disturbed, they all come scurrying out, looking for other places to live.”
Ugh. I didn’t like the sound of that. As an eating establishment, the last thing I could afford was a rodent infestation.
“Maybe it’s not as bad as that,” I said hopefully. “Maybe it was just one nest and… er… they decided to try this place and Dora scared them away.” I looked back at the grey-haired, middle-aged woman standing on the chair. “Anyway, it’s probably gone now. Here, I’ll help you down—”
“Oh no!” said Dora, shaking her head vehemently. “I’m not coming down until you find that mouse!”
Suddenly Cassie, who had been looking behind some of the kitchen cabinets, gave a startled cry, and the next moment, a small furry creature shot out. It streaked across the floor and passed right by my legs, causing me to jump and yelp in surprise.
Dora shrieked again and pointed wildly. “There it is! There it is!”
The next moment, I saw a grey blur streak after the mouse and I gasped.
“Muesli!”
My naughty little feline was not officially allowed in the kitchen, since her presence at the tearoom was conditional on the fact that she didn’t go near any food preparation areas. Still, she often tried to sneak in—partly because the kitchen was always warm, and she liked to snooze on one of the wooden chairs next to Dora, and partly because she knew she wasn’t allowed in there. Like a typical cat, the more she wasn’t allowed to do something, the more Muesli wanted to do it. This time, she must have followed me and Cassie when we had rushed in following Dora’s scream.
Now she raced across the room, her green eyes dilated almost black with excitement, as she chased after the mouse. Cassie and I watched, bemused, as the animals zigzagged this way and that across the floor, with the mouse expertly evading Muesli at every turn.
“Meorrrrrrrrw!” cried Muesli, pouncing and missing as the mouse shot behind another kitchen cabinet and disappeared. She gave a frustrated yowl and darted after the mouse, shoving herself into the narrow gap between cabinet and wall.
“Hey, Muesli—no!” I cried, hurrying after her as she too disappeared into the gap.
I had visions of my cat getting stuck behind the kitchen cabinets or, even worse, disappearing into the wall cavity and necessitating the fire brigade to come and knock holes in the wall to rescue her (yes, I’m speaking from experience). Crouching down, I squeezed a shoulder into the gap myself and caught hold of her back legs.
“Meorrw!” cried Muesli indignantly, thrashing her tail and trying to wriggle away from me.
“Oh no, you don’t!” I said, reaching in deeper to get a better grip. The plaster on the wall here was old and crumbling, and as I wrestled with my cat, I was showered by specks of white.
“Argh!” I shook my head, letting go of Muesli as the dust went into my eyes.
“D’you need help, Gemma?” asked Cassie, bending down and eyeing me in concern.
“No… I’m all right… I just need to—”
“He-llo! Anybody there? Darling, where are you?”
I groaned as I heard the familiar voice. It was my mother! What was she doing here? At the same time, I realised suddenly that there was nobody in the dining room outside, looking after the customers. Yikes.
Standing up and brushing myself off as best as I could, I left Cassie groping around in the gap for Muesli while I hurried back outside.
CHAPTER NINE
I stepped out of the kitchen to find my mother and a strange woman standing by the counter. My mother was immaculately dressed, as always, in an elegant wool dress, with matching scarf and gloves, and not a hair out of place. I was suddenly conscious of my dishevelled appearance. My hair was covered in flecks of plaster, there was more white dust on my sweater and jeans, and I was flushed and sweating.
“Oh my goodness, darling—whatever have you been doing?” my mother gasped.
“Er… I just… I was doing a bit of tidying up,” I mumbled.
I glanced at the strange woman, who was eyeing me up and down with heavy disapproval. She had fiercely plucked eyebrows and a very pointed nose in a thin, angular face. She was dressed, like my mother, in a ladylike outfit, with the kind of jewellery and coiffured hair that defined women of a certain class.
“Darling, this is Grace Lamont, the editor of Society Madam. You know, it’s that lovely magazine for ladies I’m always telling you to read.”
“Ladies of a certain refinement,” put in the woman sharply. “We are not like those other women’s publications cluttering up the racks in magazine shops, with their scandalous covers of barely dressed actresses and their revolting obsession with men and fornication. No, Society Madam is a publication of quality, with content that is appropriate for genteel members of the fair sex. We cover all aspects of home management and décor, gardening, cooking, fashion, and etiquette. We also publish several special editions a year which focus on important issues like the best methods for correct stain removal.”
“Er… right. How nice,” I said.
My mother beamed. “I was so delighted to get a call from Grace this morning. To think, after so many years of reading the magazine, I’m finally going to appear in it! What a great honour! Grace wants to do an interview with me about being a judge in a TV talent show—”
“Yes, a very brave venture, Evelyn. I commend you on your attempt to lift standards in our television broadcasting.”
“Oh…” My mother gave a modest laugh. “I didn’t have such grand designs, I assure you. I was simply asked by Stuart Hollande to step in temporarily, because one of the other judges was suddenly indisposed, and he said that he had been impressed by my observations during dinner the night before.”
“But I believe that they have asked you to remain on the panel?”
I turned to my mother in disbelief. “Really?”
My mother gave another modest laugh. “I hadn’t had a chance to tell you yet, darling. Stuart told me that they’d received so many messages from people who loved my commentary on the show—apparently, there is even something called a ‘meme’ on the Face Book about me!—that Mr Gibbs decided he’d like me to remain as a judge on the show.”
“But… what about Zoe Carlotti?”
“I don’t know, darling. I suppose they’ve asked her to step down.”
Grace sniffed. “Good riddance! I can’t imagine why they ever asked that shameless little trollop. Did you see the length of her fingernails in the last episode? And painted in two different colours!” She gave a shudder. “A lady should never have fingernails longer than a millimetre past her fingertips and always painted a classic, muted shade, although a French manicure is permissible.”
I cast a surreptitious look at my own fingernails, with their ragged edges and chipped nail polish, and hastily shoved my hands behind my back.
My mother put a hand on my arm. “Now, darling—guess what? When I mentioned to Grace that you provided the catering for the show and owned a traditional English tearoom, she said she’d like to do a feature on you too! Isn’t that marvellous?”
“Er… yeah… great,” I said, trying to dredge up an enthusiastic smile. I could think of a million things I’d rather do than be interviewed by this scary woman for her archaic magazine. Still, I told myself that I shouldn’t be ungrateful for the chance of extra PR for my tearoom.
Grace Lamont slowly and deliberately looked around the tearoom with a critical eye. I followed her gaze and thought with a secret smile that at least when it came to my tearoom, I had nothing to be ashamed of. Carefully renovated to preserve and highlight its period features, the fifteenth-century building, which had once been a Tudor inn, was the epitome of quaint English charm, from the exposed wooden beams to the wide mullioned windows and the genuine inglenook fireplace.
“Hmmm… yes… you’ve done a good job here,” said Grace Lamont with a nod, like a schoolmistress during a class inspection. She reached out and ran a finger along a nearby shelf. “A little dusty, but overall the standards of hygiene seem remarkably good.” She wagged a finger at me. “Tradition may be all very well but some of these old places seem to think that vintage charm includes a layer of vintage grease and dust. I was even invited to review a place once, and when I arrived, I discovered that they had mice!” Her nostrils flared in disgust. “Can you believe it? Mice! In their kitchens! Absolutely disgusting. I made sure to mention it in my article and I also personally wrote to Food & Safety, informing them of the gross breach of hygiene standards. I’m pleased to say that the place was shut down soon after.”
As I stared at her in mute horror, Grace Lamont walked over to the pile of menus stacked neatly at the end of the counter and flipped one open.
“Now, I presume that you serve proper British baking here? None of those pretentious French patisseries or—God forbid—those silly Asian fusion things, like ‘matcha cheesecake’?”
“Uh… no, we specialise in traditional British favourites, like scones with jam and clotted cream.”
“Home-made clotted cream?” she said sharply.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “And the jam is home-made too. In fact, almost all our food is made from scratch on the premises.”
She nodded approvingly. “And I hope that the dough is kneaded by hand, as opposed to those dreadful machines people like to use nowadays?”
“Er… yeah, Dora, my baking chef, kneads all the dough by hand,” I said, thinking that this was worse than when the food inspector had come to visit!
At that moment, the door to the kitchen swung open and Cassie burst out.
“Muesli got the mouse!”
Grace Lamont jerked around, her eyebrows shooting up into her hairline. “Mouse?”
“Oh! Er… she means the computer mouse!” I shouted, giving my friend a frantic warning look. “My cat, Muesli, has been… er… pouncing on the mouse when we try to use it… It’s… um… very annoying when you’re trying to work at the computer.”
“I never realised you had a computer in the kitchen?” said my mother, turning to Cassie.
My friend looked bewildered. “Oh… uh… yeah, that’s right. New addition this week. To… um… help us keep track of orders.”
“Do you mind if I pop in and use it for a moment?” asked my mother, making a move towards the kitchen. “Helen Green just sent me a text saying that she’s received the new catalogue from John Lewis on email! She said it comes as an attachment and it opens up and looks just like a real catalogue, except it’s on your screen! Fancy that! You can even turn the pages too, if you click on the little arrows at the bottom. I really must check my email and see—”
I jumped in front of my mother, blocking her way. “The… the computer in the kitchen isn’t set up to check email, Mother.” It was ridiculously lame and with anyone else, I would never have got away with it, but I was relying on my mother’s ignorance of computer technology.
“Uh… yeah, right,” said Cassie quickly. “The computer’s really old and it’s just for… um… taking catering orders.”
Grace gave me a suspicious look but didn’t comment. Instead, she pulled a slim, leather-bound diary out of her handbag and began flipping through the pages. “Now, Gemma, I have some time next Friday to do an interview—if that would be convenient for you?”
“Um... next week is ha—” I started to reply but was distracted as I saw the kitchen door swing open slightly and Muesli’s little head appear. She wriggled out and trotted towards us, meowing excitedly. Her cries seemed strangely muffled, however, and my eyes widened in horror as I realised why. “…aagh—AAGGHH!” I yelped as Muesli stopped beside me and dropped the furry bundle she was carrying.
Cassie made a choked sound, her eyes bulging as she stared at the mouse. The little creature crouched, motionless, its eyes wide and its whiskers quivering. It was barely inches from Grace Lamont’s high heels.
“I beg your pardon?” Grace said quizzically. “Haa-what?” She started to look around. “Is something the matter?”
“Uh… no! NO!” I said, shuffling my feet. “Um… I was just asking haa—haaw—how long it would take?”
“Half an hour should suffice. And I would be obliged if you could come to my office in Oxford. It’s just on the High Street.” Grace bent her head and began to write laboriously in her diary with a fountain pen.
“Right. High Street,” I said, still groping around with my feet. If I could just nudge the mouse towards the tall potted palm next to us, hopefully it would climb into the pot before Grace noticed it. For the first time, I felt a rush of gratitude to my mother for insisting that I fill the tearoom with indoor plants to “freshen the air”.
I felt my toes touch something soft and risked a glance down. The mouse had seemed paralysed by fright, but at the touch of my shoe it sprang suddenly to life. It turned towards the potted palm but, before it could move, Muesli reached out and clamped a paw on its tail. Aghh!
“Muesli!” I hissed, turning my foot towards her and giving her a shove.
“Meorrw!” she said indignantly, letting go of the mouse.
Grace looked up from her diary. “Is that a cat?”
Her gaze dropped to her feet. My heart stopped as I wondered if the mouse was still there—Grace was bound to see it!—but to my relief, I couldn’t see it anywhere. There was only Muesli, sitting with her front paws daintily together, looking up at us with her big green eyes. I relaxed slightly. The mouse must have climbed into the potted plant, like I’d hoped. In fact, I saw Muesli turn suddenly towards the palm, her nose quivering, and trot up to it.
“Meorrw?” she said, sticking her head into the clump at the base of the pot. It was a bushy palm, with fronds that splayed out in all directions, providing good hiding places for a small creature. Still, I didn’t want to take the chance that Muesli might frighten the mouse and flush it out again.
“Oh… er, Muesli… come and give me a cuddle!” I said, hastily scooping her up.
“Meorrw…!” said Muesli sulkily, trying to wriggle out of my arms.
Grace gave a fastidious sniff. “I don’t like cats. All those hairs everywhere.” She took a step away from me, bumping into the palm tree, then clucked her tongue irritably as her handbag became snagged in one of the fronds. Pulling it free, she made a great show of brushing herself off. “I’m surprised that a cat is allowed on the premises,” she said coldly.
“Oh, we’ve had approval from Food & Safety. The inspector reviewed everything and agreed that we could have Muesli at the tearoom, providing that she doesn’t go near the food preparation areas—which means the kitchen—and that she stays off the tables. Which she does,” I added hastily.
“Hmm…” Grace Lamont didn’t look convinced. Then, to my relief, she shouldered her handbag and turned towards the door. “Well, I shall expect to see you next Friday then, Gemma. Ten o’clock sharp.”
I smiled at her with false brightness. “Er… right! I’ll be there!”
CHAPTER TEN
Whew! I sagged onto the chair behind the counter as the door closed behind Grace Lamont and my mo
ther. Cassie, who had gone to serve one of the tables, returned and gave me a relieved look.
“Bloody hell, that was a close call. I thought she was going to see the mouse for sure!”
“Me too,” I said with a groan. “I think I lost five years off my life just now.” I glared at Muesli, who was sitting up on the counter, nonchalantly washing herself. “And you… you little minx! I’ll bet you did that on purpose, bringing the mouse out like that and dumping it at my feet.”
“They say it’s supposed to be a sign of love, you know, when your cat brings you gifts,” said Cassie with a grin. “Anyway, where did the little bugger go?”
“It went into the potted palm,” I said, pointing.
Cassie bent to look but straightened again after a moment. “It’s not here.”
“What do you mean? I saw it go in there.” I bent to look myself but after several minutes of rummaging through the base of the palm, nearly getting my eyes poked out by the spiky fronds, I had to concede defeat.
“It’s not here!” I said in bewilderment, straightening to look at Cassie.
“Are you sure you saw it go in the pot?”
“Well… not exactly,” I admitted. “It was there by my feet and then I looked up at Grace Lamont—and when I looked down again, it was gone. But it had to have gone into the pot—there’s nowhere else it could have gone!” I gestured to the open area around us.
Cassie gave a shrug. “Maybe it crept out of the pot again when we weren’t looking?”
I stared at her in dismay. “Oh God—don’t tell me that! You mean it could be loose here in the tearoom?”
I turned to scan the room in trepidation. Everything seemed to be peaceful. Couples, groups, and families were sitting at the various tables, happily munching, drinking, talking, and laughing. There was no sign of even a mouse whisker anywhere.
“Surely, if it was loose out here, Muesli would smell it and be chasing after it?” I said, turning back to glance at my tabby cat, who was still sitting unconcernedly on the counter, washing her face.
