The Afternoon Tea Club

by Jane Gilley

  Eileen tasted the scrambled eggs half expecting them to taste too salty or to be thin and watery. But they were perfect and so were the salmon and the coffee. Her boys sat on her bed and watched her delighted features getting brighter and brighter.

  ‘We’ve also done all the cleaning and put a wash-load on, too.’

  ‘You’ve done what?’ Eileen cried spluttering her food out again, envisaging all the colours bleeding into each other. That was a thought too far.

  Troy almost laughed his head off. ‘We’re not entirely hopeless now. Gran taught us loads. She said it was time. Keep watching the iPad. It’s all on there!’

  ‘Mother, please eat your breakfast,’ Marcus demanded. ‘And then you can open your presents!’

  The large parcel on the bed contained all of Eileen’s favourite toiletries and a box of chocolates. Maybe the chocolates mightn’t have smelled of perfume if the boys had wrapped their gifts separately but Eileen wasn’t going to say anything about that.

  Then they gave her an envelope.

  It was for a weekend stay for the four of them on the Isle of Wight. None of them had holidayed anywhere since their father’s disappearance over three years ago. Time off from work had always been used up lazing around the house or going out for nice meals. Not jetting off anywhere, although they wouldn’t need a jet to go to the Isle of Wight.

  ‘Well, we’re earners now so we decided to do this for us all. We deserve it, don’t we. And they’ll even take Gran with the wheelchair and there’s an island trip on one of the days. Good huh?’

  ‘Come here, my darling boys,’ Eileen said, with tears in her eyes. ‘Have I told you how much I love you both, recently?’

  ‘Aw, Mum!’

  So that afternoon they’d driven to one of the parks, taken their father’s old football he used to kick around with them when they were all little and had an impromptu game of footie. Eileen’s mother threw the ball for them, pretending to be the goalie and they laughed and hollered and screamed with excitement.

  ‘You paid them, too, didn’t you?’ Eileen whispered to her mother on the way home.

  ‘How did you guess, love?’ her mother smirked.

  ***

  Classroom 4A had not been easy to find.

  The directions the receptionist had given them, downstairs, were not accurate. Some of the elderly Afternoon Tea Club members had gone up in the lift but, unfortunately, had gone up one floor too high and were wandering around, beginning to panic, until Stacy found them. Then Stacy asked directions from a chap who looked like a caretaker and he showed them where to go. He unlocked their classroom and eleven hopeful students piled in and looked around, in awe of the computers and notices pinned to the walls. The classroom was on the first floor and had great views of the college’s landscaped grounds.

  ‘This is nothing like I remember being at school. Didn’t even have calculators. Had to do adding up in our heads dint we, Hilary?’ said one elderly lady.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Hilary. ‘And we had to write our times tables out by hand. Do you remember all that? This is amazing in here, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes. Even my grandson says he’s impressed that a sixty-eight-year-old man gets to come to college to do computer studies!’

  ‘They look complicated things to master, though, don’t they with those buttons there?’ said one lady, tentatively brushing her fingers over the keyboard. ‘And nothing’s happening.’

  ‘Well, the computers haven’t been switched on yet,’ Stacy explained, noting the wide-eyed worry etched on some of the elderly students’ faces. ‘The tutor will explain everything to you. Everything’s easy when you know how to do something.’

  ‘Welcome, everybody!’ cried the tutor, as she breezed in behind them. ‘I’m Miss Broughton and I’m so pleased you could all make it here today. Did you find us okay?’

  Nine women and one gent exchanged doubtful glances but didn’t say anything. Stacy sat down in front of one of the computers.

  ‘Right, so I’ll just tick off your names – roll call, if you like – and then we’ll need to do the fire drill and I’ll show you where we’ll be going for refreshments later. Okay. Let me just switch your computers on first. I thought the caretaker was going to do that for me but I have a sneaky feeling he might have gone for a quick ciggie instead!’

  Stacy smiled at that.

  When they ambled back into the classroom, after the fire drill, and sat in front of the computers, Miss Broughton then went round setting notepads and pens out in front of everyone. The LCD computer screens had already blinked into life.

  ‘Well that has eaten into some of our allotted time for this class, so let’s get started, post haste. First of all, let’s see what you all need help with today. How many of you have used computers before but just want a little clarity? Perhaps I can go around the class and ask you each in turn what skills you hope to acquire in these lessons?’

  One elderly lady put her hand up. ‘I’ve never used one, love. Fancied it, so I could prove to my grandkids that I’m not completely from the Dark Ages.’

  ‘I’m a carer and have no use for computers. But as it was being offered I thought I’d come along and have a go at it,’ said the lady who always wore a pale grey trouser suit to the Afternoon Tea Club meetings.

  ‘So is that about the same for all of you?’ asked Miss Broughton.

  ‘Well, I switched one on once but I wouldn’t know how to do it again!’ said someone.

  ‘Ah, well,’ Stacy began. ‘All I really need is some help with this new mobile I’ve just bought. I’m having some problems with it but I don’t have time to take it back to where I bought it and sort things out. Plus I’d also like to learn about macros.’

  ‘Macaroni did she say? Well, my old dad was Italian. He could’ve shown her how to make that, easy enough!’ said the old gent and the class fell about laughing.

  ‘No, she didn’t say that,’ said another lady. ‘She said nachos. My grandsons, Neil and Brent, they like nachos—’

  Mrs Broughton tried to bring the class to order by coughing loudly.

  ‘Oh, you need a butter ball for that cough, love,’ said one of the ladies. ‘My mother was good at making those. You scoop out a bit of butter on a spoon and roll it into sugar and then dip it into vinegar. Greases up the throat a real treat it does!’

  ‘Well,’ said the lady, tapping the buttons on the keyboard to try and make it work. ‘I must say I’m really going to enjoy learning about these new-fangled computers, once we can get them started!’

  Chapter 21

  That Monday, at work, was hard going for Stacy. She’d got a cold from somewhere, although she couldn’t remember anyone sneezing over her at any of the classes she’d attended, recently, nor even at the supermarket when she went on Saturday. Or perhaps she got it from someone on the bus. She laboured through her list of priorities for the day in a bit of a daze because she was worrying about everything, especially the wellbeing of her cats. She put some books back in the wrong place and then her colleague couldn’t find them. She couldn’t concentrate on anything demanding so she decided to walk around and tidy the shelves instead. No brainpower needed for that.

  ‘Stacy!’ her supervisor hissed coming up behind her. ‘Please try to sniff more quietly. All we can hear is your cold reverberating around the library.’

  Sniff more quietly? How could she do that?

  Life was so stressful at the moment. She’d been completely stunned by her friends’ shocking revelations a week last Friday. The whole afternoon had been most revealing and totally upsetting. She’d mulled the whole thing over with a glass of shiraz at home, later that evening.

  How on earth could Raymond go on living after blaming himself for his wife’s death? And how could Dora live with herself after giving up her daughter? But the bloody boyfriend had set the wheels in motion for that to happen.

  Stacy completely understood testing families and errant boyfriends. Both had caused her grief and
made her feel crap, too.

  And poor Marjorie. That woman had had an absolutely dreadful life in Stacy’s eyes. No wonder she spoke out of turn, sometimes. Stacy was starting to understand what made people do the things they did in life. Yet who was she to berate people for the choices they made?

  It seemed like everyone was struggling with their lives. If only her parents had encouraged better socialisation with her and Peter’s school friends instead of preventing them from joining in with village life as youngsters. She’d turned to her cats for companionship and Peter had got as far away from his strange family as possible. At least Peter had made a new, happier life for himself with Marvin. And from speaking to Marvin, Stacy knew he had accepted her brother without putting restraints on his life, the way their parents had tried to do. She could see how Marvin would be the making of her brother.

  Stacy sneezed again.

  Where had she got her cold from? It had started just before work, this morning, with a runny nose. And it was still summer too! Or was she simply run down? Probably after all the stress she’d been under this last month. She hoped to be well again by the time she visited Peter and Marvin next weekend. That was something worth getting excited about because Marvin was going to come and fetch her on Saturday morning and then drop her back late afternoon. Her mother had said she’d make the same visit one day, too, but not just yet. She’d said she was going to try and talk some sense into their father, first, because he definitely needed to change his ways.

  But Stacy was also plagued with guilt about the mess she’d got into with her cats. She hadn’t slept properly since they’d gone. It was still so strange to not hear their familiar meowing all day and every day. Guilt also forced her to look up the charity, in her tea break. However, contacting them was not a straightforward process. She tried the phone number on the website but a lady wanted to take her details and said someone ‘will call you back’. She’d waited all morning but no one had rung. Then she’d tried emailing her questions but by the end of the day, no one had rung back or emailed. And, being as there was no address on the website where she might be able to go and see her cats she decided she’d call into one of their charity shops to see if they could help her make a start tracking her cats.

  Stacy rang her boss, the following day, to say she wouldn’t be in work because her cold had worsened. Well, it wasn’t exactly a lie because she really wasn’t feeling any better. But she needed the day off in order to go to the charity shop. She was going to ask them if all her cats had been housed with new owners yet.

  She took the bus and told herself she’d do a bit of food shopping on the way back, so it wouldn’t be a wasted journey if she discovered they’d all been housed. And if they’d been housed she was going to buy some comfort food at the supermarket and curl up in front of the telly for the rest of the day.

  Stacy stepped inside the Cats Protection charity shop, and went to the counter where a cheery young girl was serving.

  ‘Hi there. My name’s Stacy and a few weeks ago my father brought my eight cats into your organisation for rehousing because I had an accident and couldn’t look after them. So I’m just here to see if they’ve all been rehomed and if not I’d like to take Melanie back home with me cos she’s the nicest. So could you ring your bosses and ask them to let me know what’s happened to them? I just want to make sure they’re all right, you see,’ she told the girl behind the counter.

  ‘Um well that’s not something I can do, unfortunately. What happens is that we have a bank of fosterers who house any cats we get until we can rehome them. So they’ll either be looked after by a foster carer or will have already been rehomed. So I can’t help you any further than that, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But could you just give me a telephone number or email address so I can contact someone directly about this? I’ve not had much luck getting through,’ Stacy persisted, starting to fret about how her animals would feel at being pushed from pillar to post, with no one giving them the specialised attention they needed or had been used to.

  ‘I’m sorry I don’t have those details, but we’ve got a website and a Facebook page and everything you need will be on there.’ The girl smiled encouragingly. ‘Good luck.’

  Stacy left the shop downhearted. She thought they’d have known instantly about her cats. Surely eight cats coming into their care, in one go, would be a memorable event? The only thing the girl had said that made Stacy feel marginally reassured was that at least someone would be looking after them in some capacity. Just like her mother had said they would.

  She sat on a low wall and googled Cats Protection again and then she ended up sending them another email. Perhaps her persistence would pay off.

  Well, cats or no cats – cold or no cold – she was going to buy the largest strawberry cheesecake she could find and sit in front of the telly and eat the whole thing when she got home.

  ***

  No one got back to her about her cats until the middle of the week when they replied by email and told her that her cats hadn’t been in a very good state when they’d collected them from her flat. But they’d now been properly vaccinated and microchipped and were awaiting new homes. Due to the state of her flat and the cramped conditions they’d had to endure they said they would not likely give her the opportunity to rehome any of their cats in the future.

  She couldn’t believe it. Stacy had blanched, completely mortified. Oh, what must they think of me? How horribly embarrassing! She’d probably even be blacklisted by other cat charities now. She hadn’t meant to upset everyone or keep her cats in the environment they’d endured. She’d tried to do her best by them all but the situation had simply got out of hand. Couldn’t anyone see that?

  She was annoyed with her bloody father, too. He said he’d taken the cats to them. Or perhaps he’d been too busy to do that? Damn, damn, damn!

  A sob escaped her throat. Why was life so unbearable?

  Black thoughts made her retreat even further into herself so she rang work and left a message to say she’d be taking another day off to deal with her cold, which actually seemed to be getting worse by the minute, not better.

  ‘It’s all the stress,’ she groaned to herself.

  By Friday she’d had to ring her brother and cancel her trip.

  ‘I’mb sorry. But my cold is worsth than I’d expected.’

  Peter said he understood and that they could always arrange another weekend or maybe she could come for a visit at the same time as their mother. Stacy said she would ring home and then let him know when that would be. Then she switched her mobile off and pulled the plug on her landline. She went to bed and curled up and cried herself to sleep.

  Why was nothing working out for her at the moment?

  Chapter 22

  The cupboards were practically bare.

  No amount of moving tins of peas around or a full pack of flour, which she could see was out of date, or mouldy dates and glacé cherries, pickles, sauces and all the rest of the rubbish she’d thought would be a good idea to try once she was able to do supermarket shopping, made any difference. Quite simply, there was nothing suitable to eat for lunch.

  Her cold was now so bad that her face was swollen and her nose was red from the amount of toilet paper she’d resorted to, now that she was clean out of tissues. Even her bones seemed to ache. There was no paracetamol, no cough mixture, no tinctures, no nothing to alleviate her symptoms. She daren’t ring her parents in case they whipped her back home again and she definitely did not want that. Well, somehow she’d have to go down to the corner shop and get some supplies. But there was no way she could go out looking and feeling like this.

  What to do?

  The only other option was to go begging at somebody’s door to see if they had a little soup or something. If she’d done a full week’s shop she wouldn’t be in this predicament. But she simply couldn’t carry a full week’s worth of shopping bags on the bus. She always had to do her shopping in stages. That’s why the corner sho
p was always so handy.

  Tutting to herself and wrapped in her dressing gown, pink fluffy slippers on her feet, Stacy shuffled out of the kitchen, down the hall to the front door of her flat and then stepped out into the corridor, wondering whose doorbell to ring first. But then suddenly, horror of horrors, she heard the door close behind her, with a little click.

  But her key was inside!

  She couldn’t believe her bad luck. What the hell was happening to her, of late? Everything but everything was going wrong! Why did no good luck ever grace her life? Or rather why the hell hadn’t she put the key in her pocket?

  She clearly wasn’t thinking straight with her cold, with everything else going on around her. She banged on John’s door. No answer. She banged again. No answer. Damn! She padded down the corridor to the next flat along. The internal light still hadn’t been fixed and now the lift was out of order too. What a complete pain for people having to bring shopping up the stairs. Somebody needs to play merry hell with the landlord about these things, she thought, angrily.

  The doorbell at the end of the corridor tinkled but no one answered. She thumped on the door. Bang. Bang. Bang. Still no answer. Where was everyone, today? Maybe they all had busy interesting lives, unlike herself. Plus being a Saturday wouldn’t people be doing their shopping or be out with their kids? And maybe John was at a football match. It seemed that everyone in the whole wide world had a life, apart from her.

  Tears seeped out of her eyes and slipped down her swollen cheeks. She sat on the floor and curled her arms around her head and wept noisily. She’d been doing more crying of late than she’d done since that night she’d curled up on her colleague’s sofa when she’d left Mike. She realised she could be in the corridor for hours before anyone turned up.

  And after what certainly seemed like hours and hours, she heard a voice.

  ‘Good grief. Stacy, is it?’

  Finally, someone! And there stood John, his arms full of grocery shopping, which he plonked by his door as he rummaged around for his key.