by H. Y. Hanna
“…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.
“N-n-nothing…” I said, stammering in surprise. I tried to pull my hand out of his grip. “I spilled some water on your papers and I was just trying to mop up the mess.”
By now, the American had become aware of the whole room staring at him. He released my wrist, laid the knife back down on the cheesecake dish, and made an attempt at a smile.
“Oh… oh yeah. Sorry… can’t be too careful these days, you know, especially when you’re travelling. All this identity theft stuff…”
I rubbed my wrist. “Well, I can assure you, sir, I wasn’t attempting to steal your identity. I was just trying to mop up the water as quickly as possible.”
He gave an awkward wave. “It’s no big deal anyway. Just some tourist brochures and stuff.” He shuffled the papers back into the folder and closed it firmly.
I took the half empty glass and promised to return with another one, then retreated. But my interest was piqued. Why was he lying? It was obvious the papers were not just some tourist brochures. Bloody hell, he’d acted like they were state secrets or something! Still, I reminded myself that it was none of my business. One thing I’d learnt since opening this tearoom was that you met all sorts of people in the hospitality industry and it was best to turn a blind eye to their eccentricities. All I cared about was that they ordered my food and paid their bills.
Besides, I had bigger problems than some cranky American. I looked at Cassie hopefully as I returned to the counter but she shook her head.
“Still can’t find her—though I can’t look under the tables properly unless I get on my knees and crawl around.” She nodded over my shoulder. “What’s with American Psycho?”
I shrugged. “Heaven knows. Got out of the wrong side of the Atlantic this morning. Anyway, forget him… I’m more worried about the cat.”
“I had to tell Fletcher,” said Cassie uneasily. “I went into the kitchen to see if Muesli might have slipped in there and he asked me what I was up to.”
“How did he take it?”
“Not good.” Cassie made a face. “He was all ready to come out and look for her himself, but I assured him that we had it covered. He’s in the middle of plating up the orders for the tables by the window, and then he’s got to do that big tour group and we can’t have them delayed. Their coach will be leaving for Oxford in forty-five minutes.”
I sighed and turned to scan the room again. Suddenly, I froze.
“Cassie!” I hissed. “What’s that over there?”
Cassie’s eyes widened. I knew she’d seen what I’d seen: a little grey tail flicking behind Mabel Cooke’s chair, by the wall.
“Nooo…” Cassie groaned. “Of all the tables in the place, the little minx had to choose that one? What are you going to do?”
Luckily, at that moment, the order for the Old Biddies came through the hatch. I loaded it onto a tray and hurried across the room.
“Here you are…” I said as I rested the tray on the table. I leaned to the side slightly and tried to look behind Mabel’s chair. The tail twitched back and forth, then flicked out of sight underneath the table.
“Are you all right, dear?” said Glenda. “You look a bit odd.”
“Oh, no, I’m fine,” I said hastily. I unloaded their order from the tray, then shifted my weight from foot to foot, wondering how I could find an excuse to reach under the table and grab the cat. The four old ladies looked at me expectantly.
“So… um… Is there anything else I can get you?”
They shook their heads.
“No, dear. You run along; we can see you have lots of customers to look after.”
“Um… Yes… it’s lovely and busy today, isn’t it? It’s great to be so busy—although I suppose it’s only to be expected, since it’s Saturday and that’s always the busiest time of the week,” I babbled. “Not that you want to be too busy, of course, but it’s good to be a bit busy and find a balance…”
They stared at me, obviously wondering if I had lost my wits. In desperation, I grabbed the edge of the table and gave it a little jiggle.
“Oh, it looks like your table isn’t very steady. I think one of the legs might need a bit of propping.”
Mabel Cook gave the sturdy oak table a good shove. “It feels all right to me,” she said doubtfully
“Really? Because it seems rea
lly shaky to me,” I said. “In fact, I think I’ll just slip a wad of paper under one of the legs. Excuse me while I do that…” I grabbed a napkin, then dropped to my knees and crawled under the table before they could react. The table was positioned with its short end against the wall, jutting out with two chairs on either side. Muesli sat at the other end, with her back to the wall, looking at me with bright green eyes.
“Muesli!” I hissed under my breath. “Come here!”
She blinked at me innocently.
“Come here, you blasted cat!”
She gave me a disdainful look, lifted a paw and languidly began to wash it.
Grrrr. I debated what to do. I could try to reach out and grab her by the collar, but that would mean sticking my hand through the row of legs in front of me, and even if I caught her, I would have to pull her through the legs. If the Old Biddies felt the cat’s furry body brush against them, they would probably all erupt in screams.
“Gemma, dear, are you all right?”
“Oh! Uh… Yes, of course… Just a moment longer…”
“Would you like some help?”
“No, no,” I said desperately. “I’m fine, thank you.”
I turned my attention back to the cat. I decided to try a different tactic. Making a monumental effort, I forced my voice into a gentle whisper. “Muesli… here kitty, kitty, kitty…”
The cat paused in her washing and regarded me curiously. “Meorrw?”
“Gemma, dear, did you say ‘meow’?”
“Uh… no! No, I said ‘no-ow’. I said I’m almost done now.”
“Well, you’re obviously having trouble. Let me come and help you,” came Mabel’s booming voice. I saw her chair being pushed back.
“No! No!” I yelped, jerking up in alarm. I smacked my head on the underside of the table. “Ow!”
The loud bang startled the cat; she shot out from under the table and scampered across the room towards the tour group. I crawled out backwards and stood up, rubbing my sore head.
“Gemma, dear… Are you sure you’re all right?”
I met four pairs of sceptical eyes. “Yes, fine… sorry, so clumsy of me. Right, I’ll leave you to have your tea in peace now!”
I beat a hasty retreat across the room, heading for the tour group. I stopped short. I could see a little tabby face peeking from between two of the chairs. I swear, the cat stuck her tongue out at me.
Little minx. I scowled. Strolling over as nonchalantly as I could, I bent down slowly as I approached the cat. She looked up at me with her big green eyes, her tail wrapped around her front paws, but just as I reached out to grab her, she darted under the table.
“Blast!” I muttered under my breath.
“Is there a problem?”
I looked up to see a woman turning around on the chair that Muesli been sitting next to. It was the mother with the little boy, Hunter—the one who had given me the sympathetic smile earlier.
“No, no problem,” I said hastily. “Has anyone taken your order yet?”
“Yes, that other nice young woman came and did it a moment ago.” She smiled at me, then her face clouded and she glanced sideways at the American man at the next table. She lowered her voice. “I hope you don’t think all Americans are like him.”
I returned her smile. “As long as you don’t think all English men are like Mr Bean.”
She laughed but whatever she was about to say was cut off as her son suddenly sprang up in his chair and pointed an excited finger.
“Hey, Mom, look! There’s a cat!”
***
I made it back to my parents’ house with a minute to spare but by the time I’d hung up my cycle helmet and dashed into the downstairs toilet to wash my hands, I was definitely late when I arrived at the table.
My parents were already seated—my father, Professor Philip Rose, at his customary place at the head of the table, with a full dinnerware place setting laid out in front of him and a linen napkin at his elbow. My mother, Evelyn Rose, had just served the first course: split pea soup with croutons and a drizzle of sour cream, in elegant porcelain bowls. No chipped crockery in my parents’ house or any stained mugs either. I don’t know how my mother did it but she kept all her china looking as pristine as the day she bought them from the Royal Doulton section in the local department store.
“Sorry I’m late!” I gasped as I dropped into my seat. “I was—”
“Darling, volume…” My mother frowned at me.
I sighed and made an effort to lower my voice. “Sorry, Mother—I was having a drink with Cassie and Seth at the Blue Boar.”
“Oh, how is Seth? Such a nice boy.”
“He’s not really a boy anymore, Mother. But yes, he’s fine. He’s having some teething troubles settling into his new college, but otherwise he seems on good form.”
“Which college has he transferred to?” My father spoke up for the first time. My father was an Oxford professor and the stereotype of the absent-minded academic, spending more time with his nose buried in his books than in the real world. Even though he was now semi-retired, he still kept an active interest in all things to do with the University.
“Gloucester College,” I informed him.
He nodded. “Good cricket team.” He lapsed into silence again, concentrating on his soup.
“Yes, well, I was thinking, dear…” my mother continued smoothly. “Perhaps you could ask Seth to help you.”
I looked at her in puzzlement. “Help me with what?”
“Why, find a job, of course!”
I gave her an exasperated look. “Mother, I have a job. I run a tearoom.”
She made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Yes, that’s nice, dear—but surely that’s not what you intend to do long term? I mean, you didn’t go to Oxford just to become a… a tea lady!”
I sighed. We’d already had this conversation a thousand times. While I shall always be grateful that I attended one of the best universities in the world, it did come with a lot of baggage—the main one being a nagging sense of failure if you didn’t win a Nobel Prize, become a multi-billionaire top CEO, or run for Prime Minister once you’d left Oxford. Somehow you were always dogged by the constant question of: “What have you achieved that’s worthy of your brilliant education? You’ve been to Oxford! Why aren’t you living up to your potential?”
I pulled myself out of my thoughts and back to the conversation at the dining table. “Why can’t I just run a tearoom if it makes me happy?”
My mother looked at me as if I had grown two heads, then she continued as if I hadn’t spoken.
“Dorothy Clarke told me that her daughter works for the University in their Alumni Office. She was having her highlights done at the hair salon when I was there last month and she told me all about Suzanne’s job. It sounds very glamorous and Suzanne gets to travel sometimes on University business. Wouldn’t you like a job like that, dear?”
“No,” I said firmly. “I had a job like that in Sydney, Mother. Don’t you remember? And I hated it.”
My mother tutted. “You didn’t hate it. How could you have done it for eight years if you hated it?”
“Trust me, Mother. I’m much happier now. I’m proud of my little tearoom and I want to make a success of it. I don’t need another job.”
My mother was silent as we finished the rest of our soup and I thought that she might have finally accepted my position on the subject. It was too much for hope for. As we began our main course (roast lamb with spiced parsnips, carrots, and crispy roast potatoes, accompanied by home-made mint sauce—ah, I’d missed a good traditional British roast) she launched a new attack from a different angle.
“Has Cassie got a boyfriend yet?”
I shook my head.
“Why is she never with a nice young man?”
I shrugged. “Cassie is just… a free spirit, I guess. Besides, you know her first love is her paintbrush.”
“Well, it’s about time she thought about settling down, you kn
ow…” She gave me a meaningful look. “I mean, Cassie isn’t as young as she used to be and everyone knows that once a woman passes thirty, everything starts to go downhill.”
I had a sneaking suspicion that she was not talking about my best friend, but I could be as obtuse as my mother when I chose to be.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Cassie—I think everything is still very uphill with her,” I said cheerfully
My mother pursed her lips. “Yes, but it is so strange, dear. Such a pretty girl too. I would have thought that the men would be flocking around her.”
“They do flock around her,” I said. “The problem is that she’s not very interested in what they have to offer.”
My mother gave a gasp and put a hand up to her throat. “Do you mean Cassie is a lesbos?”
“Lesbian, Mother. The word is lesbian. Lesbos is an island in Greece. And no, Cassie is not lesbian. Not that there’s anything wrong with that anyway.” I glowered at her.
“No, of course not, dear. I’m sure lesbians are lovely people.”
Argh. Argh. Argh. I wanted to face plant on the table, but resisted.
“Anyway, I was thinking…” my mother continued airily. “Perhaps you’re right, after all. Career isn’t everything. There are other things a woman can do that are very worthwhile—perhaps even more worthwhile. Such as making a home and starting a family…”
“You could be right,” I said dryly. “But she usually needs someone to make a home and start a family with.”
My mother pounced on me. “I’m so glad you say that, darling, because I’ve been thinking the very same thing! You’ll never meet anyone stuck out there in Meadowford-on-Smythe all day. Why, most of the men in the village are old enough to be your grandfather! So I was thinking, perhaps I can help you become acquainted with some of the young men in Oxford.”
I gave her a wary look. “Mother, I don’t need you to set up blind dates for me.”
“Who said anything about blind dates?” She gave a shudder. “What a horrible, common word. No, no, you see… I was chatting with Helen Green the other day and she mentioned that Lincoln is back in Oxford now. He’s got a consultant position at the John Radcliffe, in their ICU Department. And I thought: what a wonderful coincidence! You’re both back again after a long time away—perhaps it would be a good idea for you to get together and swap notes—”