“Nice to meet you,” Lorna added.
Behind his counter, Maurice sat marveling at a coin that he held in his hand. There was a lamp upon his forehead and a large magnifying glass sat on a stand. He inspected the coin and didn’t bother to look up.
“Don’t expect to receive your post,” he said then.
“What do you mean?” Lorna asked.
“The post,” he repeated. “There lies the rub with this town. You never get your post.”
Lorna decided not to explore this further. She had promptly received her boxes the day before from that nice gentleman, John Larkin.
“I have seventy-five undelivered letters to this day,” Maurice went on.
“Maurice, if they’re undelivered, then how would you know?” Betty asked with a grin.
Maurice thought about it for a moment.
“What a preposterous question,” he huffed.
Lorna regarded Maurice for a moment before turning to look around the shop. Maurice Crabtree seemed to be in his eighties, in her estimation. He was nearly bald, with a little tuft of silver hair on the top of his head, and sported a suit and tie. (Lorna was later told that he wore a suit and tie every single day of his life.)
He wore vintage glasses that dated back to perhaps the 1940s. His eyes were old, rheumy, and weary of the word, but behind those eyes Lorna saw an intelligent, potentially fascinating human being.
“I have a new butter churn in stock,” Maurice said to Betty, as though that were supposed to be a huge sell.
“Thank you for informing me,” Betty replied. She would later tell Lorna that she was accustomed to being sold useless objects when she was at Crabtree Antiques. It seemed like every day Maurice acquired something old and dilapidated that he felt was quite novel.
“I also have horseshoes,” Maurice said, directing his speech to Lorna. Why, of course Lorna would very much be interested in horseshoes. Truly, who wouldn’t be?
Maurice finally got a good look at Lorna and it all seemed odd to him. Young, pretty American lady moving to Tweed-upon-Slumber.
Although Crabtree Antiques had some curious items, there were other things that she’d find in her interior design magazines: sculptures, Tiffany lamps, marble mantelpieces, and even old sketches of nude nymphs. Was that a wheelbarrow? Her imagination was alive with possibilities.
Just then, her stomach growled, and Lorna thought that it was time to get the tour over and done with so that she could have a proper English breakfast.
“Good morning, Mr. Crabtree,” a voice said then. It was John Larkin there to deliver the mail.
“Get out of my shop!” Maurice hollered, and John slinked away.
“Maurice Crabtree, how do you expect to receive your post if you banish the postman?” Betty scolded.
“I can’t bear the sight of him,” Maurice replied, returning to the inspection of his coin. Lorna would learn that the postman wasn’t the only person that was totally forbidden from Maurice’s shop. The list also included children and animals. Thank goodness Sir Eats-A-Lot was left home to pig out.
“Goodbye, Maurice,” Betty said with a wave, expertly making her way out to the street. There’s the old adage about a bull in a china shop, but what about a blind woman in a china shop? Lorna figured that Betty must visit Crabtree Antiques frequently, for truly, she didn’t knock over a single thing, while Lorna herself almost toppled over a statue of Hercules on a pedestal.
Since the antique shop was at the bottom of the little hill, there was no place to go but up.
“This is the high street. We call it ‘High Street,’ ” Betty said as they strolled along.
“How fitting,” Lorna said with a laugh.
“And here’s the police station,” Betty remarked. Lorna looked over in confusion.
“You mean this…door?” she asked.
“Yes, that’s it,” Betty replied.
Truly, the Tweed-upon-Slumber police station was really just a door in a stone wall. There wasn’t even a window. Lorna recalled meeting the retired police chief, Bill Bumblethorn, the day before.
“I don’t even believe the door works anymore,” Betty said, and Lorna remained silent. It was impossibly strange.
“Here’s the post office,” she said, passing a set of bay windows with a bright red sign out front. It appeared that the post office received more funding than the police force, that much was certain. There were a number of fliers in the window which told of rooms for rent and bikes for sale, along with a notice about an upcoming performance of The Pirates of Penzance at the St. Agnes’ School for Girls.
“Don’t try to buy stamps until the afternoon,” Betty advised.
“Yes, I’ve been warned,” Lorna replied.
“Across the road, you can find the library,” Betty said.
“Oh, I can’t wait to go in there,” Lorna said earnestly. Through the windows, you got a good view of the entire library. It was rather small, but the books lined the walls and shot up to the ceiling. Lorna could see a man on a sliding ladder, reaching for the very top row.
“Off in the distance is the Super,” Betty explained.
Lorna could see the supermarket clearly as they crested the hill; it was pretty much the only structure in Tweed-upon-Slumber that looked like it belonged in the real world. It was similar to any supermarket you’d find back in Florida, and there was something comforting about that fact. Lorna was reminded that she would need to go there to get groceries before returning home; she planned to roast a chicken later.
“Here’s where you go when you want to let your hair down,” Betty said. There was a rather large Union Jack hanging on the front of the Golden Bough, the village’s one and only public house. It was also the only building on High Street that had a Tudor facade. You almost got the feeling that upon entering, you might end up drinking mead with Henry VIII.
There was a large cement bench out front that was meant for those who wished to drink and dine al fresco, and a marvelous web of green vines crawled up along the white walls. All in all, it looked richly inviting, and Lorna had to remind herself that it was too early for fish and chips and beer.
“You’ll meet the landlords, Ralph and Jackie, soon enough,” Betty explained. “Now, Tweed Park is just over the other side of this hill, but I won’t take you there today. Exploring the park is a whole separate tour,” Betty said with pride. “It’s bigger than the village, you see.”
“How marvelous,” Lorna said, thinking that, in addition to a car, she could do with purchasing a bike. Maybe she’d scoop up one of those advertised on the post office window.
“I’m famished,” Betty said, and Lorna was filled with relief. It was time to eat.
Their little tour stopped in front of a charming façade with painted white letters on the window reading, ‘Muriel’s Café.’ Its gleaming white, welcoming exterior made Lorna instantly understand why the place was so busy. Throughout their tour, Lorna had been wondering where the folks of Tweed-upon-Slumber were hiding. She knew now that they were all having breakfast at Muriel’s.
One step inside made you understand the appeal. Muriel’s smelt of fresh bread, bacon, butter, and hot tea. The fragrances were so delectable that Lorna thought she might faint. Okay, maybe that was just the hunger talking.
As with the Golden Bough, there were little tables and chairs out front for those who wished to dine outside, but Betty preferred the interior of the café, and they soon found a table over by the window.
“This is so charming,” Lorna said with glee, brushing away the blue checkered curtains that were invading her space. She looked about the café, marveling at the collection of tea kettles in all different shapes and sizes that were on display. It looked as though there were hundreds of them. Her instant favorite was shaped like a pig; water was poured out of its snout.
Lorna heard a little choo choo sound and looked up towards the ceiling.
“Is that a train?” Lorna asked.
“Yes, isn’t it pleasant?�
�� Betty replied. “Muriel bought it from Maurice Crabtree. Rather, Maurice gave Muriel no choice in the matter and thrust the old thing upon her. But Muriel, being the innovator that she is, had it installed and made the little green trees herself.”
The model train set had been imbedded into the café, just where the walls met the ceiling. A shelf had been built, and little tunnels were cut into the walls. It ran its course around and around throughout the meal. At one point, she wished that the train would drop down packets of sugar to their table; she wanted to sprinkle them on her English-style pancakes.
Speaking of those pancakes…
“I’ll have the pancakes,” Lorna said to the waitress, a waif of a girl who couldn’t have been more than eighteen. She wore a bright blue apron and held a pen and pad of paper in her hand.
“Those are a tad different here,” Betty advised. She didn’t need to tell Lorna this, however, as she had already been eyeing the plate of pancakes on the table next to theirs. British pancakes looked a lot like French crepes, and they were just what she was in the mood for.
“The smell is so delicious. I can’t get over it,” Lorna said.
“Beans on toast, with bubble and squeak on the side.” Betty’s order was decidedly foreign to Lorna. She couldn’t imagine eating beans for breakfast, let alone day-old potatoes fried with cabbage.
Piping hot tea was served, and Lorna was in heaven. It was like sitting in a maple syrup factory, the aroma was so pleasant.
“Wait till you come for afternoon tea,” Betty said, sensing Lorna’s delight. “The sandwiches are akin to poetry.”
“I can only imagine,” Lorna replied, holding the cup in her hands and enjoying the warmth on her fingers. “There’s a very serious-looking lady at the counter,” Lorna remarked. She didn’t know why she found the creature so striking.
Lorna didn’t even need to describe the appearance of the tall, blond, upright woman.
“Elizabeth Larkin,” Betty said. “Always takes a break at this time to grade papers and take tea. I do believe she only eats black pudding.”
“Sounds terrible.”
“I have to agree,” Betty said. She took another sip of her own tea and continued. “Married to the postman, John Larkin,” she went on. “And the famously severe headmistress of the St. Agnes’ School for Girls. She has that serious look about her most of the time.”
“Yes, she looks like she wouldn’t think twice about whacking you with a ruler,” Lorna replied. The woman filled her with a bit of childhood dread, even from a distance.
“She has been known to smile from time to time, but has a stiff upper lip as default,” Betty went on.
“No kidding.”
“And there’s a good deal of scandal there, I’m afraid,” Betty went on, lowering her voice.
“Oh dear.”
“I daresay, I hate to gossip.”
“Do go on,” Lorna said by way of encouragement.
“John is not known as being the most monogamous postman in the county,” Betty said.
“How terribly cliché of him,” Lorna quipped.
“Well, that’s all that I will say about that. There is no divorce, as such. But there is a rather prolonged separation.”
“Good for her. Why put up with it?” Lorna said, thinking of her own decision to get out once she learned about Cliff Miller’s lies.
“Well, John is not without suffering,” Betty added.
“In what way?”
“Mrs. Larkin is an expert at prolonged psychological wounds.”
“Ouch,” Lorna said, just as Elizabeth Larkin looked her way and caught her gaze. Her thin lips dipped into a frown and her perfectly coifed blond hair framed her thin face. She was a very sober woman who tried to mask her coldness with fuzzy cardigans whenever possible.
Lorna pulled her eyes away from Elizabeth’s steely gaze so that it didn’t seem like she was staring. Just then, she saw the waitress walking their way with a tray of food.
“Thank goodness,” Lorna said. “I almost stole the pancakes off our neighbor’s table.” The tired-looking gentleman eating pancakes beside her overheard Lorna’s words and turned to her suspiciously.
“You would not have lived to tell the tale,” the gentleman replied with a shaky voice.
The plates were placed on the table.
“Be careful; they’re rather hot,” the girl said, and scurried off.
“I’ve died and gone to British Shangri-La,” Lorna said, looking down upon the perfect, paper-thin cakes covered in powdery snow. “Is that…” Lorna quickly lifted one of the cakes to inspect it. “Nutella? It’s Nutella!” she exclaimed. She almost got up from her seat to do a little victory dance. It might have been inappropriate, so she just did the little dance with her hands.
“Is there brown sauce on the plate?” Betty asked in regards to her own breakfast. Lorna leaned over to inspect it.
“I see a little brown puddle of something, I think.”
“Smashing,” Betty replied, and easily found her cutlery.
Lorna eyed the beans on toast with admiration. It looked a lot more appetizing than she thought that it might. Perhaps she’d have to give it a try some day.
“How’s the…mumble and leak?” Lorna asked.
“Bubble and squeak,” Betty corrected. “And it’s delectable. There’s nothing more satisfying than fried potatoes.”
“In that, you would be correct,” Lorna said. She tucked into her pancakes and stifled a moan. “They’re light as air,” she mumbled with her mouth full.
“You can have them with strawberry jam, as well,” Betty remarked. “It’s not on the menu, but it’s what you get if you ask for massacre pancakes.”
“Sounds a little macabre,” Lorna said.
“That’s only the half of it,” Betty replied with glee. “They serve it with a side of blood pudding as well.”
The two women went silent after that, indulging in their perfectly cooked breakfasts. New customers continued to throng into the café, and there was scarcely one seat that wasn’t occupied.
“Is that a lemon wedge that I see upon my crisp white tablecloth?” a voice asked.
“And is that Muriel Clitheroe, gazing down upon me in scorn?” Betty asked humorously.
“Betty Wardenshire, sightless or no, I believe that you know better,” Muriel said, reaching down to place the yellow wedge upon her saucer.
“I do it only to vex you,” Betty replied.
Muriel crossed her arms in front of her and shook her head. She was an elegant and slightly eccentric woman; Lorna could see that much. She sported a number of lengthy beaded necklaces, wore an antique hat upon her head with feathers and flowers, and her dress hung all the way down to the floor, like something from the 19th century.
Muriel uncrossed her arms and moved one hand to her hip, pulling back one shoulder like an elegant matriarch of the Beau Monde.
“And who have we here?” she asked, eyeing Lorna with suspicion.
“I’d like you to meet Lorna Merryweather, the newest denizen of Tweed-upon-Slumber.”
“Hmm,” Muriel replied, unsure what to make of the American import. More specifically, she was examining the way in which Lorna was eating her pancakes. Why was her fork not pointed down?
“It’s nice to meet you,” Lorna said affably, noting that her cutlery was being inspected and setting it down on her plate. “I have a feeling that we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other. The food is marvelous.”
“They’re all my grandmother’s recipes, passed down for generations.”
Lorna could see that Muriel paid a great deal of attention to her appearance. Her white hair was coiffed just so, and rouge was painted on her cheeks, matching the brick red of her lips. Although Lorna would later be told that Muriel was in her seventies, she could tell that the sassy lady only looked it when she rolled out of bed in the morning. All her refinery made her look younger.
“Isn’t it scandalous?” Muriel said, taking a ch
air from a nearby table and moving it to theirs.
“We’ll be needing that—” a voice from that other table said, but Muriel ignored it.
“What’s scandalous?” Betty asked.
“Why, Elizabeth Larkin. She’s taking up my entire counter with her paperwork.
“It’s her custom,” Betty said, having already made an impressive dent in the bubble and squeak.
“Someone must tell her that when your husband is known for his infidelities, you should have a congenial smile upon your face at all times. It’s a shield.”
“Oh, Muriel,” Betty replied. “There is no proper behavior for such circumstances.”
“No proper behavior?” Muriel replied. “There’s proper behavior for every occasion. Why, when my second husband proved to be a cheat, I got rid of him at once, found an entirely new wardrobe, purchased this café, and have been royalty in this village ever since. A woman must take a stand.”
“John’s cheating has only ever been a rumor, never proven,” Betty reasoned. “Besides, Muriel, not every woman is made of iron.”
“Nonsense. We’re all made of iron, but it’s best covered in lace.”
Truly, Muriel practiced what she preached, for she was covered with antique lace from head to toe.
Muriel caught the eye of the young waitress over behind the counter and she nodded her head towards their table. Within moments, the girl had returned with two plates of dessert.
“Christmas pudding,” Muriel said. “Compliments of the proprietor of this fine establishment.”
“But it’s spring,” Lorna reasoned.
“We serve Christmas pud year-round. Good for the soul,” Muriel said, examining the young waitress. “Lisbeth, you are shaking.”
“I know, ma’am,” the girl replied, and hurried away.
“Whatever is the matter?” Betty asked, taking a bite of her plum pudding before she had a chance to express gratitude.
“She graduated from St. Agnes’ last autumn. The sight of Mrs. Larkin still gives her a tremor,” Muriel explained.
“This is delicious,” Lorna said, distracted by the pudding. “There are little bits of fruit in it.”
A New Witch In Town Page 4