When I discovered he was an antique ceramic dealer specialising in Royal memorabilia, I was positive that Fate had brought us together.
“That’s such a coincidence, because my Granny collects royal souvenir mugs, especially Jubilee ones,” I told him. “In fact, I find them so fascinating, that I was thinking of starting a collection myself.”
Of course, I hadn’t been thinking of it till right that second, but you have to agree that it was a pretty inspired thing to say on the spur of the moment. His face lit up and his brown eyes went all sparkly.
“Granny’s favourite is a mug celebrating Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee, with a portrait on the side,” I added, for good measure.
“Oh yes – there are a few different types and I’ve got several in stock, quite reasonably priced,” he said. “Some of my rarer items date back to Charles the First and of course they can cost thousands, but you don’t have to pay a fortune to start collecting commemorative china. You should come and see my shop and I’ll show you what I’ve got.”
That was an offer I couldn’t refuse – in fact, I’d been hoping he’d say something like that!
“I’d love to,” I said enthusiastically. “And actually, I need to buy a present for Granny. She’s about to go into hospital for a cataract operation – they’ll keep her in for a day or two because she has a weak heart. She’s ordered herself one of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee mugs to go with the Silver and Gold ones in her collection, so it would be great to get her something old that she hasn’t already got.”
“Make a list of which she has, then come round to my shop and I’ll see what I can do at a price that won’t break the budget,” he promised.
“I’ll do that” I agreed.
He smiled down at me again, making my knees go all jellified, then dug out his card with the shop address and scribbled his mobile number on the back, since friends had brought him to the party and they were about to leave.
Mind you, they had to practically prise us apart first …
*
We chatted on the phone next day and it was just as if we’d known each other forever, so I was really looking forward to visiting Carl’s shop. But when I did, I arrived in a state of panic and clutching a box containing Granny’s favourite Queen Victoria mug – though I still managed to register the way his face lit up at the sight of me, and that my heart had begun thudding away at twice its normal rate.
“I was writing a list of which china mugs Granny had and I dropped this one,” I explained breathlessly, opening the box and taking it out. “See, it’s cracked! Just a hairline, but she’s bound to notice.”
Carl tapped the edge of the rim with his finger. “Yes, you can tell by the sound – it sort of pings if it’s whole and this one doesn’t, it makes a flat note.”
“She’s coming out of hospital tomorrow, so I hoped you might just possibly have a perfect one I could replace it with, so she’ll never know?” I asked hopefully.
“Luckily I do have its exact match,” he said, and then gave me that wonderful smile. “So now you can stop looking so panic-stricken, Annie, and come into the back room for a cup of coffee. Then I’ll show you the pieces of commemorative china I can’t bear to sell!”
He flipped the door sign over to ‘Closed’, though I was pretty sure he wouldn’t normally shut for lunch at eleven in the morning …
*
“It’s lovely to be home, Annie,” Granny said with a sigh of satisfaction, putting down her cup and saucer on the side table next to her chair and looking round the room at all her treasures. “Still, it was worth it – everything seems much clearer and brighter already.”
Then she asked me to pass her the Queen Victoria mug and my heart sank into my shoes: would she notice the exchange?
“This is the one I dropped and cracked, which is why I finally made up my mind to have the cataract operation,” Granny said, examining it closely.
“You … cracked it?” I echoed faintly.
“Of course I couldn’t see it clearly, but I could hear that it was broken,” she explained, then pinged the edge of the mug’s rim, just like Carl had. It rang out clear as a bell.
“That’s odd,” she said, frowning in puzzlement. “I really could have sworn I’d cracked it!” Then she smiled and handed it back to me to replace on the mantelpiece. “I think I’d better have my ears checked next!”
*
Carl laughed later when I told him, though when I take him to Granny’s for tea next week he’s sworn to secrecy about our exchange.
They have so much in common, I’m sure she’ll love him just as much as I already do – and, since I’d definitely been taken for a mug, I decided to make Granny’s cracked one the basis of my very own Royal memorabilia collection!
10
First published by Your Cat Magazine
A KITTEN TOO FAR
At ninety, my mother was all frail bones and bird-bright eyes but still stubbornly independent, though after the last of her ancient cats finally passed away, I’d noticed that she tended to dwell more on the past than the present.
I became increasingly worried about her living alone, though I knew she wouldn’t agree to come and live with us, because she and my husband had never got on.
“You be careful, our Jenny,” she’d warned me on my wedding day, within earshot of poor Desmond. “There’s no trusting a man who can’t abide cats.”
But after a fall led to a visit to the accident and emergency department, I said to her firmly,
“Now Mum, you remember we’ve always agreed that when the last of the cats went, you’d move into residential accommodation near us? Well, I think that time has come.”
Of course, she resisted the idea. “If you hadn’t made me give up Shelly for rehoming, I’d still have a cat,” she said obstinately. “And I’m fine on my own.”
But she looked frightened even as she said it and I could see the fall had shaken her up.
“The neighbours complained enough about eight cats,” I pointed out, “Shelly was a kitten too far. But the rescue centre said they’d found her a lovely home.”
“She had one of those with me,” she snapped crossly, but I ignored that and got out some brochures of retirement homes I’d been to see, near enough for me to pop in every day. I’d narrowed the list down to three that were clean, bright, modern and efficiently run, but of course when I took her to visit them, she found fault with them all …
Then a friend asked me if I’d consider a small residential home in a nearby village. “A friend’s aunt’s there and she’s very happy, but it’s not a purpose built, modern place like the ones you’ve been looking at.”
“Mum didn’t seem to like those at all,” I said gloomily. “She said they smelled of disinfectant and hospitals, and the light bouncing off the painted walls made her eyes ache.”
“She might prefer somewhere like The Hollies, then,” she suggested. “It’s an old house set back in nice gardens and more homely than smart.”
Well, I thought it was worth a go, so I loaded my mutinous mother into the car and set out yet again, though I wasn’t hopeful, just desperate.
The house, which was up a leafy lane, was a square Victorian redbrick and Mum perked up slightly.
“Eh,” she said, “I worked in a house just like this before I met your father.”
“You never told me about that!”
“I never told you a lot of things,” she said darkly, but at least unlike the previous places we’d seen, she let me help her out of the car without protesting.
The owner, a plump, pleasant, middle-aged woman, who introduced herself as Mrs Jones (‘but do call me Maria – there’s no formality here’), showed us around and I noticed that she actually talked directly to Mum, instead of asking me about her, a fatal mistake the other care home staff had made.
“We’ve only twenty residents here at most,” she said, “so it’s a homely place and I like to think we’re one big, happy family. I live on th
e premises and my daughter has a flat over the little wing we have at the back for anyone feeling a bit poorly – we’re both qualified nurses and one of us is always on duty, keeping an eye on things.”
The house had big sunny rooms and a lift up to the bedroom floors, but my friend had been right about it being homely and a little shabby, though all the necessary adaptations had been made and those residents we met seemed to be happy.
Mum had been trying to find fault with the place, but her objections had sounded more and more half-hearted. Now she said approvingly, “Proper wardrobes and none of your grey metal beds that go up and down like yo-yos.”
“The food is good plain cooking and we make our own entertainment, like having a singsong round the piano every Friday,” Maria said, leading the way to a table and chairs out on the sunny terrace. “Do sit down and someone will bring us a pot of tea.”
“Well-mashed,” Mum instructed, selecting a chair with a high back.
Then suddenly the nearby lavender bushes shook violently and, with a loud ‘miaow’, a large and handsome tortoiseshell cat came running up to us – or rather, to Mum. It jumped straight onto her lap and started affectionately bumping its head under her chin.
“I’m so sorry,” Maria apologised. “I was just about to mention that I have a cat who tends to wander all over the place. Luckily all the residents are happy about that, but I know some people don’t like them and …”
“It’s my Shelly,” Mum said, wonderingly.
“Oh no, Mum, it can’t be. That was ten years ago and this looks quite a young cat.”
“It is,” she insisted stubbornly. “See – she knows me.”
“Ma took in a stray kitten once, but she already had eight cats so I persuaded her to let it be re-homed,” I confided quietly to Maria.
“We call her Dolly,” Maria told Mum.
“I suppose you would want to change her name,” she agreed, “but see, she still answers to Shelly and she hasn’t forgotten me.”
“You can call her what you like, love,” Maria said to Mum kindly. “And funnily enough, now I come to think of it, my friend’s cat is a tortoiseshell called Shelly and she got her from a cat rescue place years ago!”
But Mum, sitting gently stroking the prettily-marked cat on her lap, wasn’t listening. “It’s a sign that I should come and live here, so that’s that settled,” she said firmly, then looked up and smiled.
11
First published by My Weekly
THE CINDERELLA DRESS
I used to do a bit of housesitting before my vintage-style dressmaking business really took off and sometimes I still did for Pam, who’d turned from a client into a friend.
But when she rang to ask if I’d housesit for her elderly godmother in west Yorkshire for a fortnight, that was an entirely different kettle of fish!
“She’s had a fall and although she’s just bruised and shaken up, the hospital kept her in overnight. Jack’s gone to fetch her, so she can rest and recuperate here.”
“Pam, it’s one thing looking after your house while you’re away, because I can pop home whenever I need to, but I can’t do that from Yorkshire!” I protested. “And we’re coming up to Christmas, so I’m snowed under with orders for party dresses.”
“Pleeease,” Pam wheedled. “Only Auntie Minnie is very independent – she’s been struggling on a reduced income for years, but she won’t let us help her at all – and she only agreed to come because I said I had a friend who was so desperate for a place to stay that she’d love to go and look after her hens and the cat.”
“Right,” I said. “That would be me, then?”
“We’ll pay you, of course,” Pam assured me. “And a bit extra, because she doesn’t have central heating, so it’s bound to be chilly even with all the electric storage heaters turned on.”
“You’re not exactly selling it to me,” I said. “Can’t someone local feed the hens and the cat?”
“There’s a neighbour who’s doing that at the moment, but the weather’s supposed to turn very cold and she’s afraid the pipes will freeze. I think the roof leaks, too.”
“Sounds delightful.”
“Did you get the invitation to the fancy dress bash?” she asked, deviously changing tack. She’s involved with a big charity who throw a grand ball every year, just before Christmas. Tickets are like gold dust.
“Yes, thank you. It was addressed to ‘Jenny and Ben’.”
“Oh, honestly! I told them to put ‘Jenny plus one’. Sorry about that – but you will come, won’t you?”
“I’ll see.” I’d given up on men since the departure of two-timing Benedict, but any of my female friends would give their eye teeth for a ticket to the ball.
“Okay, I’ll go and look after your godmother’s house,” I sighed. “But I’m taking a couple of heaters with me, even if it sends her electricity bill sky-high. I can’t sew with frozen fingers.”
“Fair enough – and thank you so much, Jenny,” she said gratefully, though I think she’d taken my acceptance for granted because she reeled off the address and said the neighbour, who was also the local handyman, would hold the fort till I got there.
Gloomily I packed my warmest clothes and everything I’d need to finish my current dressmaking orders. I’d have to check for any new ones on the internet from my phone, so I only hoped there was a good signal where I was going!
*
Mossy Bank was an attractive, square stone house with a door framed by a climbing rose. But as I got out of the car I noticed that the slate roof was patched and the paintwork peeling, giving the place an air that was shabby but definitely not chic.
I could hear the homely clucking of hens behind the house somewhere and since the freezing, wintry day was starting to draw into an early dusk I’d need to go and shut them up soon, safe from any predatory fox.
The key was under the gnome and as I went in, a large black cat suddenly appeared out of the crisply frosted lavender bushes and followed me.
“You must be Horace,” I said, but he was already racing ahead to the kitchen – and, more importantly to him, the fridge.
The house was practically cold enough inside not to need a fridge, though the neighbour (who signed himself Carl) had left me a note explaining he’d turned up all the storage heaters as far as they would go. There were some instructions about where things were, too, and how to get hold of him in an emergency.
I shut the hens up before fetching my things from the car and settling in, designating the little parlour next to the kitchen as my workroom.
There always seems to be one locked Bluebeard’s chamber in every house, and this time it was a bedroom. I found the spare room at the other end of the landing, where someone had freshly made a bed up, but it needed my electric heater on for a couple of hours before it was warm enough to brave it. Horace thoroughly approved of the heater.
*
Next morning I’d just stopped for a cup of coffee, when the neighbour came round – and what a revelation he was! Carl was just like a young Indiana Jones and the strong silent type, though with a slow, warm smile. He had a kind heart too, I realised, as he told me how he helped Minnie as much as she’d let him.
“I’m very fond of her and she was kind to me when my wife died a couple of years ago …” He sighed, and I nodded sympathetically.
“I patch things up for her, but really the house needs some money spending on it.”
“My friend Pam says she’s not very well off.”
“No. She told me her parents were very wealthy until they lost all their money in a stock market crash. She lived here with her mother until the old lady passed away.”
“She never married?”
“No, but she’s very active in the village with lots of local friends. Once they know you’re here minding the house, don’t be surprised if you find a pie or a cake on your doorstep one morning!”
“I only hope I find them before Horace does, then,” I said. “He seems to ea
t anything!”
*
There must have been a sudden thaw overnight, because I woke suddenly to the ominous dripping of water and realised it was coming from the locked room at the end of the landing. When I pressed my ear to the door, I could hear heavy drips thudding onto something.
I called Carl in a panic and he was round in five minutes, diagnosing a burst pipe. He turned the water off till he could fix it – why hadn’t I thought of that?
“You’d better show me where the water came through,” he suggested.
“I would, but it’s in a locked bedroom.”
“All the bedroom keys are the same,” he said, taking one and opening the door, “this room is only locked because the ceiling is in danger of coming down.”
The door swung open, revealing a tarnished brass bed and an array of huge wardrobes, topped with dusty hatboxes. The ceiling bulged ominously and the odd drip still fell onto the cabin trunk underneath it.
Together we dragged it away and I lifted the lid to see if the contents were still dry, which they were – and that was just as well, since it seemed to be full of clothes. On top was a blue beaded Twenties flapper dress, with matching satin shoes in a bag next to them …
Before I knew it I’d slipped on the shoes and, holding the dress against me, was looking at the effect in a clouded cheval glass. I’d often thought I had the perfect figure for the twenties style, being tall and slim with bobbed hair!
“Oh, it’s so beautiful – and it would fit me perfectly, like the shoes!”
Carl was looking at me in amusement. “I think this must have been Minnie’s mother’s room and these were her things.”
“Sorry – vintage clothes are my passion and this is lovely … and by a top designer too!” I said, blushing slightly and folding the dress carefully back into its tissue paper padding.
Then I had a sudden idea. “Do you think …” I began opening the wardrobe doors and revealed a treasure trove of wonderful clothes.
“Gosh, these are amazing!”
“But – they’re just old clothes,” Carl said watching me, baffled.
Footsteps in the Snow and other Teatime Treats Page 5