The Tea Chest

by Josephine Moon

  Mark roared with laughter, his Adam’s apple bobbing, joy spilling from him in a way she hadn’t seen for so long. ‘Of Judy’s share.’

  ‘But Judy said it was a woman.’

  ‘Did she? Well, I did ask her to keep it a secret so I could surprise you. I guess she decided to help me.’ He shook his head in amazement. ‘Good old Jude, surprising us till the very end.’

  ‘Wait—I don’t understand.’

  ‘I know I should have discussed it with you,’ he said, looking contrite. ‘But I wanted to show you how much I believe in you, one hundred per cent. I sold my practice.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Keats looked up in alarm at the sound of her voice.

  ‘I’ve had a buyer sniffing around for a while. He wants to create an alternative health superstore, of sorts. He finally made me a good offer at the right time and I accepted.’

  ‘But that wouldn’t have been enough,’ she said, shaking her head.

  Mark nodded. ‘The rest is a business bank loan, secured against the house,’ he said.

  ‘But you love your business,’ she said, trying to make sense of it all. ‘You built it from nothing.’

  ‘I love you and us more,’ he said. ‘And I love The Tea Chest too. I know it hasn’t been my baby like it has yours, but I think I’ve been a pretty good uncle.’

  ‘The best.’

  ‘When I thought about it, it was actually quite simple. I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit hard to contact or a bit vague about what I’ve been doing,’ he said. ‘Turns out buying a company takes a lot of work and I was worried if I spoke to you too much I’d give the secret away and I didn’t want you to try to talk me out of it. And I didn’t want to get your hopes up in case it didn’t come through. You had enough going on.’

  Kate put her hand to her forehead. ‘I thought you’d lost faith and were planning to sell the house to bail us out of trouble.’

  ‘No. Why would you think that?’

  ‘You accidentally answered a call from me when your phone was in your pocket and you were getting the house valued. I only listened for a few moments and hung up. I didn’t want to spy. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me about it but you didn’t so I thought you must have been trying to protect my feelings because you thought the end was coming.’

  He reached for her and wrapped her in his arms.

  ‘Never, Katie. Never. I have total faith and trust in you, now, forever and a day longer than that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It was just the stress and the distance and not being able to talk to you in person and feeling alone, I guess. It all went a bit crazy in my head there.’

  He took both her hands in his.

  ‘I’m sorry too. I know it was wrong to do this without speaking to you first. But I wanted to show you, once and for all, that we’re on the same side here. No more ships in the night. No more separate lives. You and me together, captaining this ship to ever increasing greatness.’ He studied her blank face. ‘Are you very mad?’

  She looked at him. Looked at her two beautiful boys. Looked around at her inspired country garden tea shop. Considered the financial risk they were taking. Considered Mark’s actions, having done all that without involving her—a near unforgivable thing to do in a marriage.

  But all she felt was gratitude and love.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not. I think it’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever done.’

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sticky orange Burger Ring.

  She gave him a look that said, You’ve been giving the boys Burger Rings?

  ‘You try keeping two boys amused for twenty-four hours. I’m lucky to be here alive.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Imagining him with the boys on that journey, all by himself, made her love him that much more for being so determined to get to her.

  ‘It’s come all the way from Singapore airport,’ he said, slipping it onto her finger. ‘Kate Fullerton, will you be my business partner for the rest of our lives?’

  She bit into the stale barbeque-flavoured ring.

  ‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘But only if you’ll be mine.’

  London, forty-one years earlier

  I know I’m not supposed to take my hands away from my eyes but I can’t help it. I let my finger drift towards my ear and a slither of light breaks through.

  ‘I saw that, Simone. Cover your eyes.’

  Mumma is guiding me down the hall to the lounge room. It makes me nervous walking with my eyes closed, though I suppose it’s not much different to walking in the middle of the night.

  ‘Alright, stop there,’ Mumma says. Her fingers leave me and I hear her move in front of me. ‘Now open them.’

  I drop my hands and squeal.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ she says, and her smile shows her lovely straight teeth. I smile too and poke my tongue through the hole in the bottom where I lost a tooth last week. Mum looks beautiful. She’s wearing her church best, with her waistcoat and stockings and shiny shoes and gloves.

  ‘We’re having a tea party,’ she says, and ushers me onto the chair nearest to where I’m standing. I sit down, careful to keep my back straight and my knees together, smooth my dress over my thighs and make sure I fold my hands in my lap, just like she’s been teaching me. She’s given me the good chair, the one with the soft green cover on the seat. She sits opposite me and picks up her folded napkin and shakes it out to put on her lap below the level of the lace tablecloth. I copy her.

  It’s cold in this room but I don’t say anything. I know we’re not allowed to have the heaters on before nightfall because it is too expensive. Instead, I concentrate on the treats laid out on the table.

  ‘Would you like tea, madam?’ Mumma says in a funny voice that makes me giggle. I put my hand over my mouth so I’m not showing my missing tooth. Father hates it when he can see it. He says it’s rude and I especially shouldn’t show it at the table.

  ‘Yes please,’ I say in my polite voice. Then I remember to add, ‘Thank you kindly.’

  The steaming tea comes out of the aluminium teapot and swishes into the fine bone china cup that was Grandma’s. The tea is dark brown against the white of the china. I am nervous. Mumma’s never trusted me with the good cups before. I hope I don’t spill anything. Or break the cup.

  ‘It’s Lyons tea,’ she says. ‘A special treat for my little girl who’s so grown up on her tenth birthday.’

  ‘What a fine spread,’ I say, remembering the words my mother speaks when we’re invited to tea. ‘You must have gone to such trouble.’

  Mumma looks as though she’s trying not to giggle. ‘Why thank you, Miss Taylor.’ She passes me a pretty floral plate with scones and I take one. It’s still warm, despite the cold, and must have just come out of the oven. I break it open carefully, then use my knife to spread blackberry jam and whipped cream. It tastes so good I think I could eat ten of them.

  I sip my hot tea to help wash down a mouthful that was a little too big, and my pinkie finger reaches for the sky.

  ‘For your sixteenth birthday, I plan to take you to The Ritz in Piccadilly for high tea. There they have waiters in tuxedos, and waitresses with frilly white aprons, and many types of tea. They have three tiers of plates with tiny sandwiches and cakes.’ Her eyes are bright as she talks about this high tea and her cheeks are rosy. ‘They play music. And there’s even champagne.’

  I look at the mended curtain and the patched armchair by the window and I can’t imagine anything more beautiful than what Mumma is describing. A waiter in a tuxedo. Like our very own butler, the way rich people have.

  She passes me a tiny butterfly cake, with whipped cream and icing sugar dusted on the wings.

  ‘Do movie stars go there?’ I ask, wondering if I would see Cliff Richard or Sean Connery. Mamma always says Sean Connery is dishy.

  ‘Sometimes.’ Then her face drops. ‘People like us don’t normally go to high tea there. My mother wanted to take me for my sixteenth b
irthday, but . . .’ She sighs. ‘But we will get there,’ she says, tapping the table. ‘We deserve to enjoy the fine things in life too. I know sometimes it might not look like it,’ she said, her eyes roaming the room, ‘but we’re just as good on the inside, Simone. Don’t ever forget that.’

  I swallow my cake. I don’t always feel as good as the people who wear nice clothes or who have a car or who go on holidays to France.

  Mumma smiles again and claps her hands. ‘You must always be looking forward to something new, some new way to improve yourself and your lot in life. As long as I’m your mother, I will make sure you get every chance in life you deserve. And we will have that high tea on your sixteenth birthday. And maybe we’ll invite Cliff Richard to join us. I know you like him.’ She winks.

  ‘Could we?’

  She raises her cup of tea and saucer and sips daintily. ‘You never know, my darling girl. You just never know what will happen if you believe in yourself. No matter what your clothes say or how much money is in the bread tin. Your time to shine will come. Happy birthday.’

  And she blows me a kiss a across the table and I pretend to catch it like I do sometimes when we walk out in the park after school.

  This is the best birthday I’ve ever had.

  Tonight, I will dream of high tea at The Ritz.

  Kate had been busy with personal consultations for individual tea blends. She had three weddings and a fiftieth surprise birthday party to design for and her mind was happily occupied sketching, blending and writing tasting notes. She was also thrilled with the three blends the girls had come up with for the chai challenge.

  Elizabeth had gone for a peppermint-chocolate chai. She’d even found a mint-green and chocolate-brown vintage dress, which she said had been her inspiration and she was wearing now while stocking shelves.

  Leila had decided on vanilla and marshmallow chai, with wee pieces of white marshmallow included. It was an interesting blend and had real promise. Leila presented her notes and even a couple of sketches to Kate as she’d said her goodbyes, luggage in hand, on her way to the airport.

  ‘I have to get going,’ she said, hugging Kate. ‘Don’t want to miss my plane. Lucas is picking me up. And I need to have a good long talk to my mother. She’s been researching the ancient art of arranged marriages and has teed up several suitors for next week. She says that since my career is obviously not my strong point I should concentrate on finding a good man instead.’

  Kate hugged her once more. ‘Good luck with that one. We’ll keep in touch.’

  Then Kate had declared Victoria the winner for her creation of honeycomb and lavender chai, with real pieces of honeycomb and lavender flowers. It really pushed the idea of chai to a new level and she loved that.

  Victoria, currently humming while she polished silverware in a vintage fifties apron, had turned out to be such an asset to The Tea Chest, given her easy banter with customers and her enthusiasm for tea quality, which grew with each passing day. She’d declared she was getting out of the nail business and wanted to work at The Tea Chest full time, forever, and that suited Kate perfectly.

  She looked up from her notes to see Mark showing a new customer—a university student, or perhaps artist, judging by the ink on her fingers and multiple earrings—how to use the pot-pour-tea garden to make her own blend. Keats was watering plants with a metal watering-can and James was stacking and unstacking boxes of tea into pyramid shapes. Pyramid was his latest word. Every time he completed one, he yelled out, ‘I made a pyramid,’ and obliging customers would clap in congratulations. It was only awkward on one occasion, when he yelled out, ‘I made a period,’ instead.

  ‘Ah, bless them,’ Mark had smiled at the silent customers and their puzzled faces. ‘Kids are fun, aren’t they?’

  Kate was mentally combining black tea with caramel flavouring and a hint of truffle oil, and wondering what would happen, when the postman came through the door, the bell tinkling with his entrance and bringing a waft of diesel fume from the traffic outside.

  ‘Hi, Burton,’ Kate smiled. He was so much friendlier, with his ready smile, tuneless whistle and bushy eyebrows, than the meaty, sweaty postman of Ascot in Brisbane.

  ‘Mornin’, young lady,’ he said. She was relieved to see he was back to his old cheery self after the stress of the riots. ‘Parcel for ya today.’ He dropped a yellow padded postbag with a large airmail sticker onto the counter, along with a pile of envelopes.

  ‘Thanks.’

  As the bell chimed on his exit, Kate flipped the bag over to see it was from Judy. She groaned. That couldn’t be good. What final curve ball had she sent her now? Probably a wad of unpaid bills.

  She sensed Mark watching her from behind the cabinet of teacups and saucers. He raised his eyebrows at her in the silent question Everything okay? She gave him a nod and ripped open the bag.

  Inside was a solid item, wrapped in newspaper, then wound heavily in bubble wrap, all held together with many applications of thick brown packing tape. It was about the size of a football.

  She reached for the dressmaker’s scissors under the counter and cut away the packaging. The bubble wrap crinkled and popped. Inside, stuck to the newspaper, was a small yellow envelope with her name on it.

  She opened it.

  Kate,

  I enclose Simone’s ashes. I’m sure you’ll know what to do with them better than I.

  Judy

  With trembling hands, Kate tore off the newspaper.

  Inside was a silver tea chest. It had a curved lid, locked closed with a tiny padlock that resembled something you might find on a charm bracelet. The chest had filigree decorations and lion’s-claw feet. A tiny key was sticky-taped to the chest’s lid and Kate gently pulled it off and squeezed it tightly in her hand.

  She ran the tip of her finger along the lid of the tea chest.

  ‘Hi,’ she said to the ashes inside.

  She didn’t need to think for more than a few seconds. On the wall behind the counter was a shelf, about head height, where precious items were displayed. Antiques that were too special to sell: tea chests and artworks from China; silver spoons from France; and an English bone china teacup and saucer from 1860, with scalloped petal edges and hand-gilded details.

  Kate rearranged them gently, creating a space in the centre for the new silver tea chest that would take pride of place, watching over the shop for as long as it continued.

  Simone had finally come home.

  27

  Four months later

  It was snowing.

  ‘Well, that kind of wrecks dinner plans, then,’ Elizabeth said, staring out of Haruka’s flat window.

  He stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist, and they watched the scene below. Women tottering along the slippery footpaths in inappropriate shoes. Cars covered in thick white powder, their wipers constantly brushing away more ice as they moved slowly down streets thick with slush. Flakes falling from the sky, spinning and twisting through the air, the streetlights giving them a yellow glow.

  ‘But it’s terribly romantic,’ Haruka said, nuzzling her ear.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sadly, you won’t be able to go home tonight.’

  ‘It’s lucky Dad has Douglas now. You know he lets him sleep in his bed?’

  ‘All love’s good love,’ Haruka said. ‘I think it’s great your dad has found love again after your mum.’

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘Victoria thinks he’s cracked. She’s even talking about moving home again to keep an eye on him. Can you imagine? That dog takes up more room in the house each day. I’m sure one night I’ll find Dad out sleeping on the couch while Douglas is tucked up under the duvet with the electric blanket on.’

  ‘I’m sure Douglas would let your father sleep at the foot of the bed.’

  She turned in his arms and kissed him, his lips covering hers and his hands moving up under her shirt.

  ‘Maybe you should stay here,’ he said.

  ‘Well, yes, t
hat’s what we were just talking about, weren’t we?’ she muttered back, her fingers working to undo the buttons on his shirt.

  ‘No, I meant permanently,’ he said, his hands moving down to pull at the zip on the side of her shirt.

  She stopped, her fingers still hooked around his buttons. ‘Permanently?’

  He began to kiss her neck. ‘It is traditional for husbands and wives to live together.’

  ‘Husbands and . . . ?’ She took a step backwards.

  He grinned and went to his coat, which was slung across the back of a dining room chair. He fiddled in a pocket and Elizabeth’s palms began to sweat.

  He turned back to face her, his hand clenched tightly into a first. ‘I was going to ask you tonight,’ he said. ‘With wine and carbonara and a serenading violinist.’

  She remained silent. And still. Her mind reeling.

  ‘And this,’ he said, opening his palm to reveal a white-gold ring with three diamonds that sparkled like stars. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

  She gasped excitedly and reached for it, but just as her fingers were about to touch the ring, Haruka closed his fist around it again.

  She pulled her hand back, confused.

  ‘There’s just one more thing,’ he said, his eyes serious.

  ‘What?’ The word almost stuck in her throat.

  ‘I’d like to have babies with you. Lots and lots of babies. Babies from the floor to the ceiling. We’ll pack them into every nook and cranny we can find. The cupboards. The attic . . .’

  ‘You don’t have an attic.’

  ‘We’ll put them under the couch, in the bottom drawer of the kitchen and on top of the fridge, but we won’t stop until we’ve filled every inch of this flat with fat, crying, singing, pooping, eating, grizzling, charming, wobbling babies that smell of talcum powder and make every parent in the world jealous of our amazing offspring and your incredible baby-juggling circus act.’

  Elizabeth’s eyes prickled.

  ‘Oh, but before we begin,’ he said, holding out the ring again, ‘would you do me the honour of marrying me?’

  She covered the ring in Haruka’s hand with her own and squeezed it tight between them. ‘Yes, I will marry you.’