A Room at the Manor

by Julie Shackman

  I finished serving two elderly ladies their pot of tea and warmed cheese scones and weaved my way between the other tables and back to the counter, facing the glass-panelled door.

  I couldn’t help fantasising about how the place would be transformed if only the walls were painted a crisp white and some pretty gingham cushions added to the chairs. I pulled myself back to reality. That was about as likely as Hugh Jackman charging in to demand I abandon my post for a spot of uninhibited sexy time across the blueberry muffins.

  While Kitty bristled about behind me, interrogating some poor customer about Mrs Strachan’s marital affairs, I snuck a peek at the plastic storage container I’d secreted on a lower shelf. Taking a deep breath, I pulled it out of its hiding place and swung round to my boss, simultaneously awarding her a big smile.

  She looked momentarily petrified. Taking an involuntary step backwards, Kitty jerked her tight grey hair at my container. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I came in a bit early this morning and did some more baking.’

  Kitty’s curled upper lip was now in danger of reaching her hairline. While teacups rattled over the murmur of conversation, Kitty leaned nervously over my proffered box. I eased open the blue plastic lid, which gave a satisfying ‘phut’.

  ‘They’re raspberry and coconut macaroons,’ I babbled. ‘I thought we could try them out. See if our customers like them.’

  Kitty’s expansive bosom thrust itself forwards underneath her apron. For a moment I thought I was in danger of her taking my eye out.

  I’d made them in large star-like shapes, with a rich, raspberry jam topping and a little glitter to make them sparkle. They looked quite magical under the tea room lights and rather tasty. Judging by Kitty’s appalled expression, she didn’t agree with me.

  ‘I hope you haven’t been using our ingredients. And they are my customers,’ she boomed. ‘Anyway, Lara, you know Fiona and I take care of all the baking.’

  Ah yes. The two ugly sisters.

  ‘I bought the ingredients myself,’ I explained. ‘I just thought it might be a good idea to offer something that’s a bit . . .’ My eyes discreetly swiped over the regular sponges and scones. ‘Something a bit different.’

  Kitty’s fuchsia mouth quivered with indignation. ‘What? You think my cakes are boring?’

  ‘No! Not at all.’ I scrambled around to choose my words carefully. ‘I just thought it might be nice to offer something new.’ I cleared my throat. ‘And as you did originally mention that I could do some baking, I thought you might like to see more of my efforts.’

  Kitty’s eyes shone with annoyance. ‘Oh, not that again. As you well know, Fiona and myself are the bakers. We don’t need anyone else to contribute.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ rose a deep rumble from across the countertop. ‘They do look rather delicious.’

  Hugo Carmichael was peering expectantly out from under a black trilby, which he then removed with a flourish.

  How wonderful: it was my least favourite customer back again. Could this day get any worse? Yes, was probably the correct answer to that. Still, he had complimented me on my baking, which was good of him. ‘Thank you,’ I smiled, slightly surprised.

  ‘Miserable morning,’ he sighed. Beads of rain hung precariously from his tweed coat. ‘Think I’ll treat myself to a pot of Earl Grey. Oh, and one of your macaroons, young lady. Thank you.’

  Burying a shocked smile, I raised my eyes fleetingly to Kitty’s face. The Elvis lip was back with a vengeance. ‘Certainly, Mr Carmichael,’ she managed through gritted teeth.

  I busied myself preparing Hugo’s tea tray and carefully placed one of my macaroons on it. Kitty’s granite expression followed me across the tea room floor.

  ‘There you are, Mr Carmichael. Hope you enjoy it.’

  I turned to clear up the debris abandoned on a nearby table.

  ‘Mmm, delicious!’ I heard through an enthusiastic mouthful. ‘Very melt in the mouth.’

  I swung around, his words ringing in my ears. ‘Thank you!’

  He poured his tea and raised his eyes to me. ‘So you like baking then?’

  I nodded enthusiastically, sending my curly ponytail into a frenzy. ‘I’ve loved it since school. I find it very relaxing, and rewarding too.’

  I made a move to leave, but he reached out and gently touched my arm for the briefest of moments. He was wide-eyed. It was a little unnerving. His watery gaze fell on the silver bracelet swinging on my wrist. ‘That’s lovely,’ he murmured. ‘Where did you get it?’

  I smiled down at my bracelet, its charms brushing against my skin. ‘It was a present from my great-aunt—’

  ‘Lara!’ interrupted Kitty. ‘Can you come here, please?’

  I could still sense his gaze on my back as I retreated to the counter.

  ‘I hope you’re not harassing our clientele,’ snapped Kitty as she fired up the coffee machine. ‘Or pushing your baking onto them. It’s not good for business.’

  I tried to conceal my annoyance without too much success. ‘Mr Carmichael asked for a macaroon. I thought baking was our business. This is a tea room.’

  Kitty’s jowls trembled ominously. ‘You know exactly what I mean.’

  Suppressing a sigh, I turned away. My reflection wavered in the bevelled window. I looked defeated. Grey, unenthusiastic eyes in a pale, freckled complexion stared back. The only part of me with any animation today was my hair. It spilled down my back as always, threatening to escape from its black band.

  I was a twenty-seven-year-old redundant public relations officer who had been dumped by her Maltese lover. My life right now paled depressingly next to that of my mum, a glamorous widow living it up in Latin America.

  I snatched up one of my macaroons and took a ferocious bite.

  Four

  The orange glow of streetlights pooled on the pavement and threw their hot reflections onto the closed shop windows opposite.

  Kitty had got into the daily habit of clearing off early, normally trotting out either her weekly yoga class, her book club or a case of ‘sheer exhaustion’ as the excuse and leaving me to clean and close up on my own. I always thought people who did yoga were supposed to be peace-loving, kindly individuals who were channelled into their own inner calm.

  As I swung the sign on the door to read ‘Closed’, my silver bracelet jangled. I looked fondly down at its ‘lucky’ silver charms, two cupcakes and two spoons, dangling against my skin. I’d started wearing it again upon my return to Fairview, hoping it would bring me good fortune as I chased my baking dreams. It was gorgeous, but I reflected a little despondently that it hadn’t brought me much luck so far.

  I buried a frustrated sigh at the thought. The empty cake counter glinted in the descending dark and the hideous carpet was so loud I would be surprised if they couldn’t hear it in the Highlands.

  I knew what would cheer me up.

  I’d been thinking up a new recipe earlier in the day and now would be the perfect time to try it. My fingers positively tingled with anticipation as I flicked the kitchen light on again. Then I got to work, turning on the mixer and popping on a clean True Brew apron.

  I started by grating a large carrot and two apples, sifting in some wholemeal flour and adding a generous perfumed dash of cinnamon. The machine turned the mixture nice and sticky as I beat in the sugar, oil and eggs. I allowed myself a good teaspoonful to taste-test, and, after deciding it called for some ginger and allspice, I rustled the muffin cases out onto a tray. The mixture eased off the tablespoon and into each muffin case with a satisfying plop. I took pinches of rolled oats and sprinkled them over the top of each muffin, before popping them in the oven.

  The oven clock glowed neon red, marking down the time. While I waited, I hoovered over the tea room carpet, dashing back into the kitchen to check the muffins were rising as they should. Finally, a high-pitched ‘ding’ announced the baking time was over. Hitching on a pair of gloves, I sprang open the door, eager to see the result. I inhaled—the spi
cy apple aroma reminded me a little of Christmas. I allowed the golden muffins to rest on the wire rack for five minutes before taking a bite. The gentle spices teased my tastebuds and the oat topping added another layer of flavour. I placed the rest of the muffins in a Tupperware box to store in the fridge and reheat tomorrow morning. They should prove to be a nutritional start to the day for the busy commuters who often darted in on their way to the train station for a takeaway coffee.

  ‘I will name you “muffins on the move” and you shall sell like proverbial hotcakes,’ I declared, cleaning the dirty mixing bowl in the sink.

  As I wiped down the kitchen surfaces, I imagined the reaction the muffins would receive from Kitty. Nevertheless, once I got a baking idea in my head, I couldn’t dislodge it. If I didn’t try it out, it would nibble at me until I gave it a go.

  Once the kitchen was spotless, I grabbed my leather jacket and bag and headed for the door. With a sharp twist of the key I locked the tea room, leaving the place a silent and clean shell until it’s day started all over again tomorrow.

  Cursing the stabbing pains in my feet, I was about to set off for home when a noise from across the empty square made my head snap around.

  A dark figure was stumbling towards me, muttering incoherently.

  I clasped the strap of my bag tighter. Did I have anything on me that I could use to defend myself? I remembered I only had a tube of hand cream and a de-tangling comb. I must have left my bronze shield and Excalibur at home today.

  The burnished light from the street lamps struck the silhouetted figure briefly. ‘Bloody thing!’ erupted a voice through the chilly air. ‘Where the hell are you?’

  Hugo Carmichael took a few more tentative steps. The familiar black trilby sat jauntily on his head. He broke into a relieved smile when he saw me walking towards him in my ballet flats. ‘Ah! What a sight for sore eyes you are, young lady.’

  My brow furrowed. ‘What are you doing out here on your own?’

  ‘I may be old but I’m not senile.’ He gestured to the cobbles. ‘I’ve only gone and dropped my blasted cane. Can you see it? The old eyes aren’t what they were.’ Then he paused.

  Despite his attempt at a light-hearted tone, Hugo sounded uncharacteristically anxious. I wondered how long he’d been searching around out here.

  ‘You stay where you are and I’ll find it for you.’

  Hugo’s silver moustache twitched. ‘Well, I was considering taking a brisk sojourn up the Fells, but alright.’

  I cast my eyes around. After a few moments my attention rested on a flash of gold winking up from the darkened cobbles. ‘Here you are.’

  Hugo accepted his cane gratefully. ‘Thank you so much.’

  Above our heads, the sky was twisting into ribbons of blueberry black and a spray of stars began to arch upwards.

  I pushed a curl away from my face. ‘So, you still haven’t told me what you’re doing out this evening.’

  Hugo’s heavy lids blinked. ‘Oh, I do apologise. I didn’t realise I wasn’t supposed to leave Glenlovatt without prior permission from the authorities.’

  ‘You do that a lot,’ I observed.

  ‘Do what, precisely?’

  ‘Use sarcasm to avoid answering a question.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re a baker and not one of those therapists?’

  ‘Ha!’ I snorted in triumph. ‘There you go. You’re doing it again.’

  Hugo’s watery eyes danced with mischief. ‘Touché.’

  I glanced around at the empty town square, fairy lights strung from the trees in a series of white gold loops. ‘Okay then, if you’re not going to tell me why you’re back here, I’ll be off. I can hear a hot shower and a hair treatment calling.’ I gestured to the empty main road snaking up and out of town. ‘How will you get home?’

  ‘Travis is waiting for me up past the newsagent’s.’

  ‘Travis?’

  ‘The family chauffeur and confidant.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  As I turned to go, he clasped a weatherworn hand on my jacket sleeve. ‘Lara, my late mother always told me that if you follow your heart, your dreams will come true in the end.’ A sentimental smile hovered at the corners of his mouth. ‘Taking a big step is often frightening, but not taking a chance when it presents itself is even more terrifying.’

  I stared at him, thrown by his unexpected words.

  ‘Look, I’m grateful to Kitty for giving me this job, even if she is a right old cow to work for,’ I replied uncertainly.

  ‘But?’ he enquired, staring at me.

  I huddled further into my leather jacket. Before I could stop myself, I was confiding in Hugo. There was something comforting about his open expression that encouraged me to talk. The words eased out of my mouth as he stood there, listening and nodding. ‘I want to achieve something on my own.’ A sigh of exasperation escaped from my throat. ‘Baking isn’t like a job for me, not how it is for Kitty.’

  Hugo’s heavy black coat clung to his shoulders as he studied the True Brew sign with its gold steaming teapot emblem. ‘If that tea room were yours, what would you do with it?’

  I cocked my head to one side, wondering where this was going. ‘Well, for a start I’d remove all that wooden panelling and the tartan carpet.’ I paused. ‘I can see white tables and chairs and starched tablecloths, delicate china and silver cutlery, and floor-to-ceiling windows.’ I unfolded my arms, enthused now. ‘I would have cake displays in the windows and local artwork on the walls. And we’d feature two modern cakes as bakes of the day but also retro favourites like Battenberg and chocolate gateau.’

  Hugo stared back at me, eyes twinkling. ‘Sounds as though you have a lot of big ideas, my dear. And to answer your earlier question, I sometimes like to come for a walk down here in the evening. Remember what Fairview looked like all those years ago when I was a lad . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Are you sure you are alright, Mr Carmichael?’

  Hugo snapped out of his lost thoughts. ‘Oh yes. Quite alright. Ah, there’s Travis coming round the corner now.’

  I hitched my shoulder bag higher. ‘As long as you’re sure. Look after yourself.’

  As he made his way over to the newsagent’s and the waiting car, I turned and walked back across the square and headed for home. The dark shop windows I passed gave only a teasing hint of their contents: strands of necklaces and watches sat on cushions in the jeweller’s, and an assortment of elaborate candles and fringed cushions rested under the spotlights of the homewares boutique. Flowering baskets swung from the lampposts and further down the square a train was disgorging weary commuters onto the platform of our local station.

  My beige ballet flats slapped along on the cobbles, leading me to my flat just ten minutes’ walk from True Brew. I wearily clumped up the communal staircase and through the door. At least this was my own little oasis. Okay, there was no Mediterranean sun spilling through the curtains every morning but it was mine.

  My sitting-room window looked out onto the tree-lined road, which snaked its way towards St Martin’s Church. Its elegant gold-topped spire shot into the skyline and the ornate stained-glass windows reflected a distant greeting to me every day. A high stone wall ran around the church grounds like a grey skirt and the church’s huge oak door had a look of toothy welcome about it.

  Beyond the church I could see the rise and fall of the Fairview Hills, which were sprinkled with clouds of heather. A little market town on the outskirts of Glasgow, the pedestrianised town centre of Fairview housed an eclectic mix of shops, with echoes of its eighteenth-century history running down its cobbled side streets. The town was also fringed with several pretty woodland walks, and Kitty would often complain about the abundance of ramblers and hill walkers, even though she would happily take their money. She’d glare at their rucksacks and tut at their waterproof ensembles before plastering a sickly-sweet smile on her face and snatching their cash.

  I dumped my bag on the sofa and clicked on a corner lamp, i
lluminating my powder blue sofa, stripy nautical cushions and cream carpet. I’d hung some pastel illustrations on the walls that reminded me of the Maltese coast: white buildings fringed with brightly coloured shutters and tropical flowers sat beside scenes of crashing waves and creaky fishing boats.

  Perhaps a part of me was still there.

  I’d already decided to take my work frustrations out in the kitchen. Battering and whisking up cakes might go some way to lifting my mood. I considered what I fancied baking this evening. Was it to be an Easter egg bombe, complete with sprinkled coconut, or would a banoffee pie be more fitting for a chilly spring night?

  I had just dragged my navy curtains closed when the front buzzer crackled. ‘Yoo-hoo!’ came a exuberant voice through the intercom. ‘Let me in!’ Despite the prospect of my therapeutic baking session being cruelly interrupted, a huge grin spread over my face as I hit the button to unlock the downstairs door.

  Heeled boots clattered up the stairs before a blur of Monsoon swing coat and blonde hair burst through the front door. My best friend didn’t do subtle. Morven hurled herself at me like a heat-seeking missile.

  ‘Sweetie, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you when you got back.’

  I raised my eyes to the ceiling. ‘Don’t be daft! Did you have a great time?’

  Morven shrugged off her coat. The glow of her newly caramel skin against a short-sleeved white top and cream jeans told me the answer was most definitely yes.

  ‘It was fab,’ she grinned. ‘Jake overdid it a couple of times with the ouzo. No surprises there.’

  Morven and I first met as gangly twelve-year-olds. Despite her family’s success in organic grain farming she’d insisted to her parents that she attend the local Fairview Academy and not the fancy public school they’d wanted. Her argument had been that she wanted a ‘diverse’ education, making friends with people of all backgrounds.

  I knew better. The real attraction at Fairview Academy was the fact that it was co-ed, unlike the girls public school.

  The Knight clan, although not as steeped in history as the Carmichaels, owned a considerable amount of land in the Scottish Borders. Morven’s dad was a lovely messy-hair-and-glasses type while her mum was always bustling around, inviting people over to their rambling property on the outskirts of Stirling. They came from a long line of farmers, although the thought of Morven, with her river of highlights and her manicured nails, tilling the soil never failed to make me smile. She was far more at home on social media than on the land.