All-Butter ShortDead (Prequel: Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 0)

by H. Y. Hanna

  “You should have just told him where to stuff it,” said Cassie heatedly as he finished his story. “I would have—”

  “THAT’S A LOAD O’ BOLLOCKS!”

  We all jerked our heads around. Mike Bailey was thrusting himself aggressively at the American, his face mottled with anger.

  “Hey, don’t get mad at me just because you don’t like to hear the truth,” said the American loudly. “Your country is a sad relic of the last century, stuck in your stupid traditions and elitist attitudes, with crap food and miserable, stuck-up people. Come to the U.S. and see what real progress is!”

  “I’ve had enough o’ you bloody Americans coming here, throwing your money around an’ thinking you know everything! I’m telling you—”

  “Whoa, gentlemen…” Brian came hurriedly out from behind the bar, his hands raised in a placating manner. “Why don’t we step outside and talk this out—”

  “I don’t need to step outside,” Mike snarled. “I know what I need to do right here!”

  And he lunged forwards and punched the American in the face. Cries of alarm erupted around the room and several people sprang up from their seats. I noticed, though, that the men standing around Mike had expressions of satisfaction on their faces. Guess the American hadn’t been making himself too popular. No one stepped in to help him either as he slowly picked himself up off the floor.

  Rubbing his jaw, he glared at Mike and said, “Is that your best shot, you drunk loser?”

  “Why you—!” Mike went for him, his hands around the American’s throat. This time, some of the other men jumped in to try and separate them.

  “Hey! Enough of that!” cried Brian, shoving his way between them and forcing them apart. The American said something with a sneer—too low for me to catch from the other side of the room—but it caused Mike to make another lunge for him.

  “You bastard! I’ll make you pay for that!” he yelled, as several of his friends tried to restrain him.

  Brian turned to the American. “Sir, you seem to be deliberately provoking him. I must ask you to leave.”

  The American gave a shrug. “Sure, no skin off my nose. Don’t know what the big deal is about this place anyway.” He gave the room a contemptuous look as he adjusted the collar on his shirt. “Bet I’ll find better drinks for cheaper in Oxford.”

  The door slammed shut behind him and there was an audible sigh of relief in the room.

  “Good riddance,” said Cassie in disgust. “What a pillock.”

  Brian was now talking to Mike Bailey and also asking him to leave. The latter was indignant.

  “I can’t believe you’re taking that bloody American’s side in this!”

  “I’m not taking anyone’s side,” said Brian wearily. “But I can’t have different rules for locals and tourists in my pub. You’ve caused trouble so I’m going to have to ask you to leave just like him.”

  Mike swore viciously, then he turned and banged out of the pub. I hoped that the American was already a good distance away otherwise there was likely to be another brawl out on the street. Several of Mike’s friends must have shared the same thoughts because they hastily followed him out. The sudden clearing of the pub made the whole place seem a lot quieter and reminded me of my dinner appointment.

  “Yikes!” I glanced at my watch and sprang to my feet. “I’d better get going. I’m going to be late for dinner!”

  “It’s only your parents. I’m sure they won’t mind if you’re a few minutes late,” said Cassie.

  “Are you kidding?” I gave her a look. “You know what my mother’s like. Punctuality is one of the Ten Commandments in her household.” I bent down and gave them both a peck on the cheek, then added to Cassie, “See you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t forget Daylight Savings ends tonight,” Seth spoke up. “So remember to turn your clocks back, otherwise you’ll be getting up an hour early for nothing.”

  Cassie groaned. “Oh my God, that’s what I did one year—and I got up and had showered and dressed for work before I realised it was still practically the middle of the night!”

  I laughed. “I nearly did something similar in Sydney. Anyway, it’s great to know that I’ll get an extra hour of sleep tonight. See you!”

  I gave them a smile and a cheery wave, and made my way out of the pub.

  ***

  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’d lived with that guilt for years—it was what had driven me to climb the corporate ladder, even though my heart wasn’t in it, and to remain in a career which had left me feeling empty and miserable—just so I could hold my head up and have an impressive title to whip out when people asked me what I had done since graduating from Oxford.

  But three months ago—when I turned twenty-nine and realised that the big 3-0 was rushing towards me—I had one of those “Oh my God, what have I done with my life?” moments. Maybe it was an early mid-life crisis. Suddenly I was sick of doing what was expected of me; I wanted to rebel, to do something crazy, to be that person that family and friends whispered about—with horror and disapproval and yet also admiration and envy—for having the guts to just do what the hell they wanted to and not care what other people think.

  The next day, I’d walked into my office in Sydney and
handed in my resignation. A week later, I heard about the tearoom in Meadowford-on-Smythe while on an internet chat with Cassie: the owners were selling out and moving to the Costa del Sol, and the beautiful 15th-century institution was under threat. I didn’t know the first thing about running a food business—and I couldn’t bake to save my life—but I fancied a challenge… and I missed England.

  So I made probably the first impulsive decision in my life: I sold my swanky penthouse apartment in Sydney, bought the Little Stables Tearoom, packed my things, and came home. Of course, once I’d tasted a couple of weeks of British weather and maternal smothering, the romance did begin to fade a bit… but still, I didn’t regret it.

  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 know…” 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—”

  “Mother!” I said, forgetting the rule about restrained, ladylike volume. “I do not need you to set up a date for me with Lincoln Green!”

  “Oh, but it’s not a date, really. It’s just sort of… socialising. He’s ever so nice—and Helen tells me that he’s one of the top Intensive Care specialists in the U.K., you know. He’s bought a townhouse here in North Oxford—a beautiful Victorian maisonette.” She looked around distractedly. “Helen gave me his number and if I can just get into my iPad, I could find it for you… I don’t know why, darling, but my password isn’t working…”

  “Did you capitalise the first letter? You know that the first letter is always a capital in your Apple ID password.”

  “Oh… is it, dear? Well, you’ll have to show me after dinner.”

  That would be the sixth time I’d showed her this week. I sighed. I don’t know what had possessed me to suggest that my mother should get an iPad.

  My mother was continuing, “Helen sent me a recent photo of Lincoln and my, he’s grown up into such a handsome young man! It seems like only yesterday that he was that adorable little boy going off to Eton and now he’s a dashing young doctor.” She sighed dreamily.

  I rolled my eyes. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe her. I was sure Lincoln Green was a lovely chap. In fact, I’d sort of known him since childhood. Helen Green was my mother’s closest friend and Lincoln and his younger sister, Vanessa, had been frequent visitors to our house when we were growing up. I remembered a tall, serious-looking boy with impeccable manners. I was sure he had grown up into a very nice young man but I had no particular desire to renew the acquaintance. Nevertheless, from the look my mother was giving me, I could see that I was not going to avoid this acquaintance easily. I wondered if it might be easier just to have the date with him and get it over with.

  My mother was saying something which brought me back to the present. Something about a book club and her turn to host the meeting this coming Monday.

  “I’m sure you’d like to join the club, now that you’re back,” she said.

  I groaned. “Mother, I’m not really into book clubs. I like to read what I fancy, when I fancy—the minute I get told I must read something, it totally puts me off the book.”

  “Well, I think you should get involved with some local community activities,” said my mother severely. “It is the best way to make connections and meet the right sort of people. We’re very exclusive in our book club and only admit a certain class of member.”

  I shuddered. The last thing I wanted to do was sit around for a couple of hours making small talk with my mother’s snooty middle-class friends.

  “Well, I don’t want to sit around with a bunch of strangers, arguing over whether the author meant the blue curtains to signify depression or hope—when it probably didn’t have any special meaning at all and he just liked the colour.”

  “Oh, but they’re not all strangers. You do know some of them—like Dorothy Clarke and Eliza Whitfield… oh, and Mabel Cooke has just joined too.”

  There was no way I was going to join this book club now!

  “Monday mornings I’m busy,” I said quickly. “I’ve got the tearoom, remember? I’ve got a full time job now.”

  My mother frowned. “Really, Gemma… This ludicrous busines
s with the tearoom…”

  I sighed and tuned her out as I focused on finishing the rest of my dinner. For dessert, we had a spotted dick—that wonderful British classic made with delicious sponge cake filled with juicy currants, steamed to perfection, and served with a dollop of custard. In spite of my irritation with my mother, I had to admit that her culinary skills were exemplary. Shame that the domestic gene seemed to have skipped a generation. Considering how bad I was at baking anything, it was probably a joke that I wanted to run a tearoom. Still, I enjoyed eating the items, which I considered half the qualification for the job.

  I put the last spoonful in my mouth and licked my lips appreciatively, wondering if I should ask my mother for the recipe. Perhaps Fletcher had one of his own already. I would have to check with him tomorrow…

  ***

  The next morning, I discovered a flat tyre on my bike and had to swap my usual routine of cycling to the tearoom for a bus ride into Meadowford-on-Smythe. As I alighted from the bus, I took a deep breath of the fresh morning air, a smile coming to my face. Much as I hated early starts, I had to admit that there was something nice about being awake at this time, when the streets were still empty, the air was quiet except for the chirping of birds, and everywhere was that hushed feeling of waiting for the day to begin.

  I crossed the village high street and walked the few hundred yards down to the Little Stables Tearoom, feeling the same rush of pride as I did every morning when I saw the sign hanging above the front door. I was looking forward to another busy day. And it seemed that customers were arriving already. As I approached the entrance of the tearoom courtyard, I saw someone sitting at one of the outdoor tables, facing away from me. Blimey, they’re early. The tearoom didn’t officially open until nine o’clock—nearly another thirty minutes—but I decided I didn’t mind starting a bit earlier to keep a customer happy.