“I’m Fiona Finnegan and this is my brother Seamie. We’re Michael’s niece and nephew. I’m sorry for startling you. I didn’t mean to.”
Mary’s eyes took in Fiona’s tear-streaked face. “I heard shouting. That’s why I came down,” she said in a soft Scots burr. “Looks like quite a welcome he’s given you.”
Fiona managed a weak smile. “Not quite the welcome we were expecting,” she said.
Mary shook her head. “Come upstairs. You look like you could use a cup of tea.” She chattered away as she led them to the third floor. Fiona learned that she’d emigrated from Scotland ten years ago and had lived here for three years with her son and father-in-law. Her husband was dead. He had been killed in a train accident at the freight yards. At the door, they were greeted by a tall boy, about fourteen, whom Mary introduced as her son.
“Get the nice cups and saucers out, Ian, and put the kettle on,” she said, settling them at her kitchen table. “Let me get this lot rinsed and hung and then we’ll all have a nice hot drink.”
Mary’s kitchen smelled of good things – bread and cinnamon and bacon. The sink gleamed. The stove was freshly blacked. The linoleum floor was worn and cracked in places, but it shone with a new coat of wax. White tatted curtains hung in the windows. Humble but immaculate, it reminded Fiona of her mother’s kitchen and being in it soothed her.
“Would you like to take a peek at your cousin?” Mary asked, wringing out diapers.
“The baby? Is she here?”
“Aye, she’s in the parlor. She’s a bonny bairn, she is. I’ve had her ever since the funeral.”
“Oh, I’m so relieved she’s all right,” Fiona said. “Michael told me she was with a friend, but he didn’t tell me where. He didn’t even tell me her name.”
Mary shook her head. “Doesn’t know his own name anymore, that one. Eleanor’s her name, after Molly’s mother. We call her Nell. Go on, go see her. I won’t be much longer.”
Fiona walked into the parlor and saw a pudgy fist waving around inside a laundry basket and heard a tiny voice burbling cheerfully. She peeked inside. The little girl was a vision. She had the black hair and blue eyes of her father and the plump, round-faced prettiness of her mother. When Fiona took her little hand and cooed to her, she was rewarded with a big gummy grin. She lifted the baby out of her basket and carried her into the kitchen, so glad that she was all right.
“There we are!” Mary said, getting the last of Nell’s diapers hung on the line outside her window. She smiled when she saw Fiona and Nell making goo-goo noises at each other. “A little princess, she is. Tell me, Fiona, would you be Patrick Finnegan’s lass? From London?”
“Yes, I would.”
“Thought so. The accent gave you away. Molly told me about Michael’s brother. I think she had hopes of luring your brother … Charlie, is it? … to New York to work in the shop.”
“He would’ve loved that.”
“Would have? He’s not here with you?”
“No, he isn’t. He died several months ago.”
“I’m so sorry!” Mary said, putting down the teapot she’d just picked up. “How terrible for you and your parents to lose him so young.”
“Actually, we lost them before we lost Charlie,” Fiona said. As Mary abandoned the teapot altogether and sat down, Fiona told her an abbreviated version of all that had happened to herself and Seamie over the past few months.
“Lord, Fiona, after all that, then you travel to America and find your uncle in a state. What a shock you’ve had!”
“Aye. I’m not sure I’m over it yet,” she said, a hint of bitterness in her voice. “From what my parents told me, from the letters we had from him, I thought he was a good man. I never thought he’d be so unkind.”
Mary shook her head. “Oh, but he isn’t. You mustn’t think so. At least… he wasn’t. He was the kindest man. Always smiling, always ready to help. It’s the drink that makes him this way. He never drank before Molly died. Maybe a pint or two at his local, but he wasn’t a drunkard. He was a good man, a good husband. Hardworking. He fixed up their flat and was going to fix up mine. And he wanted to expand the shop, too. He had so many plans, did Michael. If Molly could see him now, she’d be heartbroken. I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried soft words and threats. I’ve taken Nell away from him. Nothing works. Soon he’ll be out on the street. And then what? Molly was my best friend. I love Nell like my own. What will I tell her when she’s grown? That her own father abandoned her?” Her voice caught. “Oh dear, here I go …” She wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t stand what he’s doing to himself. It’s the grief. I know it is. He’s never cried, Fiona. Not once. Keeps it all bottled up. Drinks and shouts when what he needs to do is weep.”
Mary poured the tea. She sliced into a thick dark gingerbread and served generous pieces. Fiona sampled hers. It was very good and she complimented Mary on it. She sipped her tea. It was terrible. As bad as the tea she’d bought yesterday. “Delicate” was how the shopkeeper had described it. “Dishwater” would be more accurate. It was a third-rate congou, a black China tea as flat and lifeless as an old straw mattress. Stuart Bryce, a man she and Nick had befriended on the ship, a tea and coffee importer who was opening a New York office for his firm, had warned her about the tea in America. She made a mental note to find herself some Indian leaves. Like all Londoners, Fiona found life’s trials easier to bear with a strong cup of tea in hand.
Mary stirred sugar into her own cup, then said, “I don’t know if you know this, but he’s going to lose the shop. It’s bad for him and it’s bad for us, too. The new owners may not let us stay. I don’t know where we’ll go. Michael didn’t charge us a lot. And I don’t know where we’ll find a place with a backyard for Alec and his plants. That’s my father-in-law. He’s a gardener. He doesn’t get much work anymore, he’s too old, but he still makes a few dollars here and there.” Her bright eyes were worried.
“That’s what we were shouting about just now,” Fiona said, still smarting at the memory of her row with Michael. “I’d hoped to work for him. I want to have a shop of my own one day. I hoped he could teach me what I need to know.”
“If only I had the money,” Mary said, “I’d pay the bloody bank off myself. But he owes a fortune … hundreds of dollars …”
“It wouldn’t do any good,” Fiona said, staring into her teacup. “I’ve already tried. I have a bit of money on me and I offered to pay back what he owes, but he refused.” She swirled the liquid, then slowly said, “But he did give me his key. And he told me to take the shop.”
There was a beat of silence. Mary said, “He gave you the key?”
Fiona looked up at her. Mary’s eyes were no longer anxious. She was leaning forward, sitting on the edge of her chair, her expression intense and excited.
“Well, sort of. He threw it at me.”
“My goodness, lass! You have the key and the money … you can open the shop again!”
Ever since her uncle had stormed out, Fiona had been thinking the exact same thing. Now Mary had spoken her thoughts aloud. “Do you really think I could?” she asked softly.
Mary leaned across the table and took Fiona’s hands in hers. “Aye! You just said you wanted a shop, didn’t you? Take your uncle’s!”
“But I don’t know the first thing about shopkeeping, Mary. What if I make a big cock-up of it?” She was eager at the prospect one second, terrified the next.
“You wouldn’t, Fiona. I just know you wouldn’t! I can tell you’re a capable lass. You’ll learn what you don’t know. Michael didn’t know everything when he began. He had to learn, too.”
The whole idea was madness – pure and simple – and it was a huge risk to take with her money. But ever since she’d touched that key, she’d wanted to have a go. What if it worked? What if it just bloody well worked? She’d be able to save the shop, keep Mary and her family here, keep her uncle off the streets, and save herself from a factory job, too.
“I – I gue
ss I’d have to go to the bank and talk to someone in charge there,” she said hesitantly. “I’ve never even set foot in one. I wouldn’t know what to tell them. And even if I did, they might not listen to me.”
“I bet they would. They’re bound to take a loss at an auction. They’ll never get all their money back. I’m sure they’d rather the mortgage payments were continued. We’ll do what we can, won’t we, Ian?” Ian nodded vigorously. “We’ll help you clean it up. I’ll keep an eye on Seamie and wash the curtains for you. We don’t want to leave our flat, do we, Ian?” Ian shook his head. They heard the door open and close. “Oh, that’ll be Alec,” Mary said. “He’ll help you, too. He could make flower boxes for the windows. Molly was going to have them. She wanted them done in time for the spring. Oh, say yes, Fiona, do! Give it a go!”
Fiona grinned. “All right, Mary, I will!”
Mary jumped up and hugged her and told her over and over again that she wouldn’t fail. She’d make a success out of the shop, she would. As she sat back down, a man who looked to be in his sixties came into the kitchen. His clothes were worn but clean, pressed, and neatly patched. He had gray hair underneath a tweed cap, a gray beard, and gentle gray-green eyes.
“Got me fish meal, Mary,” he announced gleefully in such a thick Scots accent, Fiona barely understood him. “It’s first-rate.”
“Dad,” Mary scolded, “don’t be stinking up the place when we have guests.”
Mary introduced Fiona and Seamie to her father-in-law and told him about their plans. He promised to make Fiona beautiful window boxes full of hyacinths, daffodils, tulips, and pansies. He said he was going outside to prepare his flower beds and asked his grandson to help him.
“Coming, Granddad,” Ian replied, popping his last bite of gingerbread into his mouth. He took the buckets from his grandfather, watched by a wistful Seamie.
“Would you like to help, too, laddie?” Mary asked. “I’m sure they could use another pair of hands.” Seamie nodded eagerly. “Off with you, then.”
Fiona smiled as her brother, a bucket in his hands, followed Alec and Ian out of the flat. It would be good for him to be outside with companions and not dwelling on who died. She helped Mary clear the tea-things and they decided it would be best to start cleaning the shop right away.
As Mary dug in her broom closet for soap and rags and scrub brushes, Fiona went to the window to check on her brother. The kitchen overlooked the backyard and she had a clear view of him; he was using a hoe to mix dirt and fertilizer in a wheelbarrow. He was awkward with the large tool, but Alec didn’t seem to mind. She could hear the older man encouraging him, telling him if he gripped the handle a little farther down, it would be easier to manage.
A gentle breeze blew in. Monday would be the first day of April, and spring – from the feel of the breeze – wasn’t far away. She was glad. Warm weather would mean she wouldn’t have to put a lot of money into heating the building. Her stomach fluttered as she thought about the shop, but she reminded herself that she’d survived losing her family, eluded murderers, and had gotten herself and her brother to safety. She could bloody well handle a grocery shop.
“Here we are,” Mary said, taking the baby from her and handing her a mop, a metal bucket, and a cake of soap. “I’ll just get Nell’s basket and we’ll go downstairs.”
Outside, as Fiona turned the key in the shop’s lock, Mary said, “Just think, lass. You’re only in New York a day and already you have a shop. Makes a body think all those sayings about America being the promised land and the streets being paved with gold might be true, doesn’t it?”
The lock tumbled. Fiona turned the knob and the door swung open. A stench strong enough to bend nails hit her. She gagged, then covered her nose with one of Mary’s cleaning rags. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness inside the shop, she spotted the source of the stink – a meat cooler. Its contents appeared to be moving. Maggots, she realized. Thousands of them. Plump and white and squirmy. She swallowed hard, trying to keep the gingerbread she’d just eaten down.
“Makes me think a saying my father once heard from a Chinese sailor might be true,” she said, overwhelmed by the mess before her.
“What was it?” Mary asked, her eyes tearing, a handkerchief pressed to her nose.
“Be careful what you wish for; you might just get it.”
Chapter 25
“Hush now, Nell, there’s a good girl…” Mary crooned to the squalling baby. It did no good. The child’s shrieks were ear-splitting.
“Fee? Can I have money for some doughnuts? Can I have a nickel?”
“No, Seamie, you can’t eat doughnuts for dinner.”
“It’s lunch, Fee. Ian says it’s called lunch here, not dinner. Supper is dinner. I want a nickel.”
“No.”
“Charlie always gave me a nickel.”
“Charlie never gave you a nickel. We didn’t have nickels in London.”
“Well, a penny then. Can I have a penny? Can I have five pennies?”
From the cellar came a tremendous crash, then shouting, “Aw, crikey, Ian! Look what you did! I’m covered in it now …”
“You did it, Robbie! I told you to hold on to your end!”
Fiona dropped the rag she’d been using to polish the cash register and ran to the door. “Ian! Robbie! Are you all right?” she yelled above Nell’s din.
Ian was halfway up the stairs holding a piece of a wooden crate in his hands. Below him stood Robbie, his friend, covered in brown mush, holding another piece.
“We were trying to bring some bad apples up. The crate fell apart,” he said.
Fiona felt a tug at her skirt. “Fee, I want a nickel!”
Mary shouted that Nell, wailing like a fire siren now, must be wet and that she was going to take her upstairs. Fiona told the boys to go upstairs, too, and wash. She reached in her skirt pocket with grimy hands and fished out two quarters. “Go and buy dinner … I mean lunch … for everyone when you’re finished, Ian,” she said. “And take Seamie with you. Please.”
When they had left, and the shop was quiet, Fiona sat down on the stool behind the counter and leaned against the wall. She was sweaty and dirty, tired and sore. The optimism she’d felt at Mary’s kitchen table on Friday had drained away, leaving her feeling certain she’d bitten off far more than she could chew. She, together with Mary, Ian, and Robbie, had been cleaning nonstop for days and there was still a mountain of work ahead of her. She’d thought Michael’s flat had been a wreck; it was nothing compared to the shop.
Vermin and neglect had wreaked havoc. When they’d made it past the ungodly smell of rotted meat, she and Mary had discovered rats nesting in a chest of tea. Others had chewed through pickle barrels, leaving them to leak all over the floor, and had gnawed through cigar boxes to get at the tobacco. Weevils were in the flour and oatmeal. Dead flies rimmed the honey and molasses jars. Fruits and vegetables had shriveled in their bins.
It had taken them two days just to haul the rotten goods to the curb. The meat cooler had to go; it was ruined. Mary, Ian, and Robbie had worked like dray horses. She had wanted to pay them, but Mary refused to take any money. Nonetheless Fiona had managed to slip the boys a dollar each when she wasn’t looking. Alec was pitching in, too. He was out back constructing window boxes. Seamie was also doing his share, dusting whatever he could reach. Only Michael was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t lifted a finger to help. Not even when she’d accosted him at Whelan’s that morning to ask him about the cash register.
“I can’t open the till, Uncle Michael,” she’d said tightly, angry at seeing him blind drunk yet again. “Is there a key for it?”
“Aye.”
“Can I have it?”
“No. It’s not your cash register. It’s not your shop,” he declared loudly, so inebriated he had to hold on to the bar to keep from falling off his stool.
“But you said to take it.”
“Changed me mind. Don’t want it opened.”
“You bloody man
! Give me the sodding key!” she shouted, exasperated.
“Give me a dollar first,” he said.
“What?”
“Give me a dollar and I’ll give you the key.”
“I can’t believe this. You’re going to sell me the key? Have you no shame?”
“Shame I’ve plenty of, me darlin’ girl. It’s cash I’m low on.”
Fiona stood fuming. She didn’t want any more money going from Michael’s hand to Tim Whelan’s till, but she needed the key. She pulled a bill out of her pocket and traded it for the key. “One dollar,” she said. “That’s all you’re getting, so you’d better make it last.”
Casting black looks first at her uncle and then at Tim Whelan, she’d turned on her heel and headed for the door. Her hand on the knob, she looked back at Michael and said, “She’s beautiful, you know.” He stared at her uncomprehendingly. “Your daughter. Nell. She has blue eyes and black hair like you and the rest is all Molly.”
Pain sliced across his face at his wife’s name. “Nell they call her?” he asked. He ordered another.
“Stupid sod,” she muttered now, resuming her polishing. She needed his help desperately. Cleaning, as hard as it was, she was perfectly capable of. But talking to banks and creditors called for skills she didn’t have. Two of Michael’s suppliers – the miller and the fishmonger – had already paid a call. They’d seen the shop open and had come in to demand their money. She had paid them, hoping to ingratiate herself, hoping they’d restore her uncle’s credit, but they refused. How would she find new suppliers? And when she did find them, how would she know if they were overcharging her? She didn’t even know what things cost yet. Or what Americans ate. How would she know what quantities to order? Did a shop of this size go through a forty-pound bag of porridge oats in a week? Or two bags? Or ten? How much milk should she buy for one day? How many chops and sausages? This wasn’t going to work. She was too bloody green. She wouldn’t get any farther than the bank. She’d gone there yesterday, Monday, and made an appointment to see the president at the end of the week. He’d see she didn’t know anything about running a shop and toss her right out the door.
The Tea Rose Page 28