The Tea House on Mulberry Street

by The Tea House on Mulberry Street (epub)

  Brenda looked away while Clare dried her eyes. Would this emotional woman buy a painting, she wondered. She could do with the money but she didn’t like to ask.

  “So? You say, you used to live here?”

  “Yes,” said Clare. “I was a student here, ages and ages ago. I lived here in this very flat for a year or so.”

  “Survived here, you mean,” said Brenda. “It’s like Siberia, in the winter.”

  “Still no central heating? It shouldn’t be allowed in this day and age. I still have a spare key, actually. At home, somewhere.”

  “Locks have been changed a few times,” said Brenda, “judging by the state of the door.” She hesitated, looking at Clare. “Who did you think I was?”

  “Well, I just thought you were an old friend of mine.”

  “What was her name?”

  “That’s the funny thing… it was a boy, actually, with the same hairstyle. I mean, I couldn’t really see your face behind the fringe. You don’t look like a boy at all, of course.”

  “Old boyfriend, was it?”

  “Yes and no, to borrow your phrase. I didn’t know him that long but I was hoping it would lead to something special. Just an instinct I had.”

  “Yes. I know what you mean. Sometimes, you just know.”

  “Seeing anyone special yourself?” Clare thought she had better say something normal to lighten the strained atmosphere.

  “Yes. I am.” Brenda wondered why she had said that.

  “Are you in love with him? I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that. I’m terrible for asking. I’m a hopeless romantic.”

  “It’s okay. Well, yes, I am in love, but it’s not easy for us. He doesn’t live in Belfast.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “He lives in America.”

  “Wow. So do I. What part?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “I’m based in New York. What’s his name?”

  Brenda thought of telling the truth, but then she decided to bend it a little. She thought of the film, Moonstruck.

  “He’s called Nic. He’s a – a baker. He bakes bread. It’s a family business.”

  “Really?” said Clare. “How fascinating. Listen, speaking of bread, I’m starving. Why don’t we go next door, and get something to eat. My treat. And you can tell me all about it.”

  Brenda hadn’t eaten all day, and was already reaching for her jacket. The two women went down the stairs. Clare’s hand shook a little as she switched off the light. She took a last look around the shabby hall and pulled the weather-beaten door closed behind them.

  “So tell me about this boyfriend,” said Clare, as they settled down at a free table in Muldoon’s.

  “Well, he’s Italian-American. Very handsome. Even though he’s only got one hand. He could give up work but it’s a family business. The Italians are funny like that – about work, you know? Very strong ethic. He loves opera music, and he looks pretty fabulous in a tuxedo.” Brenda didn’t know why she was telling such outrageous lies, but she had started now, and she couldn’t stop. Maybe she wanted to be an entertaining dinner companion to this elegant woman who had taken such an interest in her work.

  “Just order whatever you like,” said Clare. “You need feeding up, I can see. You students are terrible at taking care of yourselves. And I know how much it costs to be an artist. I was at the art college, myself, you know. For a while.”

  “Here in Belfast? Really? When?”

  “Too long ago. 1982. I did Fine Art, too.”

  “Are you a working artist now?”

  “No. I work in publishing – interiors,” Clare responded as a pretty woman in a pink wool dress came to take their order.

  Penny smiled at Brenda but didn’t address her by name. Penny was a professional person, as well as being very polite. Interiors? Ah, yes, that was where she had seen this woman before – she had spoken to Penny some months before, looking for that fancy magazine.

  “Chicken in sun-dried tomato sauce, and garlic wedges. Selection of bread and butter. Pot of tea. Coffee cake and whiskey ice cream,” said Brenda quickly, scanning down the menu. Then she looked at Clare. “Is that too much?”

  “Not at all,” said Clare, kindly. Really, it wasn’t polite to order dessert without being invited to, but the young girl looked so hungry. “I’ll have the same, I think,” she said to a smiling Penny. Penny hurried into the kitchen to tell Daniel that Brenda Brown had found herself a rich friend. A magazine editor, no less. Maybe she was on the road to fame and fortune at last.

  “So, tell me why you don’t up sticks and follow this young man of yours to America?” said Clare, as they waited for the food to arrive. “Seems such a waste, to be apart, if you care about him so much.”

  “Well,” said Brenda, “it’s partly because his mother doesn’t want him to be with me. She wants him to marry a nice Italian girl, to help him in the bakery. And partly because of my career. I want to establish myself here, as an artist. It’s very important to me that my work is understood in my home town.”

  “I see. Your boyfriend must be very understanding. To wait for you, I mean.”

  “Yes. He is. What was the name of the fella you knew, when you lived in the flat?”

  “Peter.”

  “Peter what? I might have heard of him.”

  “Prendergast.”

  “No, don’t know any Prendergasts. Sorry. Where did you meet?”

  “At a disco. We liked the same sort of music. I was crazy about music when I was younger. My favourite group was The Human League –”

  “I know them. They’re still together, still giving concerts.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ve seen them many times. And the three of them still look absolutely fantastic! I really admire them.”

  Brenda studied her new acquaintance. She wore far too much make-up. Red lipstick. Red lip liner – corners on the top lip instead of soft curves. Dyed black hair. Severe bob hairstyle. That velvet coat was a bit pretentious. All those bangles jangling on her wrists. Four rings on each hand. It was a bit much, in all fairness. Still, she was a generous person; she was paying for the meal, after all. And she was very easy to talk to.

  “Do you still like 80’s music?” asked Brenda.

  “Oh, yes, I’m afraid I do. I love it.”

  “All those wacky hairdo’s?” smiled Brenda.

  “Well, I had a little penchant for men with unusual hairstyles back then.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right.” And she touched her fringe. “So. Tell me about your job. How do you pick the houses for your magazine?”

  “I look for details that are special, unique, uplifting. Inspiring.”

  Brenda had a sudden feeling that her own paintings were too depressing. Was that why she never sold anything? Should she try using a bit more colour?

  Clare seemed to know what Brenda was thinking. “You know what?” she said, thoughtfully. “I think I’d like to buy one of your paintings, before I leave tomorrow. Do you think I could come round very early in the morning, and choose one before I go to the airport?”

  “I’d be delighted,” said Brenda, happily. And her joy was doubled when Penny arrived with the food, and Brenda noticed at once that Penny had given them much larger helpings than Daniel would have done.

  “Have you got your eye on anything in particular?” said Brenda, as she reached for the salt and pepper shakers.

  “Well, yes. There was one. A small square painting. Waiting For My Love, I think you said it was called.”

  “That’s a self-portrait. Of me. I’ll reserve it for you.”

  “It’s very good. I like it very much.”

  Chapter 18

  CLARE CONFIDES IN PENNY

  Penny was stacking cups on the counter early the following morning when Clare came in carrying an expensive-looking handbag and a brown-paper wrapped package. Penny recognised her as the magazine editor. She had paid for a hefty meal for Brenda Brown and herself the night before, and several
cups of coffee as well, and the two of them had been engrossed in conversation for well over two hours. Penny wondered how they knew each other.

  “Excuse me,” said the woman. “My name is Clare Fitzgerald. I wonder if you could help me?”

  “I’ll certainly try,” said Penny.

  “I’m trying to find someone. You’ll think I am quite mad, but I’m trying to find a man I knew, in Belfast, about seventeen years ago.”

  “Well, what’s his name?”

  “Peter Prendergast.”

  “Oh, dear, I’m afraid I don’t know any Prendergasts. And he lives around here, does he? I know the district well, I might be able to put you in touch with somebody else who might know him.”

  Clare smiled sadly. She wondered if she was losing her sanity, asking this brightly-dressed waitress if she knew some man from the distant past. But the cafe was empty and the woman behind the counter looked very sympathetic. She decided to press on.

  “I don’t know anything else about him, actually. But I sat with him in this very cafe, you see… and I suppose I was hoping against hope he might sometimes come back here… We sat there, by the window, and talked for a couple of hours. I fell in love with him. Hopelessly. The way you do when you’re young.”

  Both women laughed nervously.

  “He wrote his address and telephone number on a cassette, and I put it in my handbag. Anyway, I lost the bag. There was a riot and I left it on a bus. I’m always losing things.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Penny sympathetically, “but – forgive me for asking but – did you not give him your details?”

  “Well, I didn’t have a telephone in my flat, in those days. He knew where I lived, though. It was right next door from here, you see. He couldn’t have forgotten the address.”

  (Ah, so she had lived in Brenda’s flat!)

  “But he didn’t call. I searched for him at his university and left messages. I got an address for him from this girl, and I wrote. But I heard nothing. Then, my dad decided to move to England and soon we left. Cornwall, it was.” She paused, and sighed. “I eventually moved to London to study. Then, when I got my degree, I went to America. I work in publishing now. Interiors. Storage is my thing. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Useful for a person like me! But, about Peter… you might think it was just a crush, but I never forgot him. And I thought…”

  “And you thought it couldn’t do any harm to look him up,” said Penny quickly. “I understand. Tell me, did you not think of putting an ad in the Belfast Telegraph?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure… that seems a bit extreme… he might not appreciate that… I mean, who knows what his circumstances are…”

  “Yes, I know what you mean,” said Penny. “Look, if you have no objections, I’ll put a wee note in the window, and if anyone asks, I’ll pass on the message. Will that do?”

  “Thank you,” said Clare. “You’re very kind.” She gave Penny her business card, with the name of the publishing house on it.

  “That’s okay. It’s no problem. I know what it’s like to be in love with someone you can’t reach,” said Penny, sadly.

  Penny poured a cup of coffee for the lady in the velvet coat. “On the house,” she said.

  Clare Fitzgerald took it and went to sit near the window. Penny saw her touch the table with the palm of her hand, as if connecting with that long-ago encounter. They would have sat on the same chairs, at the same table. Peter and her. Nothing ever changed in Muldoon’s. Penny was moved by the gesture and filled with sudden longing, herself. The ache to hold a man, and feel wanted, and feel desire, had never been stronger.

  And then, suddenly, Penny remembered something. A vague recollection of a letter; an image of a handwritten name.

  She took Clare’s business card and hurried to look in a drawer in the kitchen. There was one particular drawer that they hardly ever used; it was full of nails and thread, string and screwdrivers, paper bags, old receipts and business cards. Penny pulled the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. She peered in and saw a piece of cardboard or something wedged down the side. In a sudden burst of temper, she grabbed the handle with both hands and pulled with all her strength. The cardboard tore, the drawer came right out of the dresser, and its entire contents scattered across the kitchen floor.

  “This blasted kitchen!” she hissed. “Nothing works the way it should!” Bending down to retrieve the junk of years, she spied a faded envelope among the debris. There it was! It said, on the front: To Clare Fitzgerald.

  Penny gasped out loud. She had probably seen it in the drawer dozens of times over the years but this was the first time the name meant anything to her. She hurried back to the front of the cafe with it. Clare was still sitting at the window.

  “It’s extraordinary but – I just found this, in a drawer,” said Penny, breathless. “I wonder, could it be for you?”

  Clare took the envelope, and held it in both hands. Her breathing almost stopped. Penny went back behind the counter and tried not to stare.

  Clare opened the envelope and read the note with tears in her eyes.

  Dear Clare,

  I feel a bit silly doing this, but I haven’t heard from you and I’m anxious. I’ve called at the flat a few times, but there was no answer. You might have thought I made a fool of myself that night, when I said I loved you, but I meant it. If you still want to see me again, please get in touch. As I might have to move out of my student house soon, here’s my parents’ address. I really miss you.

  Love, Peter

  She turned the note over, and read the address on the back. Then she rushed to the counter and asked Penny to call a taxi right away. Penny was so excited, herself, that she had to dial the number three times before she reached the taxi depot.

  Clare went back to the table and sat, sipping her coffee to take her mind off the tangled mass of nerves that her body had become. She thought of Peter, and then tried not to think of him. She kept the painting she had bought on her lap, afraid to set it down, even on the table, in case she lost it. Waiting For My Love. A small canvas. Clare would be able to take it onto the plane with her, as hand-luggage. Only £300. A bargain at twice that price. Clare wanted to pay more, but Brenda wouldn’t hear of it. Socialist principles, she’d said.

  Clare peeled off the brown wrapping-paper and studied the self-portrait of Brenda Brown. With those deep shades of blue, and the vigorous brushwork, it could have been the face of a man or a woman. It could almost be a portrait of Peter. She would have it framed as soon as she got home, and hang it in her office in New York.

  Her heart seemed to be fluttering in her throat. She concentrated on Brenda Brown.

  Brenda was a funny little creature. She was living in that awful dump next door, until her boyfriend in America found a place for the two of them in LA, and broke the news to his old-fashioned mother that he was going to marry an Irish girl. Poor Brenda, taking on a traditional Italian Momma! Good luck to her. Usually, these holiday romances faded away with the suntan.

  And she wasn’t a bad painter, either. Maybe she would have more luck with her career when she moved to America. Coming from Belfast, she would have some novelty value. Brenda had refused to believe her when Clare said that, although she assured her it was true. Sometimes, an artist just had to move away to a new place to be taken seriously. Nobody wanted to listen to a know-it-all from their own town.

  Clare had taken one of Brenda’s brochures and a nice snapshot of her, and said that she might put a little note about her in the arts section of her magazine. She gave Brenda her business card, as well as the cheque for the painting.

  Clare had achieved a lot, on this trip, in one way or another. She had enough photographs of the gentleman’s residence in Stranmillas to fill an eight-page spread. She had the gorgeous pictures of the summerhouse, and one of them was definitely going on the front cover. She had met a Belfast artist and bought a beautiful painting. She had a small piece for the arts section, too. Whatever happened now; whethe
r this note would lead her back to Peter or not, it had been a worthwhile trip.

  All the same, she hoped it would help her to find Peter. She hoped with all her heart. When the cab pulled up outside the window of the tea house, and beeped its horn Clare’s heart contracted to the size of a walnut, with sheer desperation. She drank the remains of her coffee, gave Penny a huge hug, and went out to the taxi, hugging the portrait of Peter to her chest.

  Chapter 19

  THE CRAWLEYS GO SHOPPING

  Beatrice had been reading over and over the important-looking invitation from the City Hall in Belfast. In fact, Alice warned her that it was becoming a little bit grubby round the edges. Just to be on the safe side, they placed it in a pretty gold frame, and set it on the mantelpiece.

  “In light of the good work that you have both done for worthy causes, over the years,” read Beatrice, “the Lord Mayor invites you to join him for a formal lunch, followed by the official opening of our Wartime Memorabilia Exhibition. Please note; formal dress. RSVP.” The 26th of September was the date of the lunch. Of course, they had replied the same day they received the invitation. Beatrice turned triumphantly to Alice. “I knew something like this would happen some day! All our good work rewarded at last!”

  “I still can’t believe it,” whispered Alice. “We must find out if there are going to be any royal guests. Though I suppose they wouldn’t say yet because of security reasons. There must be somebody on the council we could ask. Isn’t Mrs Cunningham from church something to do with bins and sewage?”

  “Never mind that,” said Beatrice. “She might not know either. Why would they tell Mrs Cunningham, and not us? But what are we going to wear? Where are we going to find two perfect hats?”

  “Don’t panic,” said Alice. “There’s plenty of time.”

  Beatrice was doubtful. “The time will go quicker than you think. And there’s so much to be done!”

  They gave details of their father’s regiment and military service, his many medals and heroic achievements, and a selection of faded photographs to the organising committee. There was one picture of Sergeant Crawley standing at the gates of Belsen concentration camp that the committee found very moving. They decided to have the picture enlarged, and given pride of place in the exhibition. There was also a picture of them standing with their father in a war cemetery in France on Remembrance Day, 1973, five months before he died. It was their most treasured possession, but after the committee promised faithfully to take good care of it, they agreed to lend it to the exhibition.