Their acceptance of the invitation to the formal luncheon was confirmed and they booked special appointments at the local hair salon. Beatrice went on a diet, and Alice read all the vulgar celebrity magazines in the newsagent’s from cover to cover. She was soon familiar with every well-known face in the Western world, and who they were married to, and what charities they supported. It was all very interesting, but she would never admit that to her sister, who read very intellectual poetry in the evenings.
“I don’t want to come face to face with a VIP and not even know who they are,” she said firmly, when she lifted a stack of magazines from her shopping bag and Beatrice raised her eyebrows in disapproval.
They continued to agonise about their outfits. They did not want to let Belfast down. They must look well on the big day, no matter who the guest of honour was. There would be photographers present and a camera crew from both of the local television stations. They might even appear on the national news. If there was nothing else of interest that day.
Of course, they did not want to outshine the VIP guests either. That would not be in good taste. They had a lengthy discussion about it and decided that they must assume the Queen herself would be there. They must not, under any circumstances, appear under-dressed. Or over-dressed. The Queen was known to wear dowdy colours from time to time. She was a conservative dresser by nature.
If they wore red, white and blue, they would appear embarrassingly over-patriotic. They didn’t want to look like two leftovers from the Twelfth of July. Black was too sombre. Black was for funerals. Royal blue was too Margaret Thatcher. White and cream were too bridal. Green was too Irish. Pink was too common, purple too regal. Alice worried that a busy pattern might give the Queen a headache. Beatrice dismissed tweed as too provincial.
The days slipped by and still they had not chosen. They would have to find matching coats, hats and shoes, as well as dresses, handbags and accessories.
“Brooches!” cried Alice. “We must have brooches. The Queen always wears a brooch high up on one shoulder.”
“We can’t afford to buy good jewellery,” fretted Beatrice. “And I, for one, am not wearing paste to a royal luncheon! What if one of the stones falls out and we don’t notice?”
The guest of honour had not been officially revealed yet, but there was a rumour going round the Crawleys’ church that someone had overheard a local councillor telling his wife that the Queen was definitely going to be there. It was a matter of life or death that they look fabulous on the most important day of their lives.
In desperation, they caught the train to Dublin. They had never been to Dublin before, but all the Belfast boutiques were full of sequins and embroidery and feathers. Who bought these ridiculous garments and where they wore them, was a mystery to the sensible Crawleys. There was nothing suitable for an occasion as grand and solemn as a Wartime Exhibition combined with a Formal Lunch and a Royal Visit.
They finally found exactly what they were looking for in Brown Thomas. The assistants were very kind and cheerful, and the sisters were amazed that nobody mentioned the partition of Ireland once. They paid for the biscuit-coloured items, and crept out of the elegant store feeling like a couple of traitors. Beatrice transferred her purchases into empty Harrods bags, just before the train pulled into Belfast station. It was already dark as they hurried along Mulberry Street to their own little house.
“Tell no-one where we bought these things,” said Beatrice, as she paraded before the hall mirror. She studied the beige woollen dress and matching coat, and the brown hat and shoes. “Do you think I look like a shortcake finger, that’s been dipped in chocolate at both ends? Tell me the truth.”
“You are the epitome of elegance,” said Alice, laughing. She tried on her own finery: an oatmeal-coloured jacket and long skirt, with blue sandals and a dainty hat with cornflowers on the rim. They had cream leather handbags with little, gold clasps. “We look like royalty ourselves,” continued Alice. “We could be mistaken for the crowned heads of Europe in these clothes. Nobody knows what the European Royals look like anyway. We have only to get two brooches now, and we’re ready. Do you know how to make a curtsy properly?”
“Well, of course I do,” said Beatrice. “The trick is to get as low down as you can without actually falling over to the one side.” And she promptly attempted one, and fell in a heap.
“Now, when are we holding our tea party, and what kind of food will we serve?” asked Alice, when the two sisters sat down on the sofa with their bedtime mugs of Ovaltine.
“What tea party?” Beatrice was confused, and still a little shaken after her tumble.
“Well, you don’t think we are going to rub shoulders with royalty, without telling anyone, do you? We must invite the Reverend Pickford, and everyone in the choir. And we must get some of those biscuits that Prince Charles makes in his own kitchen.”
“I’m going to bed, Alice dear,” sighed Beatrice. “We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
Chapter 20
RICHARD ALLEN COMES TO CALL
A handsome man came into the tea house a few days later and walked confidently to the counter. This run-down cafe wasn’t his usual type of haunt but he was doing a spot of business in the area – yet another batch of young families moving out and selling their terraced homes to the developers. The demand for student bed-sits had sent house prices sky-high.
“Hiya! A coffee, please. Mocha, if you have it.” Richard Allen put his briefcase on the counter. His after-shave smelled very expensive and his sparkling, hazel eyes were full of mischief.
“Take a seat,” said Penny, brightly. “I’ll bring it right over.” She was still on a high from the good news she had received that morning. Clare Fitzgerald had telephoned from America to say that when she turned up at the address on the back of the note, Peter’s mother herself had answered the door. They didn’t have long to talk because Clare’s plane was due to take off in a couple of hours, but yes, Peter was still alive and well. And single.
“And would you believe it?” laughed Clare. “She told me he was living in America too! In Boston, to be precise. All these years and I never knew!”
Clare had asked Mrs Prendergast for his contact details, and was delighted to be given both his home number and address, and his work details as well. Of all things, he was a detective!
She called him from the airport in Belfast. She couldn’t wait to consider if he would be asleep, or anything. (He was.) She was afraid to leave things until she got home to New York, just in case something else happened, to keep them apart. In case he met an attractive girl that very day, and fell in love with her instead. Peter answered the phone on the second ring, and Clare wept into the phone like a lunatic.
“You won’t believe this, Peter,” she said, “but I just got your note, today. I knew that lady in the cafe would be able to help me, and I’m so sorry we missed each other, before…”
“What?” said Peter. “Who is this?”
“It’s Clare,” she wept. “Clare Fitzgerald, from Mulberry Street.”
This fantastic result had Penny riding high on a wave of emotion. Of course, another way of looking at things was that her absent-minded father had forgotten to pass on the note, and so had kept the couple apart for all those years. But Clare seemed to have forgiven the Muldoon family for this terrible crime. She’d told Penny that they’d arranged to meet very soon, and that she was sure everything was going to pick up where it had left off.
Penny prayed for their happiness as she worked in the cafe. She had decided that Daniel would not be allowed to return to their bed until he had changed his ways for good. Tough love, that’s what it was called, on the daytime television shows that Millie loved.
She watched Richard Allen slip off his designer jacket to reveal broad shoulders and a trim waistline, and she felt a long-dead, tingling feeling in her heart. A hammering and a shortness of breath: the hallmarks of desire. She looked in through the hatch. Daniel was filling pastry shells wi
th fresh cream and strawberries, lost in concentration, as usual.
Oh, I’m going to flirt with this new guy, she thought. I am!
Penny poured the coffee into one of the fancy chrome cups they didn’t use very often, as they had to be hand-polished after use; and put two complimentary biscuits on the saucer. She pulled a tendril of curly hair from behind her right ear and let it dangle over her face. Then, she straightened herself up, and glided over to Richard Allen’s table. He was checking details in his notebook, and did not look up.
“One mocha! Will there be anything else?” she said in a breezy voice.
“Ah, no. That’s lovely, thanks,” he replied. “I haven’t much time. I’m seeing a buyer in ten minutes.”
“A buyer? Are you an estate agent?”
“Yes. For my sins. Are you thinking of selling? Let me give you my card…” He took a crisp, white business card from his breast pocket.
“Richard Allen. Thank you. I might just give you a call.”
“Please do. I’ll give you a good look-over!” he said.
I wouldn’t say no, thought Penny.
“Well, I’m not thinking of selling the shop, as such. But, I am tinkering with the idea of buying a house in the area. Penny Stanley, is the name. But you can call me Penny.”
“Well, I’m your man, Penny. Give me a call when you’re ready to roll!”
“I’ll do that, Mr Allen. Thank you very much.”
“Please, call me Richard.”
Penny went back to the counter, and dusted the shelves with renewed vigour. Daniel heard her humming a happy tune, and he was pleased. She must be in better spirits today, he thought.
Chapter 21
BRENDA’S PRICELESS MELONS OF DELIGHT
19 June, 1999
Dear Nicolas Cage,
I hope this letter finds you well.
I had a spot of good luck the other day. I sold one of my paintings! Hooray!
I’m in Muldoon’s Tea Rooms, having a lovely meal as a reward. Scampi and chips. I mean, French fries. The person who bought the painting was a very cultured lady who happened to be passing by my flat. I mean, apartment. She’s Belfast-born, but lives in America, like yourself.
I think the sale was a good omen because I got a letter this morning from the gallery in Galway that I went to visit. They want to stage a solo show for me. My first solo show. It opens in December, in The Blue Donkey Gallery. Which is kind of weird because most of my paintings are blue. I mean, the colour blue. Not the jazz blue.
I am going to paint day and night, and pour my heart and soul into every piece. I have sixty canvases already and they want me to do three really big ones for the window. I’m going to bring the whole lot down in a hired van, and let them decide what to show.
It’s so exciting, I’ve been on a high all day.
The small painting I’ve sent you is called The End Of An Era. It’s about a factory closing down. It is one of my personal favourites. I hope you like it. It is to thank you for all the pleasure your films have given to me. (Wild At Heart is still my favourite, though.)
Fond regards,
Yours sincerely,
Brenda Brown.
PS. Please send me a signed photo.
I am a genuine fan.
Brenda read through her letter to Nicolas. It was quite short, and light-hearted in approach. That was good, because she wasn’t feeling light-hearted at all. In fact, Brenda was feeling more than a little unstable, in recent days. She felt that her time as an artist was coming to an end. The credit-card debts were getting very high; she could barely pay her bills last month. If the show in Galway was a flop, she would have to face up to her financial problems, and get some sort of a job.
The people from the employment office were contacting her, all the time, with details of various vacancies. They told her that unless she accepted something soon, they would have to withdraw her benefit and rent cheques. They must have been instructed to get tough with the long-term unemployed. Up until recently, they had seemed quite tolerant and even friendly. Seven job interviews they had arranged for her; and seven times Brenda had made a total mess of things. And it wasn’t deliberate, either. She just couldn’t stop herself from telling prospective employers what she thought of their businesses. It didn’t help that she always had a few gin and tonics beforehand. But that was only to steady her nerves. The very idea of going to an interview in a sober state was unthinkable.
She told the people at the chemist’s that she thought most of the beauty products on sale were simply little plastic pots of over-priced gunge. And that she wasn’t a good enough liar to convince desperate old wrinkly women to buy them. And also, that she wouldn’t be able to discuss any product of a sexual nature with the customers.
She told the butcher that his blood-spattered chopping-block was upsetting her. And would he ever consider turning the place into a vegetarian soup parlour? She’d be happy to work there, if only it was a vegetarian soup parlour. They had such places in the U.S., she explained helpfully, and they were very popular with all sections of the community. Everybody loved soup: Catholics and Protestants, and everyone.
She told the civil servants at the local government headquarters that she didn’t believe in democracy, and she wore a T-shirt with an anti-capitalist slogan on it. She tried to explain her theories to them: how she thought that intellectuals should be in charge of the country. (Not career politicians in designer suits.) Jobs and the Environment were the fundamental issues of the modern age, not flags and trivial religious squabbles. But the interviewing panel said they were only looking for temporary filing-clerks and, unfortunately, they didn’t have the time to discuss global politics with Brenda Brown or anybody else.
Brenda said, that was the whole problem of the world in a nutshell: everybody was only interested in their own little empire, and they couldn’t see The Big Picture. That planet Earth was just a fragile, little blue ball; spinning towards who-knows-what?
On her way out of the interview room, she reminded them that if the temperature of the planet increased by just six or seven degrees Celsius, then 99% of all livings things would die out within weeks. (Flags or no flags.) There would only be beetles, or something, left. They thanked her politely for the information.
She didn’t get any of those jobs.
Worst of all was her experience with the Galwally branch of a major supermarket. They must have been absolutely desperate for staff, Brenda thought. Because they hired her straight away, even though she told them the non-stop beeping of the electronic tills made her want to attack somebody. Most likely an impatient customer. And that she was allergic to nylon, and might not be able to wear the blue and orange uniform.
They told her not to worry, that she would soon get used to the job, and that it really wasn’t too difficult. Just scanning groceries, stacking shelves and being generally friendly and helpful. But unfortunately, they couldn’t budge on the uniform issue.
Had they considered issuing a new uniform, Brenda wanted to know. Maybe an all-black ensemble with a jaunty pillbox hat and wide-leg combat trousers? She’d be happy to design one for them.
“No, thank you,” they said firmly, and could she please show in the next candidate? They were on a very tight timetable.
Brenda was very disappointed that they didn’t give her enough time to put some of her ideas to the panel; that they do more to promote Fair Trade tea and coffee, for example, but she thanked them for the job, all the same.
“How hard can it be?” she told her mother, on the phone that night. “It’s only a bit of shelf-stacking. The worst part will be the boredom. And the shame, of course. If any of my arty friends see me with a mop and bucket.”
“Don’t worry, darling. You’ll be promoted in no time,” said her mother, kindly. And it will do you good to get out of the flat for a few hours each day, she thought. “Sure, you’ll be a manager yourself, in no time. Haven’t you a perfectly good degree? You’ll have money in your pocket �
� you’ll be set!”
Brenda was thrilled with the possibility of being promoted. She hadn’t thought of that, or that she’d finally be taking home a regular pay-packet. She wrote out a big list of ideas, ready to show the manager, and she bought a packet of children’s sparkly hair-clips to keep her fringe out of her eyes. Yellow plastic sunflowers, they were. (In honour of Vincent van Gogh, who was her favourite artist and greatest inspiration.)
She ironed her uniform, and tried it on. It was a little too tight across the chest and hips. Well, that was her own fault. She’d told the panel she was a size 10, when they asked her. But, bloody hell! She wasn’t going to tell a row of complete strangers that she was actually a size 12! Talk about loss of dignity, she fumed. When you were a skivvy on minimum wage, the whole world was entitled to know the exact circumference of your womanly curves. The Blue Donkey Gallery in Galway hadn’t wanted to know the size of her backside, thank God.
With a mixture of dread and excitement, Brenda circled the first day of her new job on the calendar. She turned up at the supermarket, in her too-tight uniform, and was shown the tea room and the warehouse. She was introduced to lots of people, and she forgot all their names at once. The warehouse was a bit scary, all bare concrete walls and pitch-dark shadows. Brenda didn’t like the warehouse. Luckily, they had already allocated a position for her, on the shop floor.
She was sent to the fresh fruit and vegetable section, and told to stack two cages of bright yellow, honeydew melons and dark green watermelons on the shelves.
The Tea House on Mulberry Street Page 13