The Tea House on Mulberry Street

by The Tea House on Mulberry Street (epub)

  The apartment was very well co-ordinated, with all the furniture and the decor in matching shades of cream and chocolate. Penny asked him if he’d chosen the furniture himself.

  “It was the show-home,” Richard explained. “I bought the furniture along with the flat.”

  “Had you nothing of your own when you moved in?”

  “Just the hi-fi, and my clothes. Typical bachelor, I’m afraid.”

  The words tripped easily from his lips but she thought he said them with a trace of sadness. “Indeed.”

  “Make yourself comfortable,” he said. He went in to the tiny, modern kitchen to make coffee. She heard him fiddling with the buttons of an expensive espresso machine, and she stifled an urge to laugh when he scalded himself slightly with the frothy, hot milk. Those machines were difficult to operate unless you used them every day.

  Penny thought of Daniel, his lovely face, his ice-blue eyes and the way he danced with her on the night they met. She thought of their wedding day and how much she loved him then, and how much she had been looking forward to going to bed with him in the bridal suite. She stood beside the huge window and gazed down at the water. There were tears in her eyes.

  “Kiss me,” she said, when Richard returned from the kitchen, with two glass cups of latte, and a plate of fancy German biscuits on a tray.

  He set the tray down on a small table, took off his jacket, tossed it onto the sofa, and crossed the room in a matter of seconds. He brushed her arms gently with his fingertips and Penny closed her eyes. Then, he took her in his arms and kissed her expertly. Richard Allen was not nervous where women were concerned. In fact, he was full of confidence in his lovemaking abilities. It was only when engagement rings were mentioned that he began to get worried.

  They kissed for a long time, and the coffee went cold and Penny did not think of Daniel any more.

  Chapter 26

  THE LOVERS

  Daniel was eerily quiet the next day. Penny bathed and dressed at a leisurely pace and came down the stairs for breakfast, not at eight o’clock in the morning, but at one-thirty in the afternoon. He stared at her new hairstyle, and her newly made-up face, and said she looked lovely, but he asked her nothing else about the previous day. His main feeling seemed to be relief that she had come back at all, Penny thought. He brought her a cup of tea and a scone, as he always did. To her utter amazement, he did not ask her where she had been all night, or why she had come creeping into the tea house at six that morning, just as dawn was breaking.

  As the day wore on, she began to believe that he just didn’t know what to say. He had married her for the business. Well, she’d known that for many years now, hadn’t she? At five thirty, she told Daniel she was going away for a couple of days, for a holiday, and that she would be splashing out a bit with the cheque book.

  Daniel’s face turned very red, but still he said nothing.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me where I’m going?” she asked him.

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  “Daniel, we need to talk. Really talk. Please.”

  “I’m going out, myself, actually, for an hour or so,” he said. He locked the door and closed the blinds. Penny could not recall one time in the last seventeen years when he had closed the shop before nine o’clock at night. Even on Christmas Eve, he stayed open to feed the flocks of people walking the streets with tinsel scarves, on their way to and from the celebrations.

  “We need to talk, to save our marriage, Daniel. It can’t go on like this.”

  “We’ll talk when you come back.”

  “We can talk now. I won’t go if you don’t want me to.”

  “It’s okay. You go, and have a good rest. You deserve it.”

  He went out through the back door, and Penny didn’t try to stop him. She packed a few things in a small bag, locked up the shop and hailed a taxi to take her to Richard’s flat. He was taking her to the countryside for a couple of days. They were going to go for long walks, and have dinner in a gourmet restaurant, and share a bed in a small but expensive hotel. Penny was struck by that thought. She was a married woman, with a lover, but she still had very little sexual experience.

  Millie Mortimer was delighted that Penny was having a little break. She said that Penny deserved to enjoy herself, after all her years of slavery in the cafe. She lent her friend a nice, warm coat and a fancy pair of bedroom slippers. Penny didn’t tell Millie about Richard. She only said that she going away for a couple of days to think about her marriage. Which was the truth, after all.

  Richard was waiting for her, now. It was too late to undo their plans. Penny sat back in the taxi, clutched her overnight bag, and checked her new hairstyle in the driver’s mirror.

  Chapter 27

  THE CRAWLEYS GET A SHOCK

  Two weeks before the day of the Royal visit, Alice remembered the brooches. They still had to buy new brooches to complete their splendid outfits. They had some money put away, and were discussing whether or not to spend it on new jewellery, when Beatrice suddenly wanted a slice of chocolate gateau.

  “Come on,” she said. “Daniel might know of a place that sells nice things that don’t cost too much, if you know what I mean.”

  “If anyone does, he does,” agreed Alice. “You lock the back door and I’ll switch off the radio.”

  Penny was out, which was very unusual, but Daniel had a great idea when he heard the problem.

  “Why don’t you wear some of your late mother’s jewellery?” he said. “Preferably some pieces from the war years. You could show them to the Queen and tell her about them. Something for her to look at besides all those war photographs.”

  Beatrice thought of her mother’s trunk in the attic. It was full of old clothes and shoes, and things they could not bear to give away when Mrs Crawley died. She was sure there was a box of costume jewellery in it.

  “We’ll fetch it down from the roof-space and have a root through. You never know what we might find,” she said. “Thanks, Daniel.”

  Daniel smiled. It was easy helping other people. The Crawleys ate their cake and went home to begin the search.

  After much heaving and hauling and cries of “Look out!” the trunk was dragged down the ladder and into Beatrice’s bedroom. The two sisters sat on the bed to rest, and then they opened the ancient leather trunk. It was dusty and covered in cobwebs but inside time had stood still.

  Their mother’s things were as clean and bright as they had ever been. There were dresses and coats, and slips and stockings.

  “Wasn’t mother such a tiny little thing,” said Alice. “This jacket wouldn’t fit a fly.”

  Beatrice found the box and lifted it out. “At least, jewellery fits all sizes. I hope there’s something we can use. Great idea of Daniel’s. ”

  There were necklaces and bracelets and earrings, and right at the bottom of the box, two large brooches. One was shaped like a dragonfly, set with turquoise stones; and one was a posy of red tulips and golden leaves. Beatrice held them up to the light from the window. The glass stones glittered and shone.

  “I think we’ve found our finishing touches,” said Beatrice. “I’ll have the red and you have the blue. We must show Penny, next time we’re in.”

  “What’s that piece of paper in the bottom of the box? There’s a corner of it sticking out.”

  Alice reached under the silk lining of the box. She drew out a piece of paper, yellowed with age. She unfolded it and smoothed it out on the bed. It was a birth certificate. William and Eliza Crawley were registered as the parents of twin girls, Beatrice and Alice, born at home, in Belfast, in 1941.

  “But that is incorrect,” said Alice. “We were born in 1940. Six months after father went to fight. They must have made a mistake.”

  Beatrice did not move. She coughed, nervously.

  Mental arithmetic silenced the sisters. They looked at the date on the certificate, and neither one trusted themselves to utter the truth. Once spoken, it could never be taken back. They mu
st have been conceived when William was away fighting in the war. So, that must mean their biological parents were not married. At least, not to one another. Beatrice thought of countless occasions when she had called some of the badly behaved children of Belfast ‘rotten little bastards’. And of how soul-destroying it must be for children to be condemned like that, when they were still trying to make sense of the world.

  Alice was thinking of her first day at grammar school, fifty-five years earlier. Some of the other girls were giggling and elbowing each other, when the teacher called out the names on the register. Alice Crawley. Beatrice Crawley. Did the other girls know, even then? Had they heard their parents gossiping at the tea table? Well, if that pair weren’t made on the wrong side of the blanket, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle! Some awful, cheap slur like that. Poor Eliza, how did she bear it, all those years? Everyone looking at them, every time they went out of the house. It was because of their different appearance, she knew that now. She had always known it, in her heart.

  “We were quite small when we first went to school. Smaller than the others,” said Alice. “Although we soon caught up.”

  The glass brooches glittered in Beatrice’s hand, a gift from Eliza’s lover. The brooches knew the answer: a German-born man by the name of Leo Frank was their real father, his genes succeeding where William’s had failed. Leo’s Israeli origins were plain to see, in the faces of his twin daughters.

  Beatrice put her hand up to her neck, and coughed again. “We are not the children of William Crawley, war hero,” she said softly, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

  “You mean, Mother had an affair?” Alice’s face was white.

  “It looks that way. Mother always told us she lost the certificate during a house move. We are one year younger than we thought.”

  “Oh, Daddy, dear Daddy,” whispered Alice. “I don’t believe it! It’s just a clerical mistake they made in the office, some silly girl with only half her mind on the job.”

  Beatrice shook the box and a tiny photograph fell out. It was faded and cracked. The picture showed their mother in her nurse’s uniform, standing on the steps of The Royal Victoria Hospital, beside a tall man wearing round spectacles and a tiny black hat on the back of his head. On the back was written: Eliza and Leo, 1941. The man had his arm round their mother’s waist. Eliza’s stomach was slightly swollen. Beatrice and Alice had the same dark eyes and long straight nose as the man in the photograph.

  Alice said, “That’s one photograph we won’t be giving to the City Hall.”

  Beatrice said, “You know this means our father might have been a man of the Jewish faith? Look at that little hat he is wearing – I think they call it a yarmulka.”

  “You mean, he was a Jew?” said Alice, and she put her hands up to her mouth.

  “I think we must consider that to be a definite possibility,” said Beatrice, gently.

  “But how can this be? Mother was a good woman. Perhaps she was the victim of a savage attack. One reads such awful things in the papers.”

  “Alice, look at the photograph. Mother is smiling. Can you not see the resemblance between that man and ourselves? I’d prefer to be the result of a love affair, wouldn’t you? Not something terrible, such as an attack. You have heard of such affairs happening in wartime. People are vulnerable to temptation when their spirits are low,” whispered Beatrice. “For all Mother knew, she would never see her husband again.”

  “But that means Mother was a sinner, fallen by the wayside, cast out into darkness.” Alice was beginning to panic.

  “Stop it,” said Beatrice, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “Stop it, please. Don’t say things like that about Mother. I couldn’t bear it. I really couldn’t.” They went downstairs and sat in the parlour drinking cup after cup of hot, sweet tea.

  “I feel different, now. Are we different? Are we Jewish?” Alice asked.

  “No. We were raised as Christians and that is what we are.” Beatrice was sure about that. “Although, they do say the Jewish people are a hard-working race, with strong family values. And of course, they put great store by education.”

  “Oh! Yes! And we were teachers! Should we tell anyone?” asked Alice.

  “Oh, no. Definitely not. I don’t think so. After all, what would be the point? We have no surname, no clue as to his identity,” said Beatrice. “He may not have been the one who – who – he may not be our father.” Beatrice didn’t want to suggest that Eliza might have known other lovers as the bombs fell. Alice missed the point.

  “But, there cannot have been too many Jewish people here during the war. Perhaps there is a list somewhere? Of refugees? We may have a family somewhere?”

  “No. They didn’t want us to know about this. We will go on as if nothing had happened.”

  It was then Beatrice noticed a tightly folded piece of paper on the ground – it must also have fallen out of the box. She opened it up. It was a telegram.

  “What does it say?” urged Alice.

  Beatrice hesitated. She feared it would confirm what was already too obvious. It did.

  “Congratulations, my darling. We wanted a baby and now we have two. You choose the names and keep our children safe. I want only to come home to you, and hold you in my arms forever.

  Your loving husband, William.”

  “He was a true hero,” whispered Beatrice. “Never, not even once, did he make us feel we were not his children.”

  “That’s true. Men of that calibre just don’t exist any more!” Beatrice said tearfully. “I miss him so much!”

  “We both miss him, sister dear.”

  They held each other close and wept for a little while.

  Then, Alice almost had a heart attack with delayed shock. “Oh, my God,” she said. “Are we half-German, do you think?”

  Chapter 28

  A PRESENT FOR BRENDA

  Mrs Brown stood ringing the doorbell of Brenda’s flat. In one hand, she held a large, brown-paper carrier-bag.

  “Surprise!” she called, when Brenda opened the door, blinking repeatedly in the harsh daylight.

  “What is it, Mum? I’m busy working on my paintings for Galway.”

  “I know you are, sweetheart. And that’s why I’ve bought you a lovely present. I think it may be valuable, though I got it for twenty pounds in a sale.”

  “Oh, great! Is that it, in the bag?”

  “Of course. Now, let me come in, will you? It’s heavy.”

  Brenda was thrilled. Things were definitely looking up in her life, she thought. About time, too. It had taken her hours in the unemployment office to have her benefits re-instated, after her dismissal from the supermarket.

  Mrs Brown closed the front door behind her and trotted up the narrow stairs after her daughter. Brenda was hopping from one foot to the other, in the tiny hall, with sheer excitement. But when her mother opened the bag, Brenda wasn’t sure what to think. It was a very ornate frame, gold-coloured, with carved fruit and flowers at the corners.

  “Ta-da!” cried her mother. “Now, what do you think of that?”

  “Mmmm,” said Brenda. “I don’t usually have my paintings framed, Mum. That’s why I paint the sides of the canvas, you see? It’s my trademark. And I don’t think I have one that would fit those dimensions, either. Mine are all square-shaped.”

  Mrs Brown was upset that her great surprise had fallen a bit flat. She pursed her lips and dropped the lovely frame back in the bag. “Never mind. I thought you’d love it. You could have painted something to fit in it, and it would have been the main attraction in your exhibition.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Sure, aren’t Vincent what’s-his-name’s pictures all framed in gold? Honestly, Brenda! I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “I am pleased, Mum. It’s a lovely present.”

  “Do you want me to take it away? I suppose I can sell it on.”

  “No, no. Not at all. Here, give me it. It’s a lovely treat for me. Very fancy, indeed. Will we have a c
offee to celebrate?”

  “That would be lovely. I bought you this as well.” And she produced an antique cake-stand from the bottom of the bag.

  “Thanks, Mum! This is really smashing.” Brenda wanted to be sure she sounded grateful. She reached out her hands for the gifts.

  “Oh, good. I knew you’d be pleased.” Mrs Brown was convinced she had chosen the right gifts. She handed them over.

  The two women went into the kitchen and Mrs Brown sat down at the little table while Brenda made the coffee.

  “I’m sorry, I haven’t a biscuit in the house,” said Brenda. Mrs Brown pulled a packet of peanut cookies and a box of mini-rolls from the pocket of her anorak.

  “When have you, ever?” she smiled. “You’re a true artist, Brenda. You’ve no notion of the real world at all.”

  “Well, I think that’s not such a bad thing,” replied Brenda. “I find the real world a bit of a disappointment. So, tell me, have you been busy recently?”

  “Oh, yes. I have. I’ve sold seven car-bootfuls of your father’s old junk. I’ve made a fortune.” Mrs Brown opened the box of rolls and the glossy packet of cookies and placed them on the cake-stand.

  “Mum, he’ll go berserk.”

  “Well, I only sold the stuff he didn’t want any more. Records, out-of-date clothes, books, ashtrays. And since he moved out of the house, and set up home with that harlot from Dublin, nothing I do is his business any more.”

  “I suppose so,” Brenda sighed. “I’m still getting over the shock. Are you coping okay on your own, Mum?”