The Traveling Tea Shop

by Belinda Jones

  “And they make a lovely keepsake.”

  “Oh they do!” I coo.

  Gracie hands me my set. I couldn’t be happier and quickly decant my steaming beverage. (Has to be green tea in a Chinese Tea Room.)

  “Why don’t we get a picture of all three of us together?” Gracie suggests.

  We position ourselves on the pagoda steps, surrounded by the Chinese dragons and curly maned lions and do two poses—one ladylike with little fingers cocked, then another raising our cups with a rallying cry.

  At which point Ravenna, who has tracked us down, decides to make a sharp left and pretend she doesn’t know us. Suits us fine.

  “What a position!” Pamela sighs as she strays to the edge of the terrace and gazes out at the mansion-studded coastline. “Is this the Cliff Walk you were talking about?” she asks as she spies the pathway below.

  Gracie and I didn’t make it this far, so I’m eager to take a look as well. It’s certainly dicier here—a jumble of big gray rocks to navigate—but oh that view when you look back across the glinting water, all the way to Easton’s Beach.

  As Pamela follows the flutterings of a white butterfly, you can almost see the tension leaving her body. Gracie and I keep quiet, willing her to absorb the abundance of well-being.

  “This place makes you feel so dignified somehow,” she says as she tilts her face to the sun. “Almost as if nothing bad could find you here!”

  “Ready to go?” Ravenna appears on cue.

  Gracie and I exchange a look, “Almost.”

  Chapter 18

  And so it’s back down to earth at the supermarket. Well I say that . . . This being Newport, even the Stop & Shop has a certain kudos, positioned but a lob away from the International Tennis Hall of Fame.

  All the greats have squeaked sneakers on these courts—Billie Jean King, Steffi Graf, Pete Sampras and, my personal fave, John McEnroe.

  “You used to be so into tennis when you were a little girl,” Pamela gazes wistfully at Ravenna, no doubt imagining her in little pink pom-pom socks. “Remember when I took you to the finals at Wimbledon and you had your heart set on getting Goran autograph—”

  “Are you deliberately trying to embarrass me?” Ravenna cuts in.

  “Some would call it reminiscing,” Gracie observes.

  “And really, there’s nothing embarrassing about fancying Goran ,” I note.

  “Oh my god! Will you all stop?”

  “Ravenna,” I caution.

  She glares back at me. Then at her mum. “Just once I’d like you to be the one dying of mortification.”

  Before I can say, “You don’t think she feels that every time you open your mouth?” she has stomped ahead of us into the shop.

  Pamela shakes her head. “It seems like everything I say is a trigger . . .”

  It’s not what you say, I want to tell her, it’s just you. But I don’t think that will help.

  “So, exactly how many Marble Cakes are we planning to make?” Now it’s my turn to gloss over the awkwardness and act as if everything is tickety-boo.

  We load up on extra flour, eggs, butter and sugar, adding in vanilla extract and baking powder.

  “Do you know the rest of the story?” I ask Gracie as Pamela weighs up her cocoa powder choices.

  “I think she just had a massive red-faced tantrum when he chose the winner’s trophy over her.”

  “Oh right,” I say, all too easily imagining Ravenna blaming her mother for his lack of indulgence. “Good to know that was just a passing phase.”

  Pamela returns to us. “Laurie, could you grab me some cases for the Dark and Stormy cupcakes while I get the ginger? Nothing too flowery.”

  “Will do!” I find some gold ones I think are perfect—symbolic of pirate treasure. These are going to be so yummy! “Anything else?”

  “I think that’s everything.”

  Ravenna is already at the other side of the till, having made a few purchases herself, though it’s doubtful they are a) from the food aisle or b) going to make any contribution to teatime at the Seaman’s Church Institute.

  (Though I’m certainly proved wrong about the latter.)

  • • •

  After a quick bowl of clam chowder at the Black Pearl’s deck café (where we also purloin our dark rum), it’s back to Marble House.

  Unloading all the Stop & Shop bags from the car, we decide to leave our own safely locked within.

  “Aside from the hygiene issues, they’ll only get all covered in flour and grease,” Pamela explains as she dumps her embroidered slouchy bag.

  Ravenna looks most distressed at the prospect. Just when you think she didn’t have it in her to care, she’s certainly very protective of her bag. Anyone would think she had paid for it with her own money.

  “I just need to get my phone,” she says, turning away to burrow within.

  I think I hear a clinking of glass but say nothing—if she’s acquired a couple of Bailey’s miniatures to take the edge off, so be it.

  “Let’s ditch the plastic bags and packaging pronto,” Pamela instructs us as soon as we get into the kitchen. “We want to look as authentic as possible as the tour groups come through.”

  It’s good to see her taking charge. She gets a further boost when several of the English tourists recognize her and ask for an autograph, which in turn ignites the curiosity of the Americans, giving her the opportunity to explain about her upcoming book.

  “Wish we could taste your baking,” they salivate.

  “We’ll be at the Seaman’s Church Institute at three P.M.,” I tell them. “If you’d like to make a donation, I’m sure we could come to an arrangement . . .”

  “Laurie! We need some more cupcake cases laid out.”

  We each have our task to perform, mine being equal to my skill level. Pamela and Gracie focus on the measurements and getting the right combinations in each bowl, while Ravenna has actually offered to do the beating and stirring and is doing so with surprising vigor for one with such spindly arms.

  “Good outlet for her anger,” Gracie notes as Ravenna batters the wooden spoon in circles while pacing the room.

  “Oooh, Pamela, what are you up to there?” I ask as she drains the syrup from a tin of pineapple rings.

  “Well, you know the motif of the Newport Preservation Society is the pineapple, which is also the symbol for hospitality?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought I’d do some individual Pineapple Upside-Down Cakes!”

  “Oh my god. I know it seems like I say this every day, but Pineapple Upside-Down Cake is one of my favorites!”

  I love the way the base takes on a caramelized texture but is still so juicy from the fruit.

  “Do you know why pineapples are the symbol of hospitality?” Gracie asks as she measures out the last of the sugar.

  “Do tell!”

  “When a captain returned from a long voyage, his household would stick a pineapple on the front gatepost to let everyone know he was home and open to receiving visitors.”

  “Well whattayaknow?”

  This is fun. Working together as a team. Chatting as we go. At one point Pamela decides she wants to go one better than paper plates for the presentation, and she sends me to the gift shop to source some china. I come back with some brightly colored “Chelsea” bird designs copied from an original set found at The Elms. I also present Pamela with a local cookbook featuring such enticing gems as Brandy Black Bottom Pie.

  We flick through it as we sit outside, waiting for our cakes to bake.

  “There’s something not quite right about that smell,” Pamela frowns at one point, sniffing the air.

  “Well, those ovens are ancient,” Ravenna opines.

  “It’s not the ovens.”

  We convince her there’s nothing to worry about, but w
hen the cakes are removed she insists on doing a thorough taste test.

  “Really, Mum, there’s no need.” Ravenna tries to hustle her on but Pamela stands firm.

  She takes her first bite. Her face instantly sours.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” she shakes her head. “There’s something very wrong here. Mum—you try . . .”

  Gracie steps in. “Oh no,” she spits her mouthful into the bin. “That’s not good.”

  My mind jumps to all those expectant tummies at the wharf. We can’t let them down.

  “All set?” It’s Avery, the woman who so kindly made the arrangements for us to cook here, needing us to move on.

  I look back at Pamela, now frantic, tearing through batch after batch, dismissing them as inedible. “I don’t know what it is.” She’s starting to cry now. “It’s the same awful sourness with them all. What did I do wrong?”

  “Why don’t you go and have a cup of tea?”

  I usher the Lambert-Leighs outside and tell them I’ll clear up and don’t worry, I’ll think of a solution.

  I can’t help but feel this is my fault. Perhaps there’s something toxic in these old pans. Some metal base that has long since been outlawed—

  “Oh damnit!” I just leaned too far over the giant bin and my mobile has fallen in, along with a heap of sticky pineapple gloop. Great, now I have to reach into all the gunk. Spiky, slimy eggshells, drippy milk cartons and multiple tiny bottles—what are these? I’m fairly certain we didn’t use any food coloring. I pull one out.

  Tabasco. Pepper sauce. I sniff the opening and recoil at its spicy vinegary waft—the exact tang that has tainted all the cakes.

  And then I think of Ravenna chinking as she took what she needed from her handbag, the eagerness with which she joined in the baking process, how she paced as she held the mixing bowls.

  That little—

  “Nearly done?”

  “Yes, yes.” I turn to Avery, wiping off my hands. “I’m sorry there’s such a lot of waste. It seems we had a little saboteur among us.”

  She looks concerned. “Anything I can assist you with?”

  “Well, it would be great if you could recommend a cake shop near the wharf.”

  I take her suggestion and vow to deal with Ravenna later—if I expose her now, Pamela will just be even more upset and there will be a lot of tears and drama and the Seaman’s Institute teatime will be ruined. I have to set aside my urge to dangle her over the cliff edge and handle the most pressing aspect first.

  But then, as I reach into the boot to retrieve my bag, I see Ravenna’s precious Mulberry handbag. And that’s when I get an idea . . .

  Chapter 19

  The Newport Sweet Shoppe is every bit as wonderful as Avery promised. Before I even get to the cupcakes, I’ve loaded up with iced biscuits in the shapes of lighthouses, lobsters, yachts and starfish, loving how appropriate they’ll be for the sailors, if not exactly typical of an English tea.

  I must say the cupcakes look exceptional: tray upon tray of precision-decorated options. Salted Caramel and 22 Carrot particularly catch my eye, while the woman in front of me can’t decide between the Key Lime and Raspberry Lemonade flavors.

  “Are you all set?” The shop owner invites me to go ahead while her first customer continues to ponder.

  “One of everything?” the indecisive woman jokes.

  “Actually, I need all of everything.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I need to buy all your cupcakes. Except whichever one you’re having,” I turn to the indecisive woman.

  “Well, if they’re that good, I’m going to get both.”

  While the cupcakes are being packaged, I learn that the owner’s name is Amanda Bryan. She and her husband Patrick have been professional cupcake-makers for four years (both are from a restaurant/hospitality background), but she’s been baking since she was a child. She even runs bake parties for children at their homes.

  “But they need to be older children,” she explains. “The little ones just want to lick the spatula.”

  I ask her what she thinks it is about cupcakes that has made them such a massive trend.

  “I think it’s because they make people happy,” she says simply. “They’re small, not as big a commitment as a whole cake, and you can treat yourself for not a lot of money.”

  Depending on how many you need, of course . . . I explain to her why we require such a bumper batch, and reference our own Dark and Stormy recipe. Although she can’t match that, she does have a dozen Chocolate Guinness cupcakes, which I readily snap up.

  “And if you’ve got five minutes I can finish up our Newport Harbor ones. I think you’ll particularly like those . . .”

  • • •

  Once again the Seaman’s Church Institute gets little more than a swift drop-off, but they are utterly forgiving of the lack of promised Marble Cake when they see the new bounty, especially the Newport Harbor design, which turns out to be a swirl of blue frosting for waves, a little cluster of candy pebbles for the shoreline and a dark chocolate sail as the centerpiece.

  “These are perfect!” Deedra coos.

  “Yes they are,” I sigh with relief.

  • • •

  The others are waiting for me in the car park when I return. Pamela still looks bereft, Gracie is attempting to console her, and Ravenna just wants to be reunited with her handbag.

  “Where is it?” She scrabbles around in the boot.

  “Oh, I got you this replacement,” I say, dangling a cheap macramé affair I picked up at CVS.

  “Wh-what do you mean a replacement?” she blanches.

  “Well, a hundred or so cupcakes don’t come cheap at shop prices. I had to trade something . . .”

  I think she might faint. “You traded my Alexa for cupcakes?”

  “Mmmhmm. I thought it would help you understand the consequences of your actions.”

  “What actions?” she snaps, feigning innocence.

  I hold up the receipt for the bottles of Tabasco that I found in her purse. She tries to snatch it from me.

  “Oh no you don’t.” I whip it away. And then I study her face. “Why would you do such a thing, Ravenna? I mean, seriously, to be that mean-spirited.”

  Her scowl develops. “You heard her, humiliating me about that time at Wimbledon—”

  “Oh please. That’s just a mum being a mum. And this wasn’t just about getting back at her—what about all the other people you affected?”

  Her jaw juts. “I need my bag—”

  “What’s the big deal? I’m sure your mother will buy you another one.”

  “She didn’t buy it.” Her eyes are welling up now. “Eon did.”

  Oh. I hadn’t counted on having quite this impact. She looks distraught.

  “I have to get it back or he’ll—”

  “Laurie! Ravenna!” It’s Gracie calling to us in a state of agitated glee.

  Ravenna turns away as Gracie bustles over to our side.

  “It’s ready! The bus is ready right now! Can we go?”

  “Of course,” I tell Gracie. “We’re all set here, aren’t we, Ravenna?”

  Ravenna turns back to me. I know she wants to have a banshee-like tantrum and flail out at us, but somehow she swallows it all in and gets into the car without a word.

  I might tell her the truth about her bag later today but, for now, she needs to do some penance.

  Chapter 20

  When I think of all the London busses I have boarded without blinking an eye—far too preoccupied with finding a seat or getting out of the rain or hurrying to my next appointment . . .

  Out of its usual context, away from Oxford Street’s giant department stores and burly black cabs, this double-decker looks huge. And red! So red. And glossy. And iconic. I run my
hand over the engine bonnet—goodness, these things are solid.

  “Classic Routemaster 1956,” Gracie puffs with pride. “Feel free to step on board!”

  The downstairs interior has the authentic itchy-fuzzy seat coverings, but the driver’s cab has been opened out so Gracie can interact with us along the way, as opposed to being sealed off in her own cube. Seatbelts have been added in the passenger area, and apparently there are a few more tweaks upstairs.

  “Pamela, why don’t you lead the way?”

  I hear a squeal and clatter before I’m halfway up the curved staircase.

  “What is it?” I call ahead.

  “Oh Mum! I can’t believe it!”

  As my gopher head pops up, I see the entire upstairs level has been kitted out with a chintzy-fresh, Cath Kidston-style kitchen—there’s a baby-pink oven and fridge, an immaculate white preparation area lined with mixers and bowls and assorted lacy cake stands.

  “Everything is secured so it won’t slide around as we take a tight corner,” Gracie explains. “And I got those cake tins you were talking about the other day.” She points to a vintage set in pale-blue enamel, not so very dissimilar to the cream ones at Marble House.

  “Oh I love them! I love it all!” Pamela reaches to embrace her mother.

  “Happy birthday, love.”

  “It’s your birthday?” I startle.

  “Next week,” Pamela replies, now stroking the stack of rose-print tea towels. “I just can’t believe it!”

  I watch as she opens each drawer, holds up each spatula and pastry brush, turns each aluminum baking tray and then pauses beside a framed picture of the three Lambert-Leigh women a good fifteen years ago. Ravenna is up on Pamela’s hip, pointing to the candles on the cake Gracie is holding up.

  “My forty-fifth birthday,” Pamela remembers. “You piped all those tiny roses yourself, didn’t you, Mum?”

  “I did. One for every year that I wished the best for you.”

  Pamela gives her a rueful look, as if to say, “I have no idea how things got so bad.”

  I feel a little awkward, intruding on such a personal moment, and pretend to be intently studying the side of the box of Typhoo.