And what sort of name was Nile? Did he have parents with a river fetish? Siblings called Zambezi, Seine and Mersey?
I pulled my mind back to my present task and turned to scrutinize the café. Set in the good Yorkshire stone walls, the shallow bullion-glass bow window resembled a painted harlot smile on the face of an honest, plain woman, but the sacrilege had clearly taken place a good century or more ago.
The way the light fell into the courtyard revealed that the Branwell Café sign had been roughly painted over the previous one, so the raised outline of ‘The Butty Box’ could still be seen.
Then I narrowed my eyes and peered again and was certain I could pick out an even earlier stratum that might have said the Copper Kettle.
The damned thing had more layers than an archaeological dig!
The wooden, lattice-sided porch was another Victorian addition, as incongruous as the window, but sort of charming in its way – or it would be when the broken and rotten bits were mended.
Apart from the café and Small and Perfect, the walls around the little courtyard were the blank stone backs of other properties, only broken by the entrance to the narrow passage next to the café, which ran under part of the flat above.
When I let myself into the café (remembering the step down, this time), rays of weak sunshine were fingering a pile of junk mail on the window ledge like a dubious shopper. The long room looked marginally lighter and less dismal, though no more upmarket than before. I suspected Mrs Muswell had merely changed the name to something fancier when she bought the place, but kept the greasy spoon ambience and menu.
Crossing my fingers, I pressed down the light switch … and lo, there was light! I switched it off again (I was going to need all the money I had left from the insurance to turn the café and flat around, so I might as well start being thrifty), and went through into the kitchen, dumping my overnight bag next to my suitcase in the office.
Down to business: I took the contents inventory, a pen and notebook out of my tote and started to check off what was supposed to be there against what actually was.
All the tables and chairs were certainly present, but I’d naturally assumed they’d be the pine farmhouse-style ones in the photos she’d sent me. Those tubular Formica and plastic monstrosities looked as if Mrs Muswell (or perhaps the proprietors of The Butty Box) had bought them as a job lot from a failed low-end diner. They didn’t really go with the rustic charm of the wooden floor, either, which was a bit battered at the moment but would probably strip and seal well.
There was a rustic, Spanish-style wooden light fitting in the middle of the room and matching wall lights, all fitted with dim bulbs that left the corners of the room swathed in darkness. This was possibly why Mrs M had missed a couple of plates that hung on the wall next to the steps, which I discovered led down to two spartan and basic toilet cubicles. She hadn’t taken the chipped sinks, the loos or the rusty hand driers with her, so I supposed I should be grateful for small mercies.
There was a door marked ‘Private’ beyond them, which, when I peeped through, led to a storeroom full of empty metal racking and stairs leading up – presumably the ones I’d noticed near the back door, on my first visit.
I went back up into the café to explore behind the counter, my ghost image in the mirror coming to meet me. There was an antiquated till and an even more antiquated but gleaming metal water geyser, racks full of thick white pottery mugs, saucers and fat, round teapots. A glass-fronted cake display unit sat on the counter.
I supposed Mrs Muswell had kept within the legal limits of our bargain in that the café was furnished with chairs, tables and crockery, even if not the ones I’d expected, but the kitchen, with its work surfaces denuded of equipment and the spaces where larger items had once stood, was another story. There was no catering-sized mixer, hob … or even an oven.
But then, after going through Mrs Muswell’s menu last night, it didn’t sound as if they’d done much in-house cooking at all, apart from some fancifully named burgers, wraps and cheese toasties. But there had been cake – what had they baked that in? Or hadn’t they? Maybe they bought everything in and microwaved whatever needed to be served hot?
And come to that, the microwave from the list was missing, too.
I felt grateful that the chiller cabinet, large fridge and freezer had been left behind, for, though so ancient they looked fashionably retro, those still worked when I flicked the switches.
I sorted through the keys and unlocked the back door, stepping out into a paved courtyard surrounded by beds of overgrown, neglected roses, old inhabitants fallen on bad times.
There was a side gate that gave access to the passage under the flat if you turned right, but I went the other way along a path running between my garden and the high stone wall of the next building. I was looking for the parking space and found it was a large patch of rough ground next to a row of bins. There was plenty of room for my Beetle when it arrived – you could get two or possibly even three cars on it. I’d have to figure out where the alley led, so I could give Rory directions when he brought the car down, but that could wait for now.
I went back in and braced myself for another look at the flat. Downstairs had at least been clean. In fact, whoever was in charge of that aspect of the café evidently had a thing about it, for there were notices all over the place exhorting the staff to use good hygiene and food safety practice, along with a whiteboard with boxes to tick for daily and weekly cleaning tasks.
But whoever was responsible clearly hadn’t extended their activities upstairs. I wondered if Sleeping Beauty had shared her bower with festoons of cobwebs and giant spiders … and, one thought leading to another, had to dash back into the office where my laptop lay on the table and type quickly:
Princess Beauty, suddenly drowsy, kicked off her high, gold-heeled shoes and lay down on the velvet couch, closing her eyes. A rattling noise, as many hard arachnid legs clattered towards her, made her open them again.
A gigantic spider stopped dead, as if they were playing a game of Mr Wolf.
‘Are you a friendly spider, come to look after me while I sleep?’ asked Beauty, who had never been the brightest bunny in the box, even when not fuddled by drowsiness.
‘That’s right,’ he agreed, and proceeded to wrap her up as tightly as a parcel in a cocoon of strong spun silk.
When I dragged myself back to reality and went upstairs, the flat was, if anything, worse than I remembered and smelled musty from disuse, though not actually damp.
As to furnishings, there were a lot of useful things in the boxes Rory would be bringing with him, including some nice curtains from my last Cornish flat that hadn’t been unpacked while I was living with Dan. I was sure they’d fit some of the windows here and I had everything else I’d need … apart from any furniture whatsoever.
I rang Mrs Muswell’s solicitor and told him she hadn’t left the items she’d agreed to, and also complained that she’d misled me by sending me photos of how the café used to look years before, not how it actually was now.
But it was just as I thought: in slippery, weasel words he gave me to understand that there wasn’t a lot I could do about it, since she was domiciled in Spain. He still wouldn’t give me any kind of contact information for her, either, but assured me he would pass on my comments. A fat lot of good that would do me!
I knew my own solicitor would say much the same, though. I’d made my bed and would now have to lie on it. Or I would, when I had one.
I thought I’d better try to put a more positive spin on things when I described the place to Edie, or she’d be down here strong-arming me into selling it again. And Lola would want an update, though I didn’t need to pretend it was better than it was with her.
I let the tap water in the kitchen run until it stopped being a peaty brown and then filled the old and battered kettle, which had obviously not been worth taking. I’d purloined teabags, coffee and little pots of milk from the guesthouse, but now I discovered a whol
e box of Yorkshire Gold teabags, like a treasure trove, in one of the cupboards.
The kettle was just coming to a boil, along with a few more ideas that had germinated and begun to sprout from the original one of the night before, when I heard the brass bell on a spring attached to the café door jangle. I was sure I’d locked up when I came in – and anyway, even if I hadn’t, the ‘Closed for Renovation’ sign that had been stuck to the glass and the lack of lights should have put any potential customers off.
I got up to investigate and as I came through the swing door a tall, raw-boned woman turned from switching on the lights and stared at me. She had grey-streaked dark hair cut in the sort of sixties Mod bob that was very short at the back, but came down in two wings on to her cheeks.
She looked familiar, too, but the feeling clearly wasn’t mutual because she was eyeing me with deep suspicion.
‘Well, I’ll go to the foot of ower stairs! Who the hell are you, flower?’ she demanded.
The last thing I felt like doing was going out, but I urgently needed to buy a few things at a chemist and I also thought I’d better get a replacement for the sheepskin bedside rug while I was at it – both as far away from home as possible, just in case …
Luckily, our weekly cleaner wouldn’t be here until Thursday next week, by which time I’d have removed every last trace of what had happened and restored the house to the condition of pristine order and cleanliness that Father insisted on.
10
Burger Queen
‘I might say the same,’ I replied, but then the penny dropped and I realized who she was. ‘Oh – you work here, don’t you?’
‘In season I do,’ she admitted. ‘I’m Tilda Capstick and I manage the place and do what cooking there is. But out of season I come in Fridays to clean and air it, that’s why I’m here today. Have you come about the renovations? I suppose Mrs Muswell gave you a key, but she didn’t tell me what was happening.’
‘No, actually, I’m Alice Rose, the new owner,’ I said, and then, seeing she now looked both blank and suspicious, added, ‘Surely Mrs Muswell told you she’d put the place on the market and I’d bought it?’
‘Eh, I’d no idea she was even thinking of doing that, the sneaky bugger!’ she said, looking gobsmacked. ‘She was over here the end of August to close the café up early for renovations – and about time, too, we thought.’
‘She told me she’d intended doing that if the café didn’t sell as it was – but for a higher price than I paid.’
She ruminated over this, glowering. ‘You know, if I’d been thinking straight I’d have realized she wouldn’t part with her brass that easily. Oh, I can see it all, now! That’s why the flat was emptied and most of the appliances in the kitchen vanished. Nell and me just thought it was about time the place went a bit more upmarket, and maybe then it would open all year round, so we wouldn’t have to go out working for a cleaning agency from late September to Easter.’
‘Nell?’ I queried.
‘My aunt. I’m mostly in t’ kitchen, but I managed the place too, when Mrs Muswell wasn’t here. She only came over every three or four weeks and someone had to be in charge of ordering, stock control, cashing up and the like. My aunt Nell just waits on and makes the coffee and tea.’
‘Of course – I saw you and your aunt in some video clips on YouTube.’
‘Aye, my cousin’s girl, our Daisy, showed me on her iPad thing. Mrs Muswell saw it too and she said we’d better shape up to be more polite to the customers, or she’d fire us,’ Tilda said darkly. ‘But it was all hot air. Where else would she get two trustworthy and reliable workers for so little money?’
‘She wasn’t a great payer?’
‘Both of us were on minimum wage and seasonal contracts, so we’d never know from one year to t’ next if we still had jobs or not. Looks like we’re out of them now, though …’
She looked at me assessingly. The first shock had passed and she’d clearly begun to wonder what I intended. ‘So … you’ve bought the place. Do you have any café experience, blossom?’
‘Years of it,’ I assured her. ‘Ever since my late teens I’ve worked in hotel kitchens, cafés, restaurants and even a specialist cake shop. Baking’s my thing, especially pastries and cakes. I … recently came into some money and when I saw the Branwell Café for sale online, it seemed too good to be true.’
I smiled ruefully. ‘It was! The pictures Mrs Muswell showed me must have been taken years ago when it was a different café entirely.’
‘It was probably the Copper Kettle. Two sisters had it and you’ve never seen the like for starched gingham tablecloths, spider plants in macramé pot holders and vases of plastic flowers,’ she said. ‘But it’s all been downhill since then and I told her, if she didn’t replace the kitchen flooring and put in new worktops, we’d be losing our hygiene rating, however hard I worked to keep the place clean. You’ve bought a right pig in a poke.’
‘I realize that now and, of course, all my friends and my solicitor warned me not to rush into buying it without looking at it first. But I wasn’t thinking straight, because of a recent bereavement,’ I explained. ‘I’m not usually so trusting, but I exchanged emails with Mrs Muswell and talked to her on Facebook too, and … well, she seemed really nice.’
‘It’s all put on. She fools lots of people that way. And now you have seen it, I suppose you’re going to sell up again?’
‘I could, of course, but I’ve got one or two ideas,’ I said. ‘Look, I was just about to make some tea in the kitchen, so why not have a cup with me and talk things over?’
‘All right. I usually make a brew first before I start cleaning,’ she agreed, following me through the swinging door. ‘And come to think of it, Mrs M still owes me for cleaning the café and kitchens right through before we shut up for the season. Who’s going to pay me now?’
‘I was struck by how everything looks spick and span, except the flat – that’s filthy,’ I said.
‘She didn’t ask me to go up there. It was never used for anything that I recall.’
‘Do you have her address in Spain and phone number?’ I asked hopefully. ‘She vanished off the internet and her solicitor won’t give me her contact details.’
‘No, when she was in Spain I had to tell a friend of hers at a local guesthouse if there were any problems and they’d ring her.’
‘The Gondal Guesthouse? I stayed there last night and they denied knowing where she was.’
‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they, if she’s taken you in over buying the café? Thick as thieves, they are, and they’ll be closing up come October and going out to stay with her, like they do every year.’
‘The solicitor will forward mail for me, but that’s a fat lot of good, isn’t it? I had a whole list of things she was supposed to be leaving behind as part of the sale, all the kitchen equipment and the furniture in the flat, and most of it is missing.’
‘Kettle’s still here, though,’ she said, switching it back on. ‘And I’ve got a little flask of milk in my basket so we won’t be needing those pots of weird stuff you’ve got there.’
‘I stole them from the guesthouse,’ I confessed. ‘It says on the sides that they taste like milk.’
‘Nothing tastes like milk, except milk,’ she said. ‘Why not just have milk?’
There seemed no answer to that. I let her ‘wet the tea’, as she put it, in a white china teapot and fetch thick white mugs from the café.
‘So, you hadn’t seen the place till this morning?’ she asked.
‘I got the keys and came here yesterday afternoon, though it was such a dark, rainy day that I couldn’t see clearly and the electricity was off – there was a power cut, I found out later – so I didn’t stay long.’
I sighed. ‘I’d meant to move into the flat, but it’s been stripped bare, it’s dirty and it needs repainting.’
‘Just as well you’d booked the guesthouse then,’ she said.
‘I only booked one night, becaus
e I expected to find the flat habitable. Someone’s driving my car down from Scotland with all my stuff on Sunday.’
‘Scotland’s all right,’ Tilda commented grudgingly. ‘I had a holiday in The Trossachs once, and except that it rained the whole week and they gave us fried haggis for breakfast, it was fine. Probably a sight better than the Gondal Guesthouse.’
‘I’m not going back there, because apart from the owners lying to me about Mrs Muswell, it wasn’t very nice. They seemed so pleasant on the surface too, just like she did.’
‘You don’t seem the type to be taken in so easily,’ she said. ‘What made you do a daft thing like buy a property without seeing what you were getting first?’
I explained about my fiancé being killed and the insurance money. ‘I was looking for a cottage when I stumbled across the café. I thought it would give me some income and I could live in the flat – it seemed quite a sensible thing to do at the time.’
‘But why Haworth? You’re not from Yorkshire, are you?’
‘I was born not far away,’ I said vaguely. ‘We lived in Knaresborough for a few years and then moved to a village near Shrewsbury.’
‘That would account for it, then,’ she said, though she didn’t define what ‘it’ was. Maybe the lack of accent. I’d noticed hers was considerably less broad while talking to me than in the YouTube clips – perhaps she and her aunt put it on, along with those strange mobcaps and stripy dresses?
‘In those old photos, the café and flat looked really nice, just in need of a bit of updating.’
I fetched the printouts to show her and she studied them with interest.
‘That’s the Copper Kettle, all right! Nell was the waitress for the Misses Spencer, but I had a decent job at Betty’s of Harrogate at the time – I was easier-going then, though some customers would turn the best nature sour over the years, with their complaints.’
The Little Teashop of Lost and Found Page 7