The Little Teashop of Lost and Found

by Trisha Ashley

  That day there was just Jack, fitting new paper towel holders in the kitchen, utility room and cloakrooms, so she plied me instead while Tilda cleaned my flat.

  ‘Our Tilda only just told me about that Jim Voss having the cheek to come round and demand you give him that old tea set, on Molly Muswell’s say-so,’ she said, stirring the teapot before pouring the brew. By now, I think I’d built up an immunity to tannin.

  ‘Yes, it was a bit much considering how she cheated me out of all the things I’d paid for. I expect Jim Voss told her about our finding the willow-pattern china in that cupboard and it jarred her memory, but of course, there isn’t any tea set, so she must have sold it and forgotten or something, though she said it had been her mother’s.’

  ‘Oh, there is a tea set, but it’s nothing to do with Mrs M,’ Nell announced, to my surprise. ‘I remember it well. It was a legacy to the Misses Spencer from their aunt Queenie, but it was so hideous they packed it up and put it away. They did get it out and use it once a year, though, in remembrance of her. I’ve got a couple of snaps of them having tea from it in my album at home.’

  ‘Then where did it go? I mean, there’s nothing except the vacuum cleaner in there now.’

  ‘Miss Clara pushed it round the corner out of sight,’ Nell said. ‘Come on, we’ll see if it’s there.’

  Old houses have strange quirks and the cupboard proved to run round to the right into a little alcove, with an exceedingly dusty box in it.

  ‘Tilda can’t know there’s a space there, because the rest of the cupboard’s clean as a whistle,’ I said.

  I opened the top and unwrapped a piece of the most hideously dark, gilded and overblown china I’d ever seen. ‘It’s vile!’ I said.

  ‘The Misses Spencer kept it for sentimental value, but even they didn’t like it,’ Nell said.

  ‘Well, it certainly doesn’t belong to Mrs Muswell, so let’s just put it back where it was for now,’ I said.

  ‘It might be worth a few bob,’ suggested Nell. ‘Mrs M must think it is, if she sent that Voss round for it.’

  ‘I’ll ask Nile to take a look some time,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think Mrs M really had much in the way of good taste, so it’s probably not valuable.’

  ‘Common as muck, she were,’ agreed Nell, leading the way back upstairs.

  When Tilda came down with the vacuum cleaner and I could get back to my flat again without being under her feet, I made the mistake of checking my emails before settling down to write, and there was the next lot of edits from my publisher!

  Senga had warned me that there would be more, but they’d only be minor changes, and to my relief she was quite right.

  I’d entirely forgotten the thread of my new book by the time I’d sorted those out, so when Bel rang and said she was in Haworth and was I too busy for a visitor, I told her to come straight round.

  She was even more welcome when I discovered she’d brought fresh cream cakes and good news: she’d been out delivering some of her ceramic pieces to a small craft gallery in Oxenhope and stumbled across the workshop of an upcycler.

  ‘Upcycler?’ I had a mental image of someone riding a unicycle across a high wire.

  ‘Yes, you know – they take bits of old bric-a-brac and furniture and make them into something else, so they have a new lease of life.’

  ‘Oh, right, I know what you mean now.’

  ‘I only went in out of curiosity, because I’m not that keen on coffee tables made out of old wooden pallets and bits of car engine, but his stuff was a lot nicer than that – and the great thing is that he makes tiered cake stands out of old plates, too.’

  ‘Are they nice?’ I asked, interested.

  ‘Lovely. I bought one for Mum, but I left it in the car because I have shopping to get. I’ve got lots of pics on my phone, though,’ she added, showing me.

  ‘I had a long chat with Thom – that’s his name, Thom Carey – and he can make the stands to order, in any quantity, if you supply the plates.’

  ‘They’d be perfect in willow-pattern china and, goodness knows, I’m drowning in the stuff now Nile’s put the word out that I want it.’

  ‘How many stands do you think you’d need?’ Bel asked, practically.

  ‘At least twenty – I’ll have to sit down and work it out. Ideally I’d like four-tier stands for the Classic Yorkshire and the Fat Rascal High Teas and three-tiered ones for the Light Afternoon.’

  ‘I think I’m feeling hungry again,’ she said, gazing regretfully at the empty cream cake box. We seemed to have scoffed two cakes each.

  ‘I’ve got a large egg custard tart, if you’d like a slice?’ I offered. ‘Nell gave me the recipe, so I tried it out.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I haven’t had custard tart for ages!’ she said, and while we were expanding our figures even more, I gave her all the details of my interview with George Godet. I’d entirely given up trying to keep any secrets from the Giddingses.

  I called Bel’s upcycler to discuss what I needed and the upshot was that I would take lots of plates to his workshop on Sunday morning, so he could start on the order.

  I sorted them out and then packed them into my boot, for Nile had decreed (in a series of texts – he hadn’t graced me with his physical presence all day) that I should leave my Beetle at Oldstone Farm on Saturday morning and then he would pick me up and drive me to Upvale in his car.

  I was now feeling rather nervous about meeting Emily Rhymer – if she was there; I hadn’t tried ringing first to check. I’d just wing it, and see.

  The solicitor was here today at Father’s request (though I admit to having sown the idea in his mind) and he signed the forms giving me lasting power of attorney, so that in the event of his being incapacitated, I could make decisions for him, both financial and otherwise.

  In return, I assured him that I had no intention of consigning him to a nursing home, should his physical or mental health deteriorate. Even had I not perceived it to be my duty, there was the advantage that in his own home I could ensure that at all times he received the high standard of care we were paying for.

  34

  Angel Delights

  My drive to Oldstone Farm next morning was accompanied both by the clink of willow-pattern china and by Nile, whose car was right behind mine, until we came to the only straight bit of road, when he took the opportunity to zoom past me. I suppose I had been driving slowly, but then, he hadn’t got a car full of breakable crockery.

  When I pulled up next to him his passenger door was open and the engine was still running, so I hopped out of my car and into his, without even going indoors to beg a piece of toast and say hello.

  Given that I’d been experimenting with new variations on cake and savoury recipes lately and then eating a lot of the results, this was probably a good move as far as my figure was concerned. Well-stacked was OK, but over-stacked definitely not.

  The drive over the undulating moors to Upvale was scenic, especially the last bit, where the road beyond the Standing Stones Motel descended steeply and with two hairpin bends to the village below.

  I wondered what kind of young woman would think hiking up there in the dark, with only her dog for company, was a fun idea. Maybe she really was a witch and unafraid of anyone, or anything, she might meet?

  We passed one or two isolated houses, but most of the village lined the road that climbed up the other side of the valley, which could be reached by crossing an ancient stone bridge over a small stream.

  We parked just before it, by a small pink-gravelled tennis court that made me recall what Sheila had said about her husband and Dr Collins having been tennis partners in their youth, and wonder if it was here they had played. I found it hard to imagine what my doctor had been like as a teenager!

  We crossed the bridge and then walked up the hill until I spotted a big detached house, the only one in sight.

  ‘There it is,’ I told Nile.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I googled it last n
ight. Anyway, Eleri told me it was called The Parsonage and there’s a sign on the gate,’ I said. ‘Where’s your shop?’

  ‘Angel Delights is back the way we came, further down from the bridge, but I wanted to see you in first.’

  ‘You needn’t bother, because if there’s no one home, I’ll come and find you. Otherwise, I’ll see you back at the car.’

  ‘OK,’ he agreed, and left me to walk up the last steep bit of road to the gate alone. There was no one about, but I still felt that there were eyes watching me behind the windows of the tall stone terraced houses that crowded close to the road on either side.

  The Parsonage door had been freshly painted a bright vermilion and the old stone house seemed a bit uncertain about this, as if it was trying to decide whether the colour made it look like mutton dressed as lamb.

  I rang a bell and after a long delay, during which time I heard the distant bark of a large dog, the door swung open a fraction to reveal an ancient and wizened face under a lot of silver hair.

  ‘What do thee want?’ she demanded.

  ‘I wondered if I could see Emily Rhymer, please? It’s a private matter.’

  She regarded me with disfavour. ‘She’s bekkin.’

  ‘Bekkin?’ I repeated, puzzled.

  ‘Apple pie. In t’ kitchen.’

  A male head of a similar vintage, topped with a jade-green knitted bobble hat, popped up behind her. ‘Hello!’ he said, with a charming smile. ‘I’m Walter and I’ve got no eyebrows.’

  ‘I can see that,’ I responded automatically.

  ‘Go away, our Walter, you’re shedding sawdust all over the runner,’ the woman said, then turned to me and added reluctantly, ‘And I suppose you can come in.’ Then she slammed the door before I’d barely stepped on to the mat.

  ‘You’d better not be one of them journalists,’ she warned me.

  ‘Why would I be?’

  ‘Because of that lah-di-dah actor our Charlie married,’ she said. ‘Great streak of nowt that he is.’

  ‘Eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves,’ said an attractive male voice. ‘But I take exception to being called lah-di-dah!’

  An oddly familiar dark-haired man ran lightly downstairs as if his every move was being tracked by cameras, and suddenly I remembered what Eleri had said about one of the Rhymers marrying an actor/producer. He was not young – there were streaks of silver in his dark hair and laughter creases round his eyes – but he was still stunningly attractive in an unusual kind of way.

  ‘You’re Mace North!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘That’s me,’ he said cheerfully. ‘And you?’

  ‘Alice Rose. I’m hoping to talk to Emily Rhymer.’

  ‘My sister-in-law – or one of them. She’s in the kitchen cooking up a storm, as usual. Gloria, take her through.’

  ‘I thought I’d stick her in the front parlour till I see if Em wants to talk to her,’ she said stubbornly. ‘Maybe the poltergeist thing will come out for a look. We haven’t seen so much of her recently.’

  I was just thinking that, on the whole, I’d rather not be shut into a room with a poltergeist thing, when he said, ‘Just take her through – she looks harmless enough to me.’

  ‘On your own head be it!’

  Then she turned to me. ‘But I’m warning you, flower, if you waste our Em’s time she’ll let you know about it.’

  Mace North gave me an encouraging smile, unhooked a coat from the hallstand and went out, and Gloria led me down a dark passage and into an enormous kitchen, where a tall woman with a lot of greying hair was stirring a huge cast-iron pot with one hand, while holding a book with the other.

  ‘Visitor for you, blossom,’ announced Gloria.

  She turned and for a moment I was startled by eyes as light in colour as my own, but palest blue, rather than green, and darkly ringed around the iris.

  She gazed back at me without seeming surprised, or even very much interested.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting any effing visitors,’ she said to Gloria accusingly.

  Gloria shrugged. ‘She wants to talk to you and that Mace said to bring her through.’

  ‘She’d better not be an effing journalist then,’ she said, letting the spoon sink into the pot and tossing the book aside. ‘I thought they’d got over all the “famous actor’s sister-in-law is a witch married to a vicar” stuff.’

  ‘I’m not a journalist, and I had no idea …’ I stammered, disconcerted.

  ‘Then what do you want?’

  ‘My name is Alice Rose and … I was the baby you found up near the Oldstone on Blackdog Moor.’

  ‘Well, I’ll go to the foot of ower stairs!’ exclaimed Gloria, astonished, but Emily’s expression of bored irritation didn’t change.

  ‘It was Joe Godet, a local farmer, who found you, not me,’ she said.

  ‘But you were on the scene almost immediately, weren’t you?’

  She looked at me narrowly. ‘Yes, but don’t let that give you the wrong idea. Joe Godet jumped to the conclusion you were mine and I’d just shoved you down that hole, but I soon put him right – and the police.’

  ‘So you were that little sickly babby that was in all the papers?’ Gloria asked, still marvelling. ‘Eh, well, you’ve made fine strapping lass! Nearly as tall as our Em.’

  ‘There do seem to be a lot more tall women round here. I don’t stand out like a sore thumb quite as much.’

  ‘I’ve never let it bother me: why should I?’ Em said. ‘We’re all tall in my family except my sister Charlie: she’s the runt. Sit down,’ she added, which I did, for it was more a command than an invitation.

  ‘I think it was the height combined with having bright red hair that made me feel so conspicuous, really,’ I said. ‘And actually, I was already sure you weren’t my birth mother, because I’ve read all the newspaper reports from the time and it’s clear the police ruled you out.’

  ‘I was an effing vestal virgin at the time, wasn’t I?’ she said belligerently. ‘Had to keep pure, for the magic.’

  It was a little hard to think of a response to this, so I decided not even to try.

  ‘I’ve just moved to Haworth and part of the reason I wanted to live there was to try to trace my birth mother.’

  ‘I don’t know how you’re going to do that, after all this time,’ Em said.

  ‘No, nor me, unless she comes forward, but I thought even if I didn’t, then talking to the two people who found me would at least give me some kind of closure.’

  ‘Well, I’ve no idea who she was,’ she said. ‘Your colouring’s distinctive with that hair.’

  ‘My eyebrows are naturally dark too: I think that’s quite an unusual combination.’

  ‘Maybe, but I can’t bring anyone to mind who looks like that … though those light green eyes of yours do ring a vague bell.’ She frowned and shook her head.

  ‘Could you describe what you saw, that night on the moors?’ I asked. ‘Joe Godet’s dead, but his son’s told me everything he remembered, which was quite a lot, because his father seems to have bored everyone with the story ever since.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I can add much to it, but if you really want to know, I’ll tell you.’

  She put the lid on the huge, bubbling pot and checked the oven, where I could see a vast pie baking – presumably the apple one. She pulled it out and put it on a trivet to cool.

  ‘That’s done and the casserole can take care of itself, but I’ll make some scones while we talk. Sit down – and, Gloria, you wet a pot of tea,’ she ordered the old woman.

  Then, while casually tossing ingredients together to make scone dough, she told me in a series of short, laconic sentences how she’d planned to drive up to the Oldstone in the early hours of that morning with a friend, to see the sun rise over the rock. ‘But there was a gathering at her house the night before and she’d overdone the sloe gin, so when she didn’t pick me up, I thought she’d overslept and decided to walk up there with the dog.’

  ‘Wasn’t tha
t quite a hike in the dark?’

  ‘It’s a climb up out of the valley, but after that it was easy enough and there was a bright, full moon. There’s usually no traffic on those small roads to worry about at that time of the morning, either.’

  ‘So you didn’t see anyone at all?’

  ‘I did, but not until I was in the last, narrow bit of lane before the turn into the parking place near the Oldstone – do you know where I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been there.’

  ‘The lane’s deeply sunk between banks and walls and the road twists, so the car was on me so quickly I only just had time to drag the dog out of the way.’

  ‘But that could have been my mother on her way back, couldn’t it?’ I said eagerly. ‘Did you see who was driving, or what kind of car it was?’

  ‘It was gone round the next bend in a flash and the headlights were on full, dazzling me. I had the impression it was a Mini, though I couldn’t swear to it, so I didn’t mention it to the police. There weren’t that many Minis around here at the time.’

  ‘But then, that might have made it an important clue!’ I said eagerly.

  ‘I don’t think so: I put two and two together myself and made five, because there was a young girl in the village with a Mini, and it wasn’t her, because I saw her getting petrol later that day and she looked just the way she always did.’

  ‘I suppose you can’t just shrug off having a baby and act perfectly normally a few hours later,’ I agreed, disappointed.

  ‘No, and when I thought about it, she wasn’t that kind of girl, either.’

  I remembered something. ‘George said his father thought he’d seen car tail lights in the distance some time before he found me, but he didn’t take any notice because he was searching for his lost sheep.’

  ‘Well, then, that was probably the same car,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I thought maybe it had come from one of the isolated cottages off the lane and they’d been as startled at finding someone there at that time as I was, so I carried on and up to the Oldstone.’