The Teashop on the Corner

by Milly Johnson

  ‘Yes,’ said Carla. ‘Really.’

  Theresa heard the weariness in her friend’s voice and she bit her lip to stop herself from trying to discourage her from walking away. She had to recognise that Carla was a very different animal to her and it wasn’t fair to make her do what was not in her nature, especially as Jonty had more or less told her that the chances were that Carla would end up with very little and possibly, a large legal bill to boot. Any victory would more than likely be a Pyrrhic one.

  ‘Then I’ll help you pack up,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you but no, I’m going to do it alone,’ replied Carla. ‘I want to go through every single thing myself.’ Theresa opened her mouth to insist, then shut it again when Jonty gave her a look of admonishment. ‘You’re very sweet, Tez, and thank you and I hope you understand.’

  ‘Yes, of course I do,’ nodded Theresa. And she did.

  ‘Well, there is some good news,’ began Jonty, forking up some noodles from a carton. ‘Exquisite timing on Martin’s part for dying and opening up this opportunity for you.’

  ‘Jonty, please,’ exclaimed Theresa.

  ‘Shhh, my love. Now, Carla, one of my clients has to get rid of a property very quickly. Nice little house, albeit rather an odd design. Architect must have been pissed when he designed it. Could deffo do with a lick of paint and some cosmetic changes, mind. He converted one side of the house to a granny flat for his mother, who sadly never got the chance to live in it. It’s cheap and if you bought it, you could rent out the separate flat and earn some revenue to live off.’

  ‘A separate flat? It sounds expensive.’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Little Kipping. Maltstone way.’

  ‘I know it. It’s nice there.’ It was near to that lovely little teashop she had been to today.

  ‘Bit far out of town but he wants it sold quick. You, as a potential cash buyer, are all his dreams come true.’

  ‘Cash buyer?’ Carla laughed.

  ‘Your insurance policy on Martin’s life would more than cover the cost of buying this house. It would also leave you with, perhaps, ten thousand spare,’ said Jonty. ‘Sounds a lot, although that sort of money doesn’t go far these days. But you would own a house outright.’

  Carla’s hand froze on a prawn toast. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s true. I’ve checked all the figures through with Freddy. It would be far better for you in the long run than renting and you certainly won’t get a mortgage being unemployed. The banks aren’t loaning anything at the moment. The good old days of easy lending are well and truly gone.’

  Carla sat in silent shock for a few moments, then rotated her finger in the air.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jonty. Can you run that past me again?’

  ‘In layman’s terms,’ said Jonty in his gruff but patient voice, ‘you took out an insurance policy on Martin’s life, and whoever sold it to you should have had a slap. Had Martin stayed alive until he was sixty-five, the policy would have ended and you’d have got nowt. And you’ve been paying far too much every month for it. Very badly advised. However,’ he paused to make sure she was with him so far, ‘Martin died whilst the policy was still in effect, which means that you are due a cheque for about two hundred thousand pounds.’

  All Carla could manage by way of reply was ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Now, I’m not telling you what to do with that money. What I am saying is that you can rent a house and throw your money away, or you can buy one and have some security. And I happen to have one on my books that is worth a lot more than the price tag says it is. And it will generate a revenue for you as well.’

  Carla was gobsmacked. The thought of her owning a house outright was too much to take in in one single bite.

  ‘And you do know that Jonty isn’t just trying to offload any old house onto you,’ said Theresa.

  ‘Of course I know that, Theresa,’ said Carla with a tut. The thought never even crossed her mind. She trusted Jonty implicitly.

  ‘You must take everything of value out of the house and leave the rest for his wife to sort out.’ Theresa could no longer say Martin’s name.

  ‘eBay is very good for a quick sale of the bigger items,’ put in Jonty.

  Carla gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Have you seen our furniture, Jonty? Who’d buy it?’ She waved her arm towards the sample which the room held. So many things had needed replacing for years: the cheapest-of-the-cheap dining table they were sitting at had been supposed to be a temporary make-do when she moved in; the kitchen dresser was something that Martin had inherited with the house. In the lounge the sofa sagged down in the middle and the TV was so old it had been invented before pixels. And Carla would definitely not be taking her bed with her. That was the first thing she would buy new when she moved.

  ‘Well, before you start your escape plans, I’ll pick you up at eight o’clock sharp in the morning and take you out to Little Kipping to see the house. If you like it, I can draft up a short rental agreement so you can move in whilst the buying procedure gets up and running – a month should do it. I’ll sure I can twist my client’s arm to agree to a peppercorn rent.’

  Carla blinked back the tears which were fast rising to her eyes. What would she have done without Jonty and Theresa’s help? How would she cope when they were living on the other side of the world? Well, she would; she’d have to. She was being forced into a new chapter of her life and she could either kick against it or run with open arms towards it and embrace it. She had to take Pat Morrison’s advice and leave everything behind and move forward. She lifted a spring roll to her lips and felt the spark of an appetite returning.

  Chapter 20

  Even now, after all these years, Shaun still awoke in the middle of the night imagining that he was back in that house, in bed, drawing warmth from a brother or sister – he couldn’t remember which – snuggled up next to him, hearing the battering of someone’s fist on the door outside. Shouting. Footsteps travelling up the bare wooden stairs, the light switching on. He felt the cold as he was ripped from the bed, arms around him that offered no comfort. Behind him he could hear one of his siblings protesting. ‘Let me go.’ The baby crying in the cot.

  His mother swaying. ‘Leave them be, you bastards.’

  ‘You’re drunk, you durty bitch.’

  Neighbours were outside on their steps, alerted by the commotion.

  ‘About time.’

  ‘You should have looked after your children, then they wouldn’t be takin’ them away, you durty whore.’

  ‘Not two of your wee ones has the same father.’

  He was inside a car, being driven away from everything he knew, away from his yellow toy car, his teddy that smelt of tobacco, his books with the big letters. He would end up in a succession of bigger, cleaner foster homes with sober, cold people and then, at ten, a home for unwanted boys in which, so his memories led him to believe, he was constantly fighting. Fighting to get stolen possessions back, fighting against bullies, fighting the priest who battered him with a cane. They threw him out at sixteen without a backward glance and he vowed that he would never again be at the mercy of anyone else. He’d be his own boss, he wouldn’t answer to anyone, he wouldn’t be controlled by anyone or be hit again. He’d survive and he’d work to make sure that he would never have to fight for his food or his safety. Shaun McCarthy never saw his mother or his siblings again.

  Chapter 21

  ‘Well, what do you think from the outside?’

  ‘It’s nice.’ Carla tried to inject some enthusiasm into her voice, even though she wasn’t feeling it.

  Jonty laughed as he reached up to fasten one fallen side of the ‘Dundealin’ sign back onto its hook. ‘It’s the weirdest house I’ve ever tried to sell, but I think it would suit you very well. It’s structurally sound, it’s cheap, and you could get a nice rent from the mini flat. No need to furnish it; let the tenant worry about that. Obviously needs a good clean. And a few a
ir-fresheners to take that not-lived-in smell away. Come on, let’s give it a proper once-over.’

  He opened the door which was placed near one end of the long narrow house.

  ‘Where’s your client live now?’ asked Carla, taking in the snug sitting room which was next to a much-bigger-than-expected kitchen-diner.

  ‘Costa del Sol at the moment.’ Jonty tapped the side of his great nose. ‘Ask no questions. Let’s just refer to him as Mr Pink.’ Three words whispered from one part of Carla’s brain into another: Trust in pink . . .

  ‘He made a right arse of converting it, to be honest, which hasn’t helped him secure a buyer. But, as I say, it is structurally sound. I’ve had an architect pal of mine look at it to check it out.’

  ‘Have a lot of people viewed it?’ asked Carla.

  ‘Hardly anyone,’ replied Jonty. ‘Someone put in a stupid bid and Mr Pink was so insulted by it that he wouldn’t accept their revised offer. I’ll not say what he told me to tell them to do with it.’

  ‘I thought he wanted a quick sale?’

  ‘He does,’ Jonty sighed. ‘He also wants to have his cake and eat it. I’m forbidden from letting Russians view it and anyone from the police or armed forces.’

  Carla’s eyebrows rose. ‘Is that legal?’

  ‘Mine is not to reason why,’ replied Jonty, throwing his arms wide. ‘But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that it does make my job easier if I secure him a sale with a thirtysomething female from the town in return for a stress-free cash sale for his asking price. I can arrange for a rental agreement to be drawn up for your tenant when you find one. I wouldn’t charge you, of course.’

  ‘You’re too kind, Jonty,’ said Carla. ‘I’m going to miss you when you emigrate. I want to get settled in a new place as quickly as possible, then Theresa can stop worrying about me. I don’t want to spoil your excitement.’

  ‘We’re both worrying about you,’ said Jonty, bumping his head on one of the beams in the sitting room. This house with its low ceilings wouldn’t have suited someone of his six-foot-seven height. ‘You could always come with us to New Zealand, Carla.’

  Carla gave her dear friend a fond smile.

  ‘I like the UK, Jonty. I like the history and shopping in Leeds and going down to London and seeing the Queen. I like the seasons. I like battening down the hatches in the winter and watching the snow through the window and moaning about the rubbish summers. New Zealand is your dream – not mine. And I know it’ll be fabulous and I’m very probably mad, but I like living in Yorkshire. I’ll be okay. I’m a big girl.’

  Jonty nodded slowly. ‘Well, the offer remains there. You’ll have to come out for a holiday. Anyway, let’s get back to business.’

  The house was beyond weird. It was a double-fronted build that had been split into two. The bigger half had a downstairs loo and a small cellar below the kitchen/diner which was a generously sized square room. There was a built-in oven, a fridge freezer and a washing machine. Jonty said that the owner was leaving them in. They had all seen better days, but they’d do for a while. In between the kitchen and lounge was a handsome swirl of staircase with a solid mahogany balustrade. The carpet on it was rather worn and a revolting shade of brown, but that was cosmetic and could be changed. Upstairs was a bedroom with a cheap white built-in wardrobe and a bathroom with a burgundy suite like something out of a 1970s MFI catalogue. Next door was a small box-room under the eaves which would be okay for storage but nigh on impossible to use as a spare bedroom. There was a long length of landing and a door at the end which led to the mini flat. This consisted of a bedroom with a small en-suite shower room complete with an avocado toilet and sink. A spiral staircase twirled down to a small sitting room with floor-to-ceiling French doors leading to a small square of private paved garden. There was no separate kitchen: the renter would need to share those facilities with Carla. Dundealin was detached, surrounded by a garden that was in serious need of some TLC. There was an old shabby shed at the bottom of it and two posts with a sagging washing line strung between them. High walls on each side separated it from its neighbours. It seemed the owner – Mr Pink – valued his privacy.

  ‘I think I can get him to stump up half the stamp duty an’ all if you move fast,’ said Jonty. ‘He wants to release his capital as quickly as possible. And then disappear.’

  Carla blew two large cheekfuls of air out. ‘I’ve never owned a house in my life. I can’t imagine even having the amount of money to do it, never mind handing it over to buy one.’

  ‘Personally, Carla, and you know me well enough to know that this isn’t bullshit, I think you’d be mad to turn it down. You can afford the house. My advice would be to buy it. It’s the best investment you’ll make in a lifetime, unless you count over-insuring a feckless husband.’

  ‘I’d own the house outright?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Carla thought about having a lot of money in the bank and all the things she could buy with it. She could go on holiday to the Maldives, buy a whole wardrobe of clothes from Vivien Westwood. A brand new Mercedes. Then Sensible Carla gave her a sharp rap on the side of her head and reminded her that she needed a home.

  Let’s call him Mr Pink.

  ‘Shall I tell him you’re interested?’ asked Jonty, taking out his mobile phone.

  Trust in pink.

  The words bubbled out of Carla. ‘Yes, Jonty. Please.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Jonty began to scroll through his contact page.

  Carla tried to imagine herself living there but couldn’t. She’d thought she and Martin would grow old and grey in his bungalow. She had been happy there, happy as Mrs Pride. At least she had thought she was. She got back into Jonty’s car and prepared herself mentally to start the final separation from that married life that never was.

  Chapter 22

  There was no time like the present. Carla was back home by nine a.m. and, after a fortifying cup of strong coffee, she changed into some tracksuit bottoms and an old T-shirt and said to herself, Let’s get cracking.

  Except she didn’t know where to start. The task in front of her took daunting to another level. She gave herself the hard word. Look, Carla, it’s simple. Divide everything into the stuff you are taking, the stuff you intend to sell on and then you leave the rest for Julie. Okay? Then she clapped her hands and got stuck in.

  She pushed all the furniture in the sitting room to one end, designating an area for things she was going to claim. There were some nice pieces of pottery and ornaments in the cabinet which had belonged to Martin’s parents. She didn’t want them but they might fetch a decent price on eBay and she was going to need all the money she could get. She felt down the sides of her grotty sofa to see if there were any treasures. She found Martin’s old Zippo lighter and 20p amongst a lot of fluff. She turned the metal lighter around in her hand and thought of him puffing the life into a cigarette, sitting in the chair tapping ash into a saucer whilst she scurried around getting his tea on a tray, ready to pamper him after a hard week working away from home. She didn’t know whether to cry or spit and decided she might want to do a mixture of both. What would Julie think of the furniture she was going to leave for her, she wondered? It wasn’t even good enough for a skip. Julie and Martin probably had one of those curving leather suites that seated eight. She pictured him sitting on it, watching a sixty-inch 3D LED TV and drinking a glass of champagne, and a pain cut through her as if Martin had stubbed out one of his cigarettes on her heart.

  Sod what Julie thinks. You can either cry or get on with it, so which is it to be, girl? That voice again.

  Carla used her anger to fuel her strength and pushed the sofa to the end of the room designated for the rubbish. Martin’s tatty reclining chair joined it. So did the chipped and scratched coffee table and all Martin’s videos and DVDs and their cronky old TV set which was two foot deep and all the ancient media equipment and his stack of Which magazines. Then she went into the kitchen to start there.

  Dundealin had an
oven, which was good, because Carla didn’t want to take Martin’s ancient one with her, the oven in which she had cooked his meals. She packed a few plates and pans and utensils to see her on for a bit until she could afford new, because eventually she was going to rid herself of everything Martin had ever touched. She made a note on her hand to ring the scrap man whose number she had torn out of the Chronicle. He would give her peanuts for the metal appliances and the bed frame, she knew, but it was better in her purse than in Julie’s.

  Carla checked every pocket of every garment in Martin’s wardrobe before putting them in bin liners. She found he had the latest iPhone, battery totally flattened, in a pair of trousers. Presumably that was the one on which he used to contact Julie. For a moment she considered charging it up and reading the messages, then countered that by slamming it down hard on the windowsill until it shattered. Then she immediately regretted doing that because maybe it held answers to some of the thousands of questions floating around her head. Still, it was done now and maybe she was better off not knowing.

  She found a roll of twenty-pound notes in the inside pocket of a jacket – over a thousand pounds. Other pockets yielded another two hundred. She’d cried to him the week before he died because she couldn’t get a job and he’d put his arm around her and told her not to worry, that they’d manage. He’d given her a tenner and told her to go and buy them a bottle of wine to have with their dinner. And she’d bought as cheap a one as she could find to give him back some change. Carla wanted to scream. She wished she had checked his pockets when he was alive. But they didn’t have that sort of relationship – she trusted him. She hadn’t seen the slightest sign that he was about to leave her for another woman, especially one that he had impregnated. How stupid she was.

  She emptied his drawers and there, in a sock, she found a long case with the word ‘Cartier’ in sloping letters emblazoned on the lid. She clicked it open to find a gold ladies’ watch, the face ringed with diamonds. Carla’s fingers were trembling as she lifted it out and turned it over to see if it had been engraved: it had. ‘To J with all my love M.’