The Teashop on the Corner

by Milly Johnson

  Carla remembered the box of Thornton’s chocolates and the cookery book he’d bought for her birthday in February, still with the half-price label stuck on the front. The receipt in the sock said that Martin had paid four thousand two hundred pounds for that watch. Carla had to stop herself from launching it at the wall and smashing its smug little glittery face. She’d take it to a dealer and sell it.

  ‘You . . . you . . . bastard,’ Carla growled upwards, but the word wasn’t enough to carry all the hurt and anger she wanted to direct towards him. There wasn’t a word in existence to describe what Martin Pride was. She huffed. That was another thing she’d have to do – change her bank book and passport and Visa and so much other stuff back into her maiden name – her real name – Carla Martelli. She had never minded being a Martelli, but she had enjoyed being a Mrs, a Mrs Pride. And now she was a Miss Martelli again – well, she always had been really. And she had been washing Mr Pride’s grotty pants and cooking Mr Pride’s meals for ten years under the illusion that she had been doing wifely duties.

  She put Martin’s underwear in a separate bin bag. The charity shop might have been able to make use of his suits but no one would want to wear his old XXL Y-fronts or his socks. His bedside cabinet contained nothing of interest: spare pair of glasses, driving licence, passport, a packet of condoms, an ancient wrap of Beecham’s Powders and a toenail clipper. In his best shoe, Carla found another roll of money which she shoved in her pocket. That would buy her some new bedding because she wasn’t going to take her old duvet and pillows and sheets with her. And she couldn’t take the dressing table which she had so lovingly restored because it was too wrapped up with memories of causing his death. Then again, maybe that was a reason to take it. She was so angry. In the cold light of day, she could see so clearly how worn out this house was – not dirty, because Carla couldn’t abide dust or mess – but tired, everything in it in dire need of being replaced. She hadn’t noticed it before, living in such close proximity to it all, but then a huge beam of torchlight, in the form of Martin’s deception, had been shone on her life and she would never see anything the same way again.

  Carla opened up another bin bag. She still had a long way to go. And who knew how many other rolls of money she would find. She would make sure she bought the biggest bottle of bloody champagne out of it to christen her new life.

  Chapter 23

  On the following Tuesday, Carla attended her dentist in Maltstone for her sixth-monthly check-up. She had meant to cancel it but they didn’t have another appointment for six weeks and so she felt that she should go. Luckily she needed no treatment, which was some good news. She’d half expected to be told she needed root canal surgery, five crowns, twelve fillings and some new gums; that seemed to be the way her luck was running.

  The receptionist gave her a funny look when she asked for her record to be changed back to her maiden name when she informed them of Martin’s death. Carla wanted to shout at her, ‘I’m not rejecting his memory, he was married to another bloody woman.’ But she didn’t want to wash her dirty linen in public.

  Carla didn’t want to go home yet and sit in a house which she had already mentally left. This was to be her last full day there. The scrap metal man had been, the charity wagon had picked up Martin’s suits and the house clearance people were coming that afternoon. She had picked up Martin’s ashes at the weekend and resisted the urge to kick the urn around the garden. She would be glad to leave the bungalow, she didn’t want to live in it any more, but if she was totally honest, she didn’t particularly want to live in Dundealin either. She could break out in a cold sweat if she thought about spending all that money on the odd-looking house with the worst internal decor she had ever seen. She took a detour to Little Kipping and sat in the car for a few minutes gazing at her new home. It looked grim and unfamiliar and her heart sank. What the hell have I done? she asked herself. At that moment, staying in her old home and battling it out with Julie for a share of Martin’s estate seemed like the slightly better option, but she rejected it almost at once. She could imagine Julie’s side of the story appearing on the front page of the Daily Trumpet, Carla’s worst nightmare. Nope, her only option was to move into Dundealin, a place that meant nothing to her. Carla felt suddenly adrift; she belonged nowhere, she had nothing, no one. Panic gave all her organs a squeeze simultaneously with its long bony claws.

  Spring Hill was nearby and a cup of coffee in the lovely tearoom was a welcoming thought. She turned into the car park, waiting patiently for a digger to make a three-point turn. To the right, men were working on the unfinished units of the quadrangle. The teashop in the corner looked sweet and inviting with its brightly coloured pots of flowers outside it and hanging baskets. Carla loved to read. Most of the boxes she was taking from the bungalow were full of her books. They had entertained her for many an empty hour but, alas, not this week. She had tried but failed to lose herself in a good story.

  There was a poster in the window informing would-be customers that today was Arthur Conan Doyle Tuesday. The tables in the centre of the shop were empty except for one, occupied by the elderly Asian man she had met the previous week. He nodded a greeting at Carla as she passed him and took a seat.

  Behind the shop counter Leni was wrapping a parcel.

  ‘Good morning,’ she called, her brown eyes smiling as much as the curve of her mouth. ‘The cakes today are Watson white chocolate and Holmes rum truffle. Just call me over when you’re ready to order.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Carla and slipped off her jacket. She picked up the menu then, but her eyes were anywhere but on it. There were some new things in the cabinets: a pretty magnifying glass on a necklace; a spectacle case which looked as if it had been made from one of the old Penguin classic covers; a pack of postcards reproduced to replicate old Victorian cards in their rich, heavy colours; the most darling old-fashioned library kit with a stamp and borrowing cards and pockets to stick in books; and a Home Sweet Home hanging made to look like a classic novel. She noticed that next to that cabinet was a wall full of postcards pinned at random angles. The top right corners had been removed. She guessed that the stamps had been cut off to save for guide dogs, because that’s what Carla did with any stamped mail that she received. Not that she got that much these days that wasn’t franked. She noticed one on the floor and picked it up. It had a picture of a Flamenco dancer on the front and she couldn’t resist a sneaky peek on the back as she went to pin it back up.

  Dear Mum

  So beautiful here. Flooded with sunshine.

  We are all having such a great time.

  Wish you were here.

  Anne XXX

  It must be from the owner’s daughter, thought Carla. She imagined a young student type having a ball in the sun with friends before life got serious. And full of crap.

  There was a pinboard between the front windows with some cards on it – Saturday Girl/Boy wanted, she read. One had a window-cleaning service advertised, another was an offer to clear leaves out from guttering. That reminded her: she had some prepared cards in her bag advertising the Dundealin flat. She was going to call in at Maltstone post office and leave one there and in Morrison’s and Tesco in town. They’d be a lot busier than this place, but the teashop had the advantage of being very close to Little Kipping. She was now the official sitting tenant on a month’s lease but soon to be Dundealin’s owner. The sale was well underway.

  Carla turned her attention to the menu. She’d only intended to have a coffee but the Holmes cake sounded too good to miss. The old guy in the dark-blue turban was eating that, she noticed. He had crumbs on his clipped grey beard.

  ‘Is it nice?’ she asked him.

  ‘Delicious,’ he said with a wide friendly smile. ‘I very much recommend it.’

  ‘Okay, you’ve sold it,’ smiled Carla and waved to Leni.

  ‘I’d like a white filter coffee and a slice of the Holmes cake please.’

  ‘Cream?’

  ‘Oh, why not.
’ It wouldn’t hurt her. She had lost so much weight since Martin died, she could do with putting some on before her skirt fell down in the supermarket and exposed her pants.

  Carla heard her phone beep in her bag. Jonty had chased up the insurance company and was sending news that the monies would be in her bank account within twenty-four hours. She had just finished replying her thanks to him when the cake and coffee arrived.

  ‘I wonder, could I put a card up on your noticeboard?’ asked Carla. ‘What are your rates?’

  ‘A pound a month, payable in advance,’ replied Leni. ‘It goes in a charity tin for guide dogs.’

  ‘Is that where the stamps on your postcards go too?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Leni.

  What a lovely face she has, thought Carla. She wished she had a cute nose like a pixie too. She had her mum’s nose – long, straight and narrow. Still, at least it wasn’t like her old dad’s – a proper Roman nose if ever there was one. She missed them both so much. Her dad had died a year before her wedding and her mum had joined him only a few months ago in November. They would have both been furious on her behalf about what had happened to her.

  Carla reached in her bag for one of her cards and her purse.

  ‘I have a room to rent. It’s near to here.’

  ‘Happy to put it up for you,’ replied the smiley lady. ‘I’ll do it now. You enjoy your coffee and I’ll bring the bill over in a moment.’

  Chapter 24

  Molly was missing Margaret and Bernard terribly and they’d only been gone three days. She’d had a phone call from them that morning from Venice and they sounded as if they were having a wonderful time.

  She took herself off to the teashop on Spring Hill. A poster in the window told her that it was Arthur Conan Doyle day today. Molly was delighted to find the Asian gentleman and the Italian-looking lady there.

  ‘How good to see you again,’ Leni greeted her. She was pinning a card to one of the noticeboards, advertising for a tenant.

  ‘You remembered me?’ asked Molly.

  ‘Indeed I do,’ replied Leni. ‘Tea and scones and you expressed an interest in the Brontë notecard set.’

  ‘Is it a good thing or a bad thing that I’m so memorable?’ replied Molly with a little laugh.

  ‘I would have said nearly always a good thing,’ butted in Mr Singh.

  ‘I love that handbag you’ve got made out of a Hound of the Baskervilles book,’ said Carla.

  ‘You should buy it,’ said Mr Singh. ‘There is ten per cent off today.’

  ‘Mr Singh, are you after a job as a salesman?’ chuckled Leni.

  Mr Singh’s laughter joined hers. ‘I think I would make a very good salesman, Leni,’ he said.

  Molly looked behind her to see which bag Carla meant.

  ‘It’s in this one,’ said Mr Singh, pointing to the cabinet next to the wall of postcards.

  Molly walked across to look at it and decided that would make an even nicer present for her sister than the notecards.

  ‘I bought a bag for my daughter,’ said Mr Singh, drinking the last of his tea. ‘No one will have one quite like it in America. It was a Jane Austen one.’

  ‘I love Jane Austen’s books,’ returned Molly. ‘Persuasion was always my favourite.’

  ‘Ah, with the gallant Captain Wentworth,’ sighed Mr Singh.

  ‘You’ve read it, Mr Singh?’ asked Leni.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied, taking his wallet out of his pocket to settle his bill. ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘I confess, I am, Mr Singh,’ replied Leni.

  ‘I have read all the books by Dickens, Thomas Hardy, the Brontës, Jane Austen and many more. I fell in love with them all when I came over here to live. I have always been a great reader, ever since I was a small boy.’

  ‘Me too,’ nodded Molly. ‘I can never understand people who don’t like books. I derive so much pleasure from them. I can’t tell you how many times I have read Persuasion, yet it remains such a fresh, wonderful story.’

  ‘I agree totally,’ said Carla. ‘Everyone goes mad about Mr Darcy but I always thought Captain Wentworth would have made my heart flutter more.’

  ‘It’s the uniform,’ smiled Molly. ‘All the nice girls love a sailor.’

  ‘Her last novel,’ sighed Mr Singh, standing to go. ‘And her best, I think. The story of a woman who thinks she will never blossom and of the love of her life returning for another chance.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ said Molly, giving her order for a pot of tea and a scone. But unlike Anne Elliott, Molly would never know what that felt like. It was far too late in the day.

  ‘Pavitar Singh,’ he said, holding out his hand to Molly.

  ‘Oh, er, Molly. Molly Jones.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Molly.’ He then held out his hand to Carla.

  ‘Carla Pr . . . sorry, Martelli,’ she said.

  Mr Singh chuckled. ‘How could you forget such a beautiful name?’

  ‘I’m recently . . . divorced. I’m getting used to my maiden name again,’ Carla said.

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ said Mr Singh, his voice now weighted with sympathy. ‘Anyway, I hope I have the pleasure of seeing you ladies again.’ Had he been wearing a hat instead of a turban, he would have tipped it towards them.

  ‘What a gentleman,’ said Carla when he had gone.

  ‘Isn’t he a darling?’ said Leni. ‘Oh and I’m Leni by the way, seeing as it seems to be introductions day.’ She then presented Molly with a giant scone.

  ‘I’ll never eat all this,’ Molly laughed. ‘And if I do, you might have to widen the doorway.’

  Carla thought the older lady could do with a bit of meat on her bones. She was very thin.

  ‘I’ve put a pound on just looking at it,’ she said. ‘But then I have Italian blood. We are very good at putting weight on.’

  ‘I thought you might be,’ said Molly, then added quickly, ‘Oh, Italian, I mean, not good at putting weight on. You have such beautiful colouring.’

  Carla blew out her cheeks bashfully. ‘Black hair shows the grey too quickly.’

  She’s putting herself down, thought Molly, sensing the very attractive woman didn’t have much confidence.

  ‘Have you any ideas what theme you’re going to have next Tuesday?’ asked Carla as Leni brought her bill over.

  ‘I think we’re due a Brontë Tuesday,’ replied Leni with a cheery smile. ‘I’ve got some gorgeous author pendants arriving next week with the sisters’ heads on them. And some shopping bags.’

  ‘Where do you find it all?’ Carla asked. ‘I’ve never seen any of this stuff in shops.’

  ‘Oh everywhere,’ replied Leni, ‘I have to look all over the world. And I send it out all over the world too. The Japanese are mad for the Brontës.’

  ‘Jane Eyre is one of my favourite books too,’ Molly put in, as she buttered her scone.

  Carla tried not to think that she had too much in common with Jane Eyre and Rochester’s wife that he hadn’t divorced. Oh how she wished she could stuff Julie Pride up in an attic. Then again, Martin was becoming less and less of her Mr Rochester with every passing day.

  She checked her watch and realised she had better get home. The house clearance people were coming in just over an hour.

  ‘I’ll love you and leave you,’ she announced, slipping her arms into her jacket. ‘I’m moving house tomorrow morning, so I’m pretty busy.’

  ‘Oh what a task,’ said Molly. ‘I do hope it goes well.’

  ‘Yes, good luck,’ added Leni. ‘Very stressful business. Hope to see you soon.’

  ‘You will,’ said Carla. ‘I’ll be back for my elevenses on Brontë Tuesday.’

  And so will I, thought Molly. Tuesdays were much improved, now that she had discovered this teashop and these nice people and Sherry was overseas in Greece.

  Chapter 25

  ‘You must be Shaun McCarthy. I’m Will Linton,’ Will held out his hand as he introduced himself.

  ‘Linton Ro
ofing?’ Shaun knew the name, vaguely recognised the man in front of him in the smart black trousers and expensive blue shirt, though he was sure he hadn’t spoken to him before. Maybe it was the accent that brought him to mind. He knew Will Linton was from somewhere in the East End of London. He shook his hand.

  ‘Yep,’ said Will, nodding his head. ‘That’s me.’

  ‘I’m so sorry about what happened to your business,’ said Shaun.

  ‘Ah, shit happens, mate,’ said Will, lifting up his hands and his shoulders in a gesture of resignation. ‘But now I need a job. Labouring, anything. I ain’t proud.’

  Shaun shook his head slowly. ‘I’m so sorry, there’s nothing. I’ve just taken a labourer on. I’ve got no jobs. Not at the moment, anyway. Have you tried up at Winterworld?’

  ‘Yeah, they haven’t got anything either.’

  Shaun watched Will Linton’s Adam’s apple rise and drop as he swallowed. He had probably had to gulp a lot of pride down since his business failed.

  ‘Look,’ began Shaun. ‘If you want to leave me your number and if, by any chance, I need an extra pair of hands I’ll ring you and give you the opportunity to say yes. It would be ground work though, not roofing.’

  Perfect.

  ‘Aw that’d be great,’ said Will, reaching in his pocket for a business card. The home number on it had been scribbled out leaving only the mobile. Not much point in anyone ringing the house phone when it had been cut off.

  ‘I’ll get some new business cards eventually,’ said Will, with a small self-conscious laugh. ‘When I get a business. And a house. Thanks, mate. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘It might only be a couple of days here and there,’ Shaun called after him.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ Will replied. ‘I’ll take anything.’

  Will went back to his van and checked his phone and wished he hadn’t. Nicole had texted to say she had filed for divorce and would he please send the signed papers back as soon as they arrived. He tried to form a polite reply but the words wouldn’t come. After three deleted drafts he put his key in the ignition, turned it, then twisted it back to off again.