The Teashop on the Corner

by Milly Johnson

  ‘Dead people?’ echoed Mr Singh, wiping cake crumbs from his beard.

  ‘Oh fiddle . . .’ Molly puffed out her cheeks. Harvey really had put her in an intolerable situation.

  ‘This stays in this room and goes no further.’ Molly waited for everyone to nod in agreement before she started.

  ‘When my sister started nursing in her teens, she used to see people sitting at the sides of patients in their beds at all times of day and night and, though she presumed they were visitors at first, she couldn’t help feeling there was something different about them,’ she began to explain under duress. ‘They brought a prickle of electricity into the air, she said. It didn’t take her long to realise that she was the only person who saw them. When she reported them to the sister for being present after visiting hours, the sister thought she’d gone loopy because she couldn’t see what Margaret saw, so Margaret learned to keep her mouth shut and hoped whatever was causing these visions would go away. All the patients the visitors stayed with died very soon afterwards. The only possible conclusion was that they were people who had already passed, who had been close to the patients and had come to take them on – to the next place. Margaret never mentioned it to anyone outside the family. She is a private and down-to-earth woman and it upset her for many years, until she learned to live with it. There, now you know.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Carla. ‘What a gift.’

  ‘It was a long time before she recognised that it was a gift. She could give the patients with the visitors at their side the sort of end-of-life care they needed and a little bit more of her time. It was hard for her to see medical staff battling to keep them alive when she knew it was useless and yet her nursing background compelled her to try also. There was never an instance where a patient with one of those visitors didn’t die. You can’t beat death.’

  ‘Nope,’ said Harvey. ‘But you can give him a good run for his money.’ And he lifted the last piece of his cake to his mouth.

  ‘But, please will you forget what I’ve just told you all?’ asked Molly. ‘I would feel very disloyal if she ever found out I’d told anyone.’

  ‘It’s forgotten, Molly,’ said Carla, wondering if someone had been hanging around the garage on the day that Martin had his heart attack, and who would be most likely to come for him. His mother, she supposed. Horrible, great nasty lump of a woman. Maybe, when she came down to the garage, she tripped and sat on him and that’s why he went so fast. A giggle bubbled up in her throat and she coughed it down. What the hell was the matter with her?

  Molly felt Harvey’s large warm hand fall over her own.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘It was out before I could stop it.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t suppose it matters,’ sighed Molly, turning to Mr Singh. ‘Maybe you knew my sister, Mr Singh. Margaret Brandywine. She was a matron before she retired. At the Northern General Hospital in Sheffield.’

  Mr Singh raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, I did know her. Very efficient nurse.’

  ‘Of course Margaret is much larger,’ put in Harvey. ‘More your Peggy Mount type of figure to Molly’s Pat Coombs.’

  ‘No one knows who they are, you old fool,’ said Molly.

  ‘Oh, I do,’ called Leni.

  ‘Me too,’ added Carla. ‘I remember watching an old film with my nan and it had Peggy Mount in it. All about ladies who cleaned and started dealing in stocks. Lovely story. I can’t remember the name of it.’

  ‘Ladies who Do,’ Mr Singh chirped.

  ‘Dear God, you have an amazing memory, Pavitar,’ said Harvey, giving him a round of applause.

  ‘Well, we’ve gone from vampires to Peggy Mount today,’ smiled Leni. ‘That’s quite an achievement.’

  ‘I think I’d rather come across a vampire than Peggy Mount,’ said Harvey. ‘And Peggy Mount rather than Margaret Brandywine.’

  ‘Wonderful nurse,’ mused Mr Singh. ‘I would never have known she had seen such visions.’

  ‘Surely you don’t believe she did, Pavitar, being a man of science?’ asked Harvey.

  ‘Maybe once upon a time,’ said Mr Singh. ‘But now . . . I want to believe.’ He hoped when his time came that his beloved Nanak would be sitting beside him, waiting for him to join her. Margaret Brandywine’s story had given him hope that she would be.

  *

  Will saw Carla’s Mini edge out of the car park and instinctively lifted his hand to wave, but he was too far away to be seen. He enjoyed her company so much. He thought he had been through a lot, but she had lost far more than he had. At least he had some closure. He could wave goodbye to everything he had and walk forwards with all ends tied, but her brain must be full of questions, teeming like impatient eels. That was some mental torture to find her life torn to bits behind her back. At least his had been shredded in front of his face.

  He was painting the walls of the smallest unit in the square – a relaxing job, easy on the brain. He was savouring the headrest: no scrabbling together of figures for bankers, juggling accounts to make sure his workers were paid, lobbying debtors for payment. There was none of that as his brush glided up and down the wall as he clocked up another hour’s pay.

  He had replayed his fish and chip evening with Carla a few times now. He didn’t think he would ever find any humour in his situation, but telling his story to Carla he’d had an actual stitch in his side from laughing at Barnaby Whitlaw’s aubergine face as he’d stood in Nicole’s bedroom doorway trying to play the hard man. And Penelope telling him to shoo. And he had to admit that his chest had puffed up a little when he’d told Carla what he had said to Nicole to make her give him his family’s jewellery back, and Carla had made the comment: ‘Bloody good for you.’

  He knew he could be loud sometimes and hoped he hadn’t overstepped the mark laughing at Carla’s narrative of the events of her husband’s funeral. Maybe in the cold light of day, she would regret telling him. He hoped not. That laugh they had shared had done his spirit wonders.

  Shaun wasn’t smiling today, though. Someone had been to view this unit with the prospect of renting it and rejected it for being too small. That was the fourth or fifth knock-back he’d had on this space.

  Will carried on painting until the sun dropped low into the sky, mellowing into a large orange blur, the colour of a marigold. It was the sight of it that planted the seed of the idea into his head.

  Chapter 61

  Molly pushed the front door open and retrieved all the post jammed behind it: junk mail mostly, she was sick of it. A bank statement and a postcard with various scenes of Dubrovnik on the front of it.

  Dear Molly. What a wonderful time we have had. We really did wish you were here and you will be because we will have to bring you next time. Remember, we will be home on the 7th, about 3 p.m. We have both missed you, darling. Love Margaret and Bernard XXX

  The seventh – twelve days away. What was Margaret going to say when she saw who was sharing her house? And why.

  Molly reminded herself that she was sixty-eight years old and not sixteen. Margaret had always looked after her though, taken the lead, made sure she was all right. But she wasn’t a bully. Margaret only ever had her best interests at heart and she was compassionate and kind. Except where Harvey Hoyland is concerned, a snipey voice in her head whispered.

  And what would Sherry and Graham say? Graham had never liked Harvey. He had been a boy of fourteen when Molly met Harvey. Secretly, and very unfairly, she had hoped that his hostility to her new husband was rooted in jealousy that Molly was sharing her love with someone else, which must mean he wanted it for himself. But, deep down, she knew that was a hope too far. Graham didn’t like Harvey because Harvey wouldn’t let him get away with cheeking his mother, emotionally blackmailing money out of her and disrespecting her. Graham repaid Harvey’s defence of his mother by flushing his treasured goldfish down the toilet. He denied it, but the fish didn’t sink and its poor pitiful dead body floated in the pan as indisputable evidence.

  Molly thought back
to that horrible day the month before Graham’s eighteenth birthday when Harvey had found the fish in the toilet pan. She had never seen Harvey’s temper unleashed before then. She’d had to hold him back from doing God knows what to her son. His eyes were mad white balls of fury, leaking tears at the corner as he screamed at Graham. Get out of this house before I do the same to you, you evil little bastard. Graham had smirked and walked slowly out as if daring Harvey to come at him. Graham was six foot two and wide as a door then; Harvey was an inch smaller and more than twice his age, but if he had got to him, he would have torn Graham to pieces. But Graham was smug in the knowledge that his mother would never let that happen.

  That was the last time her son and Harvey had seen each other. Three weeks later Harvey was gone, and Joyce Ogley the barmaid from the White Lion had taken off with him. Graham paid her a visit that day and, though she knew he couldn’t be anything other than glad that Harvey had left, he hadn’t lectured her, but instead he had put arms around his mother and comforted her until she cried herself to sleep. It was when she awoke that she discovered that Harvey had stolen from her as well. Graham had seemed genuinely disgusted that Harvey could have walked out with her jewellery – presents from the Brandywines, her sister, the wedding ring that she had taken from her finger. He knew what those things meant to her. It was the only time Molly could remember her son giving her any unsolicited affection.

  She watched Harvey walk across to the armchair he had claimed as his own. His back was stooped today, she noted, as if his spine had curved by degrees during the night. He flopped down and closed his eyes as he rested his head against the chair back.

  She’d expected him to go for everything he could get out of her in the divorce. A man who could steal from his wife would do that. He could have forced her to sell Willowfell and claimed half of it, but he hadn’t asked for a penny via his solicitor. That had always surprised her.

  ‘Who do you reckon will be sitting here releasing prickles of electricity into the air when it’s my turn to go?’ he asked Molly.

  ‘Don’t talk like that,’ snapped Molly.

  ‘The devil himself, I think,’ smiled Harvey, not moving his head nor opening his eyes.

  ‘Yes, well, you’re probably right. Can I get you a tea?’

  ‘I’m not a bad man, Molly. Just a weak one.’

  ‘Are you telling me that you want a weak tea or are you saying you’re a weak man?’

  ‘I’m a weak man who likes strong tea,’ said Harvey, drowsiness creeping into his tone. ‘I never loved Joyce, you know. I only wanted . . .’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Molly, taking a stride towards the kitchen before he said any more.

  ‘Molly, don’t.’ Harvey’s eyes sprang open and he sat forwards, wincing as he did so as if in some pain. ‘I want to say this and make sure you hear it. And believe it. You were the only woman I ever loved. I know you didn’t love me the same, but I hoped you would learn to. If I could have had any wish granted, it would have been that you loved me as I loved you.’

  His voice was soft and heartbreakingly tender and landed with laser precision in the middle of Molly’s heart.

  ‘I did love you,’ she replied softly, blinking madly to stop the tears coming. ‘Don’t ever think I didn’t love you. You broke my heart when you left. It was still breaking when you arrived back at my door.’

  Harvey shifted forwards. ‘What was it then, Molly? Why wouldn’t you let me hold you? Why were you so warm out of bed and so cold in it? I wanted to touch you. I wanted us to have a real marriage. You wouldn’t talk to me.’

  You wouldn’t talk to him. For the whole of your marriage you rejected him, Molly Jones. He was starving for your love. He went with Joyce to make you sit up and notice, you always knew that, Molly, didn’t you? Molly didn’t like the voice that she had stuffed down hard inside her finding its way out. She had loved Harvey Hoyland with her whole being and that, ironically, was why she couldn’t talk to him.

  ‘There’s more to marriage than sex,’ she snapped defensively.

  ‘I know,’ he nodded slowly. ‘Anyway, you don’t have to worry that I’m here for any belated conjugal rights. I can barely raise a smile on the tablets I’m taking, never mind raise the Titanic.’ He looked at her tenderly with eyes that once made Paul Newman’s look dull. ‘I just wanted you to know that there was no one to compare with you, Molly. You were – are – the sweetest, kindest, loveliest girl a man could ever meet and I wish we could have made it work. If I had my time to live over, I’d have stayed with you, sex or no sex.’

  Molly took a breath. ‘I’ll put the kettle on, although you’ll be asleep by the time it’s boiled, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  She saw his head give a slow nod of disappointment. She still wouldn’t talk to him, she knew that’s what he was thinking. Time was running out. Molly stood by the slow-boiling kettle and knew she shouldn’t leave it like this.

  Chapter 62

  Theresa called in to Dundealin after giving her last lesson, curious to see what it looked like now that Carla had had a little time to settle into it.

  ‘My, my, my – I can’t believe how different it looks.’ Theresa turned a full circle in the lounge and beamed proudly. There were pictures hanging on the walls now, stylish black and white prints of Parisian scenes, and a cosy red rug in front of the sofa.

  ‘Cat Rescue charity shop purchases, except for that Home Sweet Home sign,’ said Carla. ‘It’s amazing what bargains you can find when you’re being frugal. When I can afford it, I’m going to get a decorator in to paint every wall in the house white. It’ll look so much nicer then.’ Maybe she should ask Will, she suddenly thought. He could do with the money as much as she could do with the emulsion.

  ‘No luck with a job yet, darling?’ Theresa gave her a sympathetic rub on the shoulder.

  ‘Well, I’ll do what I have to until something permanent comes along. Data entry, cleaning, whatever. I’ll take what I can. Hopefully a good job will come up soon. Someone must want an assistant florist.’

  ‘Of course they will, very soon, I can feel it in my waters. I think you’re doing marvellously,’ said Theresa, walking towards the kitchen. ‘The house feels cosy, and you say that your lodger is okay?’

  ‘He’s very nice,’ smiled Carla. ‘I’m comfortable with him around.’

  ‘What’s his history, then? Why is he renting the flat?’ Theresa pulled out one of the dining chairs and sat down on it.

  ‘He used to be a roofer but his business folded. Wife walked out on him when he lost his money.’

  ‘Money. The root of all sodding evil,’ huffed Theresa. ‘I would like to bet you a pound to a penny – if you’ll excuse the pun – that Martin wouldn’t have hung around that woman if they hadn’t won the bloody lottery.’

  ‘We’ll never know,’ sighed Carla.

  ‘Quite honestly, I don’t know what she saw in him. He was a gloomy tosser. And he’d let himself go. At least when you first got together he was quite a smart fellow, even if he wasn’t exactly David Beckham.’

  Carla snorted with laughter.

  ‘You can be so evil.’

  ‘I’m cross for you,’ said Theresa, nudging a stray red curl back from her face. ‘It was cruel what he did. And how she knowingly put up with him spending the weekend with another woman . . . well I simply can’t work it out.’

  ‘She told me, she enjoyed the break from all the sex,’ said Carla, filling the kettle up with water.

  ‘Wha-at?’ Theresa burst into laughter. ‘I thought you said—’

  ‘I did. We hardly ever.’

  ‘Well, lucky you, that’s all I can say. Who’d want that big sweaty hippo grinding on top of you?’

  Carla could barely fit the kettle back on the charge-point for laughing.

  ‘When he grew that beard he must have thought he was Russell Brand.’

  ‘Stop it, Theresa, I’m getting a stitch.’ Carla was now bent double.

  Theresa looked ov
er at her friend crying with laughter and smiled. At least it was tears of mirth for a change. She hadn’t deserved what she had gone through. She so wished Carla would reconsider coming to New Zealand with them. With any luck she’d meet a fit, tanned Kiwi who would fall in love with her sweet nature and her sultry smoky voice and live happily ever after, just like she and Jonty.

  ‘Anyway, tell me more about this Will.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ replied Carla, wiping her eyes on a square of kitchen roll. She didn’t want to wax lyrical about how well they got on because Theresa would start making ‘ooh’ noises and reading things in their ‘relationship’ that weren’t there. ‘Lucky likes him.’

  ‘Lucky by name and Lucky by nature,’ chuckled Theresa, glancing over at the cat asleep in a bed that hooked over the kitchen radiator. He had one of his front legs extended straight in front of him, Superman-style. He was well and truly at home again in Dundealin. Probably more than he ever had been before.

  ‘The offer still stands. If you want to come with us to New Zealand and start again over there . . .’

  ‘Oh Tez. That’s your dream, not mine.’

  ‘And what is your dream, Carla?’

  ‘I don’t know. I lost any dreams I had along the way somehow. I’d just been plodding on, taking each day as it comes, thinking the earth underneath my feet was solid, like an idiot.’ Carla puffed out her cheeks and let out some sad air.

  ‘I worry about you,’ said Theresa.

  ‘Don’t,’ replied Carla, taking two cups from the draining board. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Have you any money left?’

  ‘Yes, though not enough to do what I want to do with the house. Besides, I’m bored being at home. I like to work, I want to work.’

  They both heard the front door open. Theresa’s eyes opened wide and she whispered, ‘Is that your lodger?’ She was dying to see what he was like.

  Much to Theresa’s delight the door into the kitchen started to open. Then an arm extended through it holding a chocolate Swiss roll in a box.