“Too little, too late,” he muttered grumpily.
The contractors were obviously keen to continue the destruction they must have begun sometime over the weekend so the respite was brief. When the maddening noise recommenced he knew it was high time to get out of the studio.
He spun on one heel away from the window and marched across the airy light-filled room to pick up a large, flat, plain-paper wrapped package that had been propped against the kitchen counter which took up space on the opposite wall where wide windows overlooked a number of pocket-handkerchief- sized private brick-walled gardens, one of which belonged to the studio. Just managing to tuck the cumbersome parcel under one long arm, he headed swiftly downstairs, grabbing a bright yellow brolly from the large blue and white ceramic urn by the front entry before opening the door to the deafening din outside. The morning air was still, grey and cold but he knew from bitter experience that it didn’t do to trust the weather in London, whatever the season, unless you enjoyed the prospect of an unexpected dowsing.
Once outside he crossed to the far side of the road after circumnavigating the contractors who were now breaking up the pavement in front of the next-door neighbour’s doorway and set off along the footpath towards Campden Hill Road. The majority of commuters had already left for work but one or two late-starters were still to be seen. Watching a man, nattily dressed in a businessman’s regulation dark-suit-and-tie ensemble, briefcase-in-hand and countenance frowning with all the worries of the new working-week scurrying round the corner in the direction of the tube station, Hamish was thankful that his success as a painter meant he no longer had to join that particular rat race every weekday morning.
Brushing these thoughts aside as he came to the next intersection, Hamish traversed the road, nimbly avoiding a black cab heading in the direction of Kensington High Street and stepped up onto the opposite pavement to push against the solid-looking but timeworn door of a café that was heavily decorated with painted panels and embossed Celtic knot designs. The chips and gouges in the battered black gloss paint around the margins of the door’s brass kick-plate revealed the variegated spectrum of colours that it had sported during its long life. A sign suspended from a wrought-iron crossbar above the doorway proclaimed, in gold-leafed gothic lettering, that this establishment was ‘The Minstrel’, with a painted figure of a lute-player, resplendent in brightly coloured mismatched hose and breeches cavorting below the name for the musically or historically less well-informed, although Hamish strongly suspected that any self-respecting medieval minstrel would not have worn such garish attire. Two small tables draped in pristine red and white linen table cloths and complemented by two-tone woven cane bistro chairs sat between large terracotta pots planted with standardised ball-topiary bay trees positioned on the pavement immediately outside the restaurant. Walking by, Hamish nodded his head and smiled a brief good morning to a coffee-drinking couple seated at one of the tables whom he recognised as regulars.
As the heavy door swung smoothly shut behind him, the distant drilling and traffic noise from the road was instantly muffled to insignificance, to be replaced by the haunting melody of Loreena McKennitt’s The Bonny Swans, the singer retelling an ancient tale of jealousy, murder, deceit, and ultimately, revenge in a tune that was somehow cheery and touchingly sad at the same time. Hamish decided that the folksong drifting from the café’s superior sound system was a huge improvement, despite the tragic lyrics, over the commotion outside. Venturing further in, he noted on the periphery of his vision a woman breakfasting alone at a table set in the front bay window, back-lit by the colourful multi-paned stained glass front windows. She was dressed in iridescent blue velvet, of a shade which combined with the light from the window put him in mind of Millais’s pre-Raphaelite painting of Mariana, although, on a quick closer inspection he had to admit the long-sleeved fitted dress was considerably shorter and combined with patterned tights and knee-high leather boots that spoke more of contemporary fashion trends than anything favoured by the pre-Raphaelite cohort.
The front section of the Minstrel veered towards dim, slightly dingy, and definitely more shabbily comfortable than high-end chic. A motley collection of memorabilia and old stringed instruments hung suspended in the semi-darkness of the high timbered ceiling and rows of colourful coffee pots took up space on narrow shelves along one wall, some sporting dents from years of use and dating from the early years of the café’s existence as a bohemian coffee bar in the 1950’s. Most importantly, to Hamish, was the heavenly aroma of freshly-ground coffee beans wafting in the direction of his nostrils. He sniffed appreciatively, enjoying the complex, mellow scent of the in-house blend which the café’s proprietors roasted on site. The patrons at this time of the day were not exactly ‘morning’ people, Hamish thought wryly, as he wended his way between an eclectic assortment of tables with mismatched chairs from a considerable number of design eras towards a solid timber counter decorated with old tin signs positioned half-way down the narrow room. The atmosphere felt almost library-hushed with the café’s occupants chatting quietly whilst concentrating on their coffees and food or else silently catching up on the latest news in the morning papers or absorbed in reading books and magazines.
“Gidday, Hamish mate. Are y’here for breaky, or just a caffeine hit?” A disembodied voice with strong Australian accents suddenly broke the silence, emanating from somewhere near floor-level behind the counter, the speaker completely hidden from view.
Hamish, startled by the unexpected sound, frowned as he peered towards the direction the voice originated from before remembering that the service lift to the café’s basement storage cellar was set flush in the floor directly behind the bar. The next moment, a blond head atop a tanned face with mischievous blue eyes that looked as if they should belong on a surf board at Bondi beach more than behind a bar in Kensington and Chelsea rose with eerie smoothness above the polished granite surface of the counter top, followed by the broad muscular shoulders and compact torso that belonged to Steve, Hamish’s closest friend and co-owner of the café.
“That just never gets old does it?” Hamish glowered across the counter, setting the umbrella down on its spotless surface while he readjusted his grip on the parcel.
Steve’s cheerful freckled face broke into a wide satisfied grin that put Hamish in mind of the Cheshire cat as he set down a carton of wine on the countertop. “You should’ave seen your face, mate. You looked like you’d heard a ghost!’ He tore open the cardboard carton and started pulling bottles out, laying all but two in wine racks on the wall behind the counter. The last two he placed in a cooler set under a second stainless steel workbench on the rear wall. He straightened then turned back to face Hamish over the countertop. “I was just bringing some bottles up from down under, so to speak. Saw you in Alice’s looking glass,” he pointed to a small convex mirror set unobtrusively on the back wall “Now, you here to eat or are you gonna stand there all morning scaring my customers away? Coffee, croissant, muffin, Danish? Or how ‘bout a cooked breakfast with good old bacon and eggs,” he broke into a sort of soft shoe shuffle while singing, “‘...ya gotta have a good breakfast,’ ...you know how the song goes ...still, maybe I shouldn’t sing it. Its blimin’ sacrilege the way those ad sharks always ruin a perfectly good song.” Hamish knew his friend was referring to a recent TV ad campaign for an over-sugared, colour-added, generically awful breakfast cereal that had butchered the song’s lyrics –Steve was something of an expert on mid to late twentieth century music and it was not the first time Hamish had heard him complaining about the manner in which advertising maltreated music.
“Double espresso and a full cooked breakfast, ‘Mommy dear’,” Hamish ordered, pulling a face while rubbing at his ears as if in pain. “And you are sooo right about the singing. Not so much because it was destroyed by the ad but because babies and little children cry when you sing …I thought I came in here to get away from the din ...but now that I think about it …you make the pneumatic drill outsid
e my place sound good.”
“Ha ha, look who’s talking,” Steve retorted, rising to the bait as he prepped the coffee machine with the practised ease of someone who had done this a thousand times before. “I remember the last time we got you to sing. It only took three double whiskies and some very dodgy cocktails to get you to try out the Karaoke machine….and the results …well all I can say is … don’t give up your day job, mate. Just as well those pretty daubs of yours sell for thousands ‘cause you’d be starving if you had to sing for your supper.”
“Huh. All I have is your word for it ...I don’t remember a thing about that evening …except for a ripper of a headache and a parrot-cage mouth the next morning …for which I place the blame squarely at your door,” Hamish endeavoured to look cross then gave up, his face breaking into a smile. “Who recorded that number, anyway? ...Was it Pink Floyd? Or one of those Aussie bands you’re always harping on about?” Hamish knew that Steve, who spent much of his free time rummaging through endless boxes of dusty old albums in street markets and music stores, would undoubtedly know the answer.
“Shame on you, you ignorant Scot. For your information, it was Super Tramp, Breakfast in America, Nineteen-seventy-nine.” Steve knew music trivia the way football fans knew cup results. “I have that album ...vinyl, mint condition. Sounds as good as the day it came off the press with not a single scratch.” He spoke with evident pride, reminiscing, “and I bought it from a stall on Portobello Road, my first week away from home. I remember the occasion clearly, because I was dirt poor and had to go on very short rations for a week to pay for it ...and the lyrics those miscreants destroyed were asking about having kippers ...in fact it was eating kippers for breakfast –Gross and yuk! As if ...but still, you’d think they could make up their own songs, rather than parasitizing someone else’s, wouldn’t ya?” he pulled a lemon-face before continuing, “And, I might add, as far as I recall, Caruso, you chug-a-lugged those drinks all by yourself …I was just the barman …and if I was a tiny bit heavy handed with the shots …well, I’m pleading the fifth on that ...and Linda likes my singing just fine so you can stick your derogatory comments about my wonderful voice up yer ar...” always aware of his clientele - Steve noticed on the edge of his vision that one of his customers seated at the table nearest the counter, a rather prim looking elderly lady, had lowered her book and was regarding him with a steely gaze, “...that’d be, ...um, ar...jersey,” now his accent was pure ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’. “Ar, top o’ the mornin’ to you Miss Prendergast, lovely day isn’t it?” he finished, somewhat lamely, smiling charmingly towards the woman, who evidently satisfied, nodded and returned a more approving smile before returning to her book.
“Now as for you, you reprobate …” he turned back to Hamish, grimacing when Hamish pulled out his wallet to pay, “crikey, put that away, it’s on the house …go find yourself a seat in the back where you won’t upset the paying patrons … and I’ll bring your breaky to you.” He pushed the completed coffee across the counter towards Hamish then tossed a folded newspaper in his direction, which Hamish caught with his free hand. “We opened the new addition on the weekend and there’s no-one down there right now, so you can have it all to yourself.”
“Righto Cap’n Sparrow, whate’er you say,” Hamish replied. He couldn’t resist adding, “you are without a doubt the worst pirate I’ve ever heard of.” Tucking the newspaper between the parcel and his arm Hamish hooked a finger through the loop at the tip of the umbrella’s handle before collecting his precious coffee. As he moved away from the counter he heard Steve’s expected rejoinder behind his back, “But you have heard of me!” and smiled broadly as he walked through a narrow arched opening at the far end of the bar where two shallow steps led down to the rear section of the cafe. Part of a recent remodel of the building, the additional space provided the café with greater capacity and a more upmarket restaurant area without compromising the original café space…to Hamish’s left, plush leather-covered bench seating and a narrow bleached oak banqueting table decorated with old silver candelabra stretched the length of the room, teamed with gothic-inspired but contemporarily designed high-backed metal chairs. The opposite side of the room contained half a dozen round white marble tables, coupled with elderly and slightly sagging, though immensely comfortable, cane chairs loosely grouped near a pretty art nouveau fireplace, where a fire was merrily ablaze. Tall glazed doors with equally tall side-windows allowed fine weather access to an intimate courtyard garden at the rear of the café and teamed with a skylight running the full length of the ceiling made this area a light-filled contrast to the duskier front room.
Taking advantage of the absence of customers, Hamish moved a small ceramic jug full of pretty autumn flowers and leaves aside and placed the package with care on an adjacent table, the umbrella beside it, before sinking into the cushions of a chair closest to the fireplace. He stretched out his long legs towards the warmth of the gas-fuelled flames and sat relaxed, his arms hanging limply, draped over the chair rests with the newspaper held lifelessly in one fist, preferring to watch a flock of sparrows squabbling for seed at the bird table hanging from a crab apple tree in the courtyard than concentrate on the news of the day.
Before long Steve arrived with the food for Hamish ... and another plate for himself. Plonking his backside down in the seat opposite Hamish, he said, “Thought you might like some company after all. It’s pretty quiet this morning ...and Linda’s in the kitchen if anyone needs anything urgently.” Steve, and his wife Linda, had been stalwart friends these past months, supportive when needed, yet laid-back enough not to crowd Hamish with unwanted sympathy and attention. Eschewing unnecessary conversation the two friends ate and drank in peaceful silence, enjoying the unruly antics of the birds outside.
“Like what you’ve done with the place.” Hamish said at last, putting his knife and fork down on the now empty plate and waving his hand to include both the light-filled room and the outer courtyard.
“Well, if it is, it’s thanks to you mate.” Steve replied. “Half the ideas for the renovations were yours.” He grinned across the table at Hamish. “You should see the back wall and the garden at night with all the lights on....it's brilliant. Want to join us for dinner tonight and you can see for yourself? The kids were saying on the weekend that Uncle Hamish hadn’t been round for ages …you’ve been away practically every weekend for the last three months …so, how is the house hunt going, anyway?” he enquired. “Found anything yet?”
Hamish dealt with the questions in the order they’d been asked. “Thanks for the dinner invite. I’d like to join you but I’ve got a thing on at Rosetta’s gallery tonight that I have to put in an appearance for. I could probably make it by around seven thirty if that’s OK?” Before moving to the next topic of house hunting he glanced down at his watch.
“Arghh ...speaking of time, I’ve got to get going. I’ll fill you in on the other stuff tonight. I promised Rosetta that I’d have this to her first thing, and she’ll have my proverbials if I don’t get a move on. Thanks for breakfast.” While speaking, Hamish had risen from the table, picked up his package, and was now heading with long strides towards the archway.
“Hey, mate, don’t forget your girly yellow brolly!” Steve tossed the umbrella, which Hamish turned and caught like a bandsman’s staff. “Around seven-thirty will be fine.” Steve spoke louder to Hamish’s fast-retreating back. “I’ll catch ya later ...if you and your proverbials survive Rosetta’s tender ministrations, that is.” This last comment was lost on Hamish, as he had already disappeared up the steps and was half way to the front door. Steve turned back to the table, laughing to himself as he collected the dirty cups and plates, picturing Hamish being reprimanded by the diminutive Rosetta for being tardy. He’d only met her once, but that was more than enough for him to decide that she wouldn’t be the kind of person to mince words if she was upset.
As he turned off Campden Hill Road onto a side street Hamish mulled over the news he’d
intended to tell Steve about the house he had discovered. Ah well, he thought, it wouldn’t hurt to wait a few more hours until this evening before sharing it all with his friends. Perhaps it might be a good idea to let the dust settle in his mind before recounting the story. He walked along on auto-pilot, deep in thought, stepping sideways to avoid a particularly disgusting heap of still-steaming dog excrement, whilst replaying in his mind the interesting day he’d had yesterday.
***
After dragging Hamish around both the predictably banal executive box and the excessively appointed Baronial mansion, Andrew had eventually ‘remembered’ the name of the owner of the house that Hamish had stumbled upon that morning. He’d also reiterated, more times than Hamish cared to count, that it would be of no use whatsoever making contact, as the owner would never sell. Hamish, his patience sorely stretched, withstood another ten minutes of Andrew rabbiting on about the finer points of the ‘properties’ he’d just shown him, before he was able to extricate himself from the agent’s tenacious clutches. Declining Andrew’s offer to make the call on his own mobile, Hamish had raced back to his B & B, precious slip of paper with ‘Miss Isabella Kendal, Rye’ scrawled upon it, safely tucked in his pocket. A little detective work with Directory Services, and he soon had a phone number.
He dialled ... impatiently he counted rings, waiting for an answerphone to cut in, “27, 28, 29...” ...at thirty, disappointed, but determined to try again later, he was about to hang up, when a woman’s voice, crackled with age and short of breath, finally answered. It was Miss Kendal, and she was not at all pleased with the disruption of his call. She had been outside bringing in her washing, she said waspishly, and was not inclined to converse with strangers on the telephone, ...but Hamish, with an unaccustomed eloquence born of desperation, had managed to keep her on the line long enough to explain in some detail why he had called. To his surprise and pleasure, by the end of the conversation he had managed to convince her to allow him to visit to speak to her in person. At least, he thought he had persuaded her ...it wasn’t until later that he wondered if it hadn’t in fact been otherwise. She had, quite suddenly, cut through his impassioned speech and told him to come and see her, right now, that very day, if he was interested in the house. She then provided him with her home address in Rye. Though by now it was late-afternoon, and beginning to get dark and cold outside, Hamish had replied that he’d be there as soon as possible. He put the phone down, thanked his hosts, paid for the call and his stay, and jumped back in his car. It was only after he had already driven some miles that it occurred to Hamish that he hadn’t so much convinced her to see him, as she had ordered him to call on her, rather like the queen summoning an audience.
Flowers in the Morning Page 6