‘We were broke, Mum,’ Vanessa said. ‘I had to do something.’
‘Yes – gone to him, that’s what he wanted. Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I’d be just as happy if you, Annie, kept your nose out of our business. You’re a different kind of person and what works for you doesn’t work for us. And Geoff and Vanessa have got children, something you wouldn’t be in a position to understand.’
‘I understand that you’re condoning your son-in-law beating up your daughter,’ Annie returned.
‘I won’t stay to bandy words with you,’ the older woman said, picking up her handbag. ‘I deserve an apology. I come here to be with my daughter in a crisis and this is the treatment I get – thank you very much, Vanessa.’ Angrily she said from the doorway, ‘I expect you’ll want to explain this to me tomorrow, Vanessa.’
After the door had closed Annie said, ‘I’m sorry. So sorry. I just got so angry. It’s so unjust.’
‘She’s always been like that. Everything for my brother – us girls came last. That’s how Cherry’s bringing up her boys, too.’
‘I’ll have to apologise. I won’t mean it. How are you?’
‘In pain,’ Vanessa said. ‘And three words have been running through my brain, all this time – love, money and revenge.’ She sat up and the improvised ice-bag fell on to the carpet. ‘I’ve been dragging my heels about all these improvements, I know, Annie. But I’ve been pushed around by Geoff Doyle in front of my kids because he wants a divorce and I’ve had enough. You know the barber next door is giving up his lease because of the rent rises? I’m wondering if we should take it. My dad might back me. We could expand.’ She paused and said doubtfully, ‘Am I barmy, Annie? Is it the shock?’
Annie, thinking, shook her head.
Melanie, excited, said, ‘Go for it. Go on, Annie.’
Vanessa, speaking stiffly through a bruised lip, managed to catch her father having a nightcap with the landlord of his local. He said, slowly, ‘Get your friend to work out some figures, go to a bank. Take advice. If the bank thinks it can help, I’ll consider it. Not a word to your mum, though. Take care, Van. Don’t let him in again, love, because next time it’ll have to be the law.’
That evening the Arcadia restaurant, Foxwell Market, was born.
9
The Birth of the Arcadia
‘I’m working for yuppies,’ said the gloomy Arnold from his usual corner. ‘That’s what it is.’ It was a hot afternoon in June. The door of the snack bar was open.
Madame Katarina, sitting at his table drinking a cup of tea and eating a pastry, said severely, ‘You’re working – that’s the main thing.’
From next door to George’s came the sound of hammering, as the old barber’s shop became the Arcadia restaurant. Some deplored the elderly barber’s retirement; others, especially local black men, were glad to see the back of the old reactionary who’d say offensively of their hair, ‘Sorry, you can’t expect me to cut that,’ if they happened to stray in.
‘Say what you like,’ Arnold confided to Madame Katarina, ‘he was one of the old school.’
Making one of her very rare personal observations, Madame Katarina replied, ‘Yes. I remember that old school – from before the war. Without the old school, I wouldn’t be here.’
‘There’s the builder’s van, Arnold,’ said Annie, who was standing at the door. ‘It’s probably brought that wood you ordered.’
Arnold got up and went into the street.
‘So you’re calling the restaurant the Arcadia?’
‘We ought to name it P. J. Shaw’s,’ Annie smiled ruefully. ‘That’s who it belongs to – the bank manager.’
Madame Katarina smiled back. ‘It should be successful.’
‘Is that your professional opinion?’
‘I never give that.’
‘I’m tempted to ask for a consultation,’ Annie told her. The opening of the restaurant had been postponed for two weeks. It still wasn’t ready. The cook, a young woman called Abigail Green, who was assisted by her cousin Annabelle, was protesting about Annie’s and Vanessa’s resistance to the nouvelle cuisine approach. By now they would almost have been glad if she’d left, but with the overdraft for the renovations running at £200 a week and the rent for the space at £100 a week being paid out of the café profits, both Annie and Vanessa needed the security of knowing the cook was in place, even if she was on a retainer she hadn’t yet earned.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Madame Katarina.
Annie sighed.
Madame Katarina said, ‘I’ll tell you this – when you need to worry, I’ll warn you.’
‘Thanks,’ Annie said in a discouraged voice.
Melanie came in with two friends, and sat down. ‘Can we have a Coke, Annie,’ she said. ‘That Arnold told us to clear out. Only Justin’s there. It’s not fair. He always makes us girls go away when he’s there. And we’re just as good as Justin. Better – we even sweep up.’
Annie felt very tired. Excited into rage by Geoff Doyle’s attack on Vanessa, and her own disillusionment with Julian, the idea of scooping up the barber’s shop next door to the café had greatly appealed. But three months, a bank loan and plumbers, electricians and carpenters later, she and Vanessa were tired and very nervous.
Annie handed out the Cokes and looked up from the counter to see Jasmine walk in with Tom.
‘Hallo, Annie,’ called Jasmine from the door. Annie didn’t often meet her sister in London. Jasmine was wearing kid shoes, a dress of very fine cotton and a string of pearls. As usual she was tanned. ‘We came to see the restaurant. Thought you were open. Grotty round here, isn’t it? Do you think anyone’s going to want to come here?’
‘You picked up a lot of upper class rudeness when you got married, Jas,’ said the tired Annie.
‘That’s what I keep on telling her,’ Tom said. ‘Can I help, Annie? What can I do?’
‘Get a drinks licence from the council, fix the air-conditioning, try and get the cook to stop acting like a débutante who’s helping a friend cook luncheons for City chaps. Oh – and bring down the base rate on bank loans—’
‘I’ll try the air-conditioning.’ Tom turned as if to leave the café. ‘OK if I sleep on the sofa tonight? I haven’t got anywhere to stay.’
Jasmine gave Annie a long look.
‘Where’s he been?’ Annie asked when Tom was safely next door.
‘He’s been starting up his workshop in the country, apparently. He rang up to get your address. I was coming up anyway, so I offered him a lift.’
Jasmine looked round the café suspiciously. ‘Cup of tea?’ offered Annie. A big man in workman’s overalls came in and went to the counter. ‘Tea, sausage, egg and chips,’ he said.
‘Right,’ said Annie. ‘I can’t stop, Jasmine, I’m afraid. Where are you staying?’ She ducked into the kitchen.
‘The mews, of course,’ called Jasmine.
‘Not Bedford Square?’
‘No – we prefer our own home.’
‘Pardon me,’ Annie said.
‘I know you think this is all a joke,’ said Jasmine making no attempt to lower her voice, ‘but it’s not. Do you know why I’m here? To see the specialist about why I can’t have a baby. Mary had a tactful word with me. I had to come. To see a Harley Street gynaecologist.’
The workman, sitting to one side of the café, looked surprised.
Annie, turning sausages, called back, ‘Don’t shout, Jas. People are trying to eat in here.’
Mrs Patel, who had caught the exchange coming in, turned from the counter and said to Jasmine, ‘Don’t worry. You’re very young. My sister waited ten years for her baby son. Then she had five more, in six years.’
‘Oh,’ said Jasmine nonplussed. ‘Is there something you want? I’ll get it.’
‘I will have two teas, with sugar, to take away,’ Mrs Patel said. Jasmine went behind the counter and got the containers. As she poured tea from the giant teapot Annie emerged from the kitchen and said, ‘Don’t do
that, Jasmine. You’re not insured.’ She carried the loaded plate over to her customer and took his order for a cup of tea.
Arnold came in, hammer in hand. ‘I’ve sent that Justin down to casualty,’ he reported. ‘He dropped a big piece of four by two on his foot. I’ve got to say he’s useless.’
‘I told you,’ Melanie looked up from her conversation. ‘We all did. You’re sexist.’
‘Good,’ Arnold said viciously. ‘That’s just how I like it.’ He went out again. Annie pushed past Jasmine to get Mrs Patel her teas.
‘You’re ratty,’ Jasmine said.
‘So would you be.’
‘I suggest,’ Madame Katarina said to Jasmine across the café, ‘a consultation. I can use my crystal ball, or read your palm, or the cards.’
‘Here?’ asked Jasmine, startled.
‘Madame Katarina’s a clairvoyant,’ explained Annie. ‘And very successful. She works upstairs.’
‘I’m on,’ said Jasmine and followed Madame Katarina out of the café.
The phone rang with a sandwich order which Annie recorded. With her fingers crossed she then took a reservation for the new restaurant for the following week. She asked Melanie to go down to Mr Punjani’s and ask if he could come to the café with a telephone answering machine. Tom came in for the phone number of the man who’d fixed the air-conditioning. He needed a spare part, and thought the other man might have one. She thought of cleaning the kitchen cupboards and sat down at a table. The phone rang again. Annie got up and answered it. It was Geoff Doyle, asking for Vanessa. He’d phoned her several times over the last fortnight, ostensibly to discuss the divorce, but Vanessa thought it was to find out about the Arcadia. ‘Now, if you need any help with the builders, Annie …’ he offered cordially, as if their last meeting had been a friendly one. Annie thanked him, though more afraid of his insincere goodwill than his open enmity.
Twenty minutes later Jasmine came in beaming. ‘She told me some amazing things about myself. And she wouldn’t take a penny for it. She told me things I’ve never told anybody. And she says I’ll have two boys and a girl, the girl next year. She can see twins somewhere, too, but she’s not sure they’d be mine. They might belong to someone close. That could be you, Annie, so watch out.’ She looked round. ‘I’ll have a cup of tea. Is it all right not to be insured if it’s for me?’ She sat down with the tea. ‘I popped next door just now. It’s going to look very nice. Tom says he’s got a couple of blue and white vases you could put on shelves in that alcove. He can do the shelves himself. He says don’t worry – it won’t look like a cosy tea-room. Nice of him, isn’t it, when he’s so busy? He’s got no money at all. He couldn’t afford the workshop but he got a – what is it? – government …?’
‘Enterprise allowance.’
‘That’s right. It’s wonderful of them, isn’t it, to give this help to people setting up their own businesses? Did you get one?’
‘It’s only forty pounds a week,’ Annie said.
‘Oh,’ Jasmine seemed shocked. ‘My goodness, that’s not much.’ She looked round. ‘Juliet’s wondering why you don’t go and get another sort of job. She gave me this, by the way.’ Jasmine opened her bag and gave Annie an invitation to a private view of their mother’s paintings in three months’ time, at a West End gallery. ‘This place is a bit off the beaten track, isn’t it?’ Jasmine went on. ‘Do you think it’s going to work?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Annie. ‘If it doesn’t, we’ll be really in the cart. We’ll probably go bankrupt. Vanessa’ll go back to copy-typing and I don’t know what I’ll do.’
Jasmine looked at her anxiously. Annie looked anxiously back, asking, ‘Are you really worried about not having a baby?’
Jasmine replied stoutly, ‘No. I’m not. Well, only when they worry. I’m only twenty-six.’
‘What are you bothered about, then?’ asked Annie. ‘There’s something on your mind, I can tell.’
‘I don’t know what it is. I wake up nearly every morning feeling – I don’t know – as if this was the day when I had to take an exam or face something horrible that had happened, like when Granny died. You know what I mean, don’t you? But there isn’t anything. I told Juliet and Howard and they said I ought to get something to do, become a brain surgeon or paint a picture, I suppose. But you know me, I’m a birdbrain, and in any case I’m Nigel’s wife. What I have to do is different – entertaining, and going with him to places, that sort of thing. I found that difficult at first, but now I’m OK. Of course, when I told Mary she was very nice, but that was when she thought of my coming to the specialist, to see about having a baby. But is a baby the answer? I know it’s spoilt …’ she said, her voice trailing off as she glanced round the café and at two black teenagers who were peering through the doorway.
‘Came to ask if there was any work going next door,’ one said.
‘I don’t think so. Let’s go and see,’ Annie said. ‘Coming, Jas? Melanie, can you keep an eye on things?’
In the Arcadia Arnold was screwing panels into the wall. A man looked up from the floor and said with emphasis, ‘Lady – if anyone walks on these tiles I have to start again for the second time. I’ll be here for a week at this rate. Normally the tiling’s got to come last, not during.’
There was a whirring noise and cold air began to flood the room. ‘Got it!’ cried Tom.
‘I don’t like the noise,’ said Annie.
‘Get an orchestra,’ he told her, nettled.
‘Arnold!’ called Annie. ‘Any jobs going round here?’
Arnold turned round and looked angrily at the young men. ‘There isn’t room in here to swing a cat. See for yourself.’ It was true that with the stacked planking, Arnold on his ladder, the tiles on the floor and Tom in the kitchen at the back, the Arcadia already looked overcrowded. It was only sixteen feet long and twelve feet wide in the first place with a step making a platform area at the kitchen end to give the appearance of more size.
The young men looked cynically at Arnold, then Annie, and left.
A delivery man in a blue uniform appeared round the door. ‘This the Arcadia? Tables and chairs outside.’
‘I said Thursday,’ Annie said. ‘Not today. You’ll have to take them back.’
‘Can’t do that.’
‘You’ll have to,’ Annie told him. ‘You can see for yourself there’s no room in here.’
‘Well, we can’t take them back. Sorry, lady—’
‘Take them back,’ interrupted Jasmine. ‘This is your mistake, not this lady’s. She is not accepting the delivery and she will not sign the receipt.’ Something in Jasmine’s tone spoke of country houses, influential menfolk and solicitors’ letters.
The delivery man retreated.
‘Insolent man,’ remarked Jasmine as the van started up.
‘Hand it to you, Jas,’ Tom said, ‘you’ve acquired the voice of those who can genuinely get a chap transported to Australia for the rest of his life. Why don’t we all go off for a drink?’
‘Arnold, can you close up here?’ Annie asked. ‘See you tomorrow,’ she said to the tiler. She opened the door at George’s. ‘Can you shut the café, Melanie?’ she asked.
At the Duke of Westminster they were playing ‘Walk on By’, sung by Dionne Warwick. It changed to ‘My Way’ as they sat down. Tom got some drinks.
‘God, you look tired, Annie,’ Jasmine remarked. ‘Where’s Vanessa?’
‘She collapsed. I made her go and see the bank manager on the grounds that she had to learn what money was about. I told her if I got run over by a bus she wouldn’t be able to understand what was going on. So when the day came for another chat with Mr Shaw, explaining further delay over the opening of the Arcadia, I said that this time I’d do the sandwich orders and she could stop acting like a child bride. So she departed, dressed for a wedding, and eventually had the bank manager eating out of her hand, as they say. He pressed money on her, and she came back to the café in tight shoes, and began to scream and shou
t about the chip fryer not being properly clean and we had a tearing row in front of the customers. So she took the day off. Unfortunately she’s gone to see her mother, with the children, and that always upsets her—’
She broke off, looked at Tom’s calm face, Jasmine’s concerned expression. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘It’s chaos. I’m doing the wrong thing—’
‘No, Annie,’ protested Jasmine. ‘If it’s what you want …’
Annie sighed. ‘I’m not sure – not at all. But I suppose we’re enjoying ourselves in a peculiar way.’
Jasmine was laughing. ‘It’s so unlike you, Annie.’ She quickly swallowed the remains of her white wine. ‘I must go – I’ve got to meet Nigel and catch the eight forty-five.’ She stood up. ‘If you want any help, ask me. Do you want me to ask Nigel if he’ll put some money in?’
Annie shook her head. ‘Too dicey. You’d get the blame if we failed.’
‘Will they ring me a taxi? I don’t fancy this area,’ Jasmine said.
‘Get a bus, Jasmine. It’s broad daylight,’ advised Tom. Jasmine went out in her high heels.
‘She looks the most obvious candidate for mugging in broad daylight I’ve seen for a long time,’ Annie remarked disconcertedly.
‘She’s planning an affair,’ Tom told her.
‘Oh, God – who with?’
‘Nobody special. I was a candidate—’ Annie’s mouth opened. ‘Don’t think badly of her. You might say it wasn’t personal,’ he explained. ‘She’s been nowhere near that gynaecologist. You see, she’s pretty sure she’s not infertile. She got pregnant when she was fifteen and had an abortion. But she snooped around and found out that in the course of Nigel’s vivid life before he married her there was never a baby, or the hint of one. So to cut out the complications and save face for him, because she feels he’d hate to be the infertile one of the pair – Nigel hates a low score on anything – cricket, income, sperm, you name it – Jas evidently thinks it’s best to take the law into her own hands. Thus the search for a healthy white male donor. She thought of me first on the grounds that she knows me and trusts me not to blab, and as we’re cousins, any baby she had, even if it didn’t resemble Nigel a lot, for obvious reasons, would be more likely to resemble her, or some authenticated member of our family. No unexplained bright red hair or hereditary webbed feet. She’s thought it through.’
In Search of Love, Money & Revenge Page 14