by H. Y. Hanna
“Well, it must be something—it’s making the most incredible noise,” said my mother.
“Er…” I looked wildly around. Every eye in the tearoom was still on me. “It’s… um… it’s an electric toothbrush! Yes, it’s the new electric toothbrush I bought.”
“Oh, really?” My mother looked excited. “Helen Green was just telling me that she’s invested in a new electric toothbrush. She purchased the latest Braun model and she says it’s marvellous—but yours sounds so much more powerful. What brand is it? Can I see—” She reached for my handbag.
“NO!” I snatched the bag out of her reach. “Er… no, Mother… you won’t like it. I promise. It’s… er… it’s very poor quality. In fact, I’m thinking of taking it back for a refund.” My fingers finally found the switch and the buzzing ceased. I sagged with relief as silence descended in the tearoom once more.
“Did that shop sell toothbrushes as well?” said Ethel, looking puzzled. “I thought—”
“So! Would you like to have some tea? Mother? Mabel? Glenda? Florence? Ethel? There are still some scones left and Dora made a delicious carrot cake today—”
“I’d love to, darling, but I really must dash. I’m meeting Helen at Debenhams for late-night shopping. The mid-season sale is on at the moment and apparently they have a new range of bamboo placemats. Shall I get you a set?”
“No, thanks, Mother, but you have a great time with Aunt Helen!”
I hustled her to the front door and waved her off. As I was about to turn and go back into the tearoom, however, I saw a sleek black Jaguar pull up at the curb. My heart skipped a beat as a handsome, dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes stepped out of the car.
“Devlin!” I said, breaking into a smile. “What are you doing here?”
He came up the path to the tearoom door and bent to give me a kiss. “Well, I finished work early and had a brainwave. I looked online and found a last-minute deal for a romantic weekend in the Cotswolds: two nights in a historic inn in Burford, luxurious room with four-poster bed and claw-foot bath, cosy open fire and gourmet dining…” He leaned towards me, his blue eyes twinkling. “And now I just need to find someone to enjoy all of that with.”
I looked at him in delight. “Really? We’re going away? When?”
He swept a hand towards his car. “Right now, Miss Rose. Go and grab your things, and we’ll be on our way.”
“Now? But the tearoom—”
“We can take care of the tearoom, dear.”
I turned to see that the Old Biddies had come out of the tearoom as well and were hovering behind me.
“You go with your young man and enjoy yourself,” said Mabel. “We can look after the tearoom with Cassie—don’t you worry.”
“Yes, you deserve to have some time off after working so hard recently,” said Glenda.
“Make sure you eat well! You’re getting too thin,” said Florence, clucking her tongue.
“And don’t forget the Randy Rabbit!” piped up Ethel.
“The Randy what?” said Devlin, puzzled.
“Never mind!” I said, my face red. Turning back to the Old Biddies, I said: “Er… well, thank you, that would be amazing. Oh! Wait, what about Muesli—”
“I’m sure Cassie can look after her for two nights,” said Mabel, waving a hand. “She’s done it before and Muesli loves staying with her.”
Glenda had disappeared into the tearoom and she reappeared now with my coat and handbag, which she thrust at me. “Off you go, dear.”
A few minutes later, I found myself in Devlin’s car, still in a slight daze as we drove away from the tearoom. As we crossed the little bridge which led out of Meadowford, however, I sat upright and said:
“Wait—Devlin, I need to go home and pack some things. I haven’t got any clothes for the weekend!”
He gave me a wicked grin. “I wouldn’t worry—you won’t be wearing much for most of the time.”
I blushed and laughed. “No, I’m serious… I need to pack a few things. I have to have clean underwear. And I need my creams and things. I promise I’ll be really quick.”
He sighed and swung the car in the direction of Oxford, muttering, “Women…”
When we got to my cottage, I left Devlin waiting in the car outside while I ran in to pack an overnight bag. Grabbing things at random from my chest of drawers, I stuffed them into a small holdall, together with some toiletries. However, as I was lugging the bag down the stairs, I happened to glance at the dining table, where a package that had come in the mail yesterday was still sitting, waiting for me to open it. I paused and picked it up, staring at the logo of the online pet store, then—making an impulsive decision—I took the package out with me to the car.
“Did you say we’re going to Burford?” I asked Devlin when I got in the car again.
“Yes, why?”
“Do you mind if we stop somewhere in the village, before we go to the inn? I’ll be really quick,” I said hurriedly as he rolled his eyes. “There’s just something I need to do and if I don’t, it’ll be on my mind all weekend.”
Forty minutes later, Devlin sat waiting with long-suffering patience in the car again as I walked down a lane lined on either side with charming Cotswolds-stone cottages. I wasn’t sure of the number, only of the proximity to the village church, but I hoped that there would be a local “Old Biddy” to help me. And sure enough, I soon met a white-haired old lady who knew everyone in the village (and what they’d had for breakfast, lunch, and tea as well), who happily directed me to the correct cottage.
As I approached the door, a grey tabby cat emerged from the shadows and strolled down the path to greet me, and I smiled as I bent to pat Muesli’s lookalike.
“Miaow!”
“Hello, Misty… I hope your owner is home?”
As if in answer to my question, the front door to the cottage opened and a woman stuck her head out, calling:
“Mis-ty! Mis—oh!” She stopped as she saw me.
I straightened and gave her a tentative smile.
“Hi Cheryl…” I took a deep breath, then said in a rush: “Um… I just wanted to apologise again… about the… I should have asked you directly, instead of going behind your back… It was wrong of me to accuse you like that…” I fumbled with the package in my hands and thrust it at her. “Um… anyway… I just wanted to say I’m sorry, again…. And also to give you this. I saw it online and… er… I thought you might find it useful for Misty.”
She took the package from me and slowly unwrapped it, then stared at the picture on the box.
“It’s a GPS cat-tracking collar,” I explained. “It links to an app on your phone, so you’ll be able to track where Misty is wherever she goes.”
Cheryl looked up, her expression surprised and touched. “Thank you. It’s… it’s really thoughtful of you.” She hesitated, then said: “I really appreciate you coming out to see me. And you don’t need to apologise—I’ve been thinking about things and I can see why you might have suspected me. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that. I suppose I was hurt, more than anything else. I thought we were friends—”
“We are,” I said quickly. “I mean, we can still be friends… if you like?”
She smiled. “I’d like that very much.”
EPILOGUE
The following Monday morning, happy and relaxed after a lovely weekend with Devlin, I felt much more ready to face my appointment with Grace Lamont. I had actually thought, after my insolent comments at lunch the other day, that the magazine editor would no longer want to feature me in her publication, so I’d been surprised when I received a text from her secretary on Sunday evening reminding me of the appointment. I’d almost been tempted to cancel—that lunch with her had left a sour taste in my mouth—but I decided that it would be silly to let my personal feelings interfere with good promotion for my business. The Society Madam magazine was widely read and could generate the kind of PR that would help make my tearoom a household name. Well, at least i
n certain upper-middle-class households, I thought with a wry smile.
The magazine headquarters were housed in the upper levels of a beautiful Neo-Jacobean building overlooking the High Street in central Oxford. I parked my bike, chained it to a nearby railing, and climbed the stairs to the second storey. Stepping into the editorial office was like stepping back in time, with chintz-covered sofas and lace curtains dominating the reception room. A girl was at the computer behind the desk, sitting so straight and erect that I wondered if a steel rod had been surgically grafted to her spine. She glanced up as I entered and said, in a well-modulated voice:
“May I help you?”
“Yes, I’ve got an appointment with Ms Lamont at ten o’clock.”
“Ah yes… you must be Miss Rose. Please have a seat and I’ll let Ms Lamont know that you’re here.” She rose gracefully and sashayed down the corridor, returning a few minutes later with the formidable editor of Society Madam herself.
Grace Lamont was dressed in pearls and twinset today, with her steely-grey hair pulled back in an elegant chignon and a pair of silver-wired spectacles perched on her nose. “Ah, Gemma… good to find someone of the younger generation who takes punctuality seriously. Now, tea or coffee?”
“Tea would be great, thanks.”
A few minutes later, I found myself perched nervously on the edge of a chair in her office, trying to emulate the receptionist’s rigid posture while also balancing a porcelain cup and saucer on my knee. I was also desperately trying to remember the etiquette with regards to holding a teacup. Should you curl your little finger as you sipped your tea? Or was that very bad form? I never even thought about such things normally but being in Grace Lamont’s presence was enough to make you paranoid about every move and gesture.
I lifted the cup, twitched my little finger out experimentally, then hastily tucked it back in as I caught Grace frowning at me. To cover up for my faux pas, I said at random:
“Um… this is lovely tea.”
“Lapsang Souchong,” said Grace. “I’m surprised you don’t recognise the unique smoky flavour.”
“Oh… er… yes, I did. I just meant that this is a particularly nice blend.”
“Hmm…” Grace lowered her cup and eyed me speculatively. I tried not to squirm under her gaze. She picked up her handbag and placed it on her desk, then fished a fountain pen out of its depths and held it poised over an open notebook.
“Now, your mother tells me that you were originally working in a corporate job in the Antipodes?”
“Yes, in Sydney. I’d been out there for eight years—straight after graduating from Oxford, actually.”
“And what made you decide to return to England?”
“Well, I suppose I was feeling homesick… and I’d always had a dream of opening a quaint little tearoom.”
“And how long have you been in business now?”
“Just over a year. But we’ve grown heaps in that time,” I added proudly. “We’ve even recently been mentioned in some guidebooks as a ‘must-visit’ attraction for the Oxford area.”
Grace Lamont didn’t look impressed. “What makes your tearoom different from the many others in the Cotswolds?”
“Oh… er… well, I suppose we try very hard to provide a genuinely traditional English tea experience. All our tea is served in fine bone china, our cakes and buns are made by hand, according to authentic local recipes, and we only serve British baking. Even our finger sandwiches only contain traditional fillings, such as cucumber and butter, and egg and cress—and our smoked salmon finger sandwiches are always served open-faced, with dill and crème fraîche on pumpernickel bread, just like in the old-fashioned recipe.”
“Hmm…” said Grace again, carefully writing in her notebook in what looked like copperplate calligraphy. Finally, she looked up and said: “I am pleased that someone of your generation is taking an interest in our classic British traditions and, in the face of culinary invasions from Europe and even the Far East, attempting to foster continued appreciation of our national cuisine. I had hoped to write an article to that effect, featuring your tearoom as a leader in this important campaign. However, simply providing food and drink is not enough—the correct methods of serving and presentation are also of vital importance. It is the essence of what it means to be British.” She leaned forwards and regarded me sternly. “I am concerned that you might not be completely au fait with the correct etiquette for afternoon tea, Miss Rose. For instance, I noticed that you stirred your tea clockwise just now.”
I looked guiltily down at my teacup. “Oh… um… was I supposed to stir it anti-clockwise?”
“Certainly not!” snapped Grace. “Correct etiquette dictates that tea should only be stirred in a back-and-forth motion, from the twelve-o’clock to the six o’clock position. Similarly, I hope you never pour milk into the cup before the tea. It is tea first. Always.” She rose and came around to the front of her desk, leaning on it and crossing her arms as she looked down at me. “I presume you are aware of the correct manner of serving tea in a group?”
“Er…” Bloody hell. This is worse than being back at college, bring grilled for an exam! I hazarded a wild guess. “Um… you serve the person next to you first?”
“Only if they are the most senior person in the room. Tea should always be served in order of seniority and status. And I hope you never lay the empty teacups out in rows and pour into them in bulk?” she added, glowering at me.
“Oh… um… never,” I said, having no idea what she was talking about.
She nodded. “Good. Tea should always be served individually, with each cup filled and handed out one at a time. It might save time to fill them all at once but that is the lazy way… not the British way.”
“Er… right… Of course.”
“Now, scones…” Grace gestured to the platter heaped high with golden-brown scones, which had been placed at the front of her desk, within easy reach of both of us. I had taken one, as directed, but hadn’t dared eat it yet, and now I was glad that I’d waited as I watched Grace expertly twist her scone so that it broke into two halves and then apply a precise dab of jam and clotted cream to each surface. I watched in awe as she lifted the plate and brought one of the halves to her mouth, delicately taking a bite without spilling a single crumb.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to follow suit, but my scone refused to cooperate. It crumbled into several pieces at the first touch and sagged under the weight of the huge dollop of jam I’d hastily heaped on top. Grace frowned as she eyed the mountain of cream and jam wobbling on my scone and made a clucking sound as I leaned down to cram the piece into my mouth.
“Ladies do not lean down to eat their food. You bring the portion to your mouth, not the other way around,” she said, compressing her lips into a thin line.
Hastily, I straightened up again, losing hold of the scone in the process so that it fell with a splat onto my plate, sending bright-red jam in every direction.
Bugger! Bugger! Bugger!
I looked furtively at Grace and was relieved to see that she had been too busy walking back around her desk to see my mishap. As she pulled her handbag towards her and began rummaging inside, I dabbed my napkin on the spilled jam as surreptitiously as I could. Thankfully, I was wearing a patterned sweater in a mix of autumnal colours and the red smears on my clothes blended easily out of sight.
Grace extracted her leather-bound diary from the bag and looked at me. “Now… I wonder if you have any professional photographs of your tearoom that we might use with the article? If not, I can send my photographer over to you. In fact, that might be the best plan as I will need a portrait shot of you as well.”
She eyed me critically over the tops of her spectacles. “I must insist, however, that you wear a dress on the day of the shoot, as well as stockings and high heels, please. No bare legs. And definitely no jeans.” She shuddered. “The readers of Society Madam are accustomed to certain standards and we cannot have our featured personalities letting
the side down.” She flipped through the pages of her diary. “The article will be in next month’s issue and we will need the photographs ideally by next week. Which day would suit?”
I was really beginning to regret agreeing to this interview. This photo-shoot she was proposing sounded tortuous. I wondered if there was any way I could back out now. To stall for time, I lifted my teacup and pretended to take a long sip.
“Miss Rose?”
I started to swallow and reply, then froze and stared as a tiny furry face with beady black eyes popped out suddenly from the top of Grace Lamont’s handbag.
It was the mouse!
I gasped and choked, spilling tea out of my cup and dribbling it down my chin.
“Miss Rose!” Grace looked at me in horror.
“Sorry, sorry…” I gulped, grabbing the linen napkin from my lap to wipe my chin. “It was… um… hot,” I said lamely.
“One never slurps, no matter how hot the contents of the cup, and one certainly never spills tea in such an uncouth manner!” said Grace, bristling with outrage. She came back round to the front of the desk and leaned on it, crossing her arms like a schoolmistress while she regarded me with a disdainful gaze. “Mishaps do happen, of course, but even when they do, it is important to react with grace and poise. A simple apology or request to excuse yourself is…”
I nodded, barely listening as her voice went over my head. My eyes were glued to the mouse, which had climbed out of Grace’s handbag, on the desk behind her back. It was now perched precariously on one of the gold buckles around the handles. So this is where it had disappeared to! No wonder Cassie and I couldn’t find it in our potted palm at the tearoom—I remembered the way Grace had bumped into the palm and how her handbag had become entangled in its long fronds. The mouse must have grabbed the chance to dive into her bag and hide there, hitching a ride out of my tearoom (and away from Muesli’s claws!).