The Tanglewood Tea Shop, page 9
‘I didn’t think she had any.’
‘Exactly,’ came the indecipherable reply.
‘Mum, let her be. She’s having fun.’
‘Fun? Fun! She’s eighty-three! It might kill her.’
‘So? She’ll at least die happy,’ Stevie pointed out.
‘I don’t know why she couldn’t have found someone her own age.’
‘There aren’t many men her own age still alive, Mum. Perhaps she’s in love.’
‘Love? Huh! You would have thought she’d have grown out of all that. Your father and I certainly have.’
‘Too much information,’ Stevie thought, cringing. She spent another few minutes listening to how well Fern and Derrick were doing, and then she said her goodbyes.
An intense feeling of discontent engulfed her as she put down the phone. Here she was, doing what she had always wanted to do (well, almost, she conceded – Peggy’s Tea Shoppe wasn’t exactly a Michelin star restaurant, but at least it was hers), and she still wasn’t happy. She spent every minute of every day working, was miles away from home, and had no social life. Even her nana was getting more action than her, Stevie thought, as she re-read her advert.
Satisfied with the wording, she stuck it on the window, changed the sign from “Closed” to “Open” and prepared to face another day.
A little bit later on that morning, she was bending over, peering into the display cabinet to check everything looked as good as it possibly could, when someone said, ‘I could do that.’
The quivery voice made Stevie jump, and she glared accusingly at the bell above the door. Now and again it failed to ring, and she was convinced it had a mind of its own.
‘Do what, Mrs George?’ Stevie asked, as she placed a teapot on a tray, and selected an English Breakfast tea bag. Mrs George had the same thing every morning, as regular as clockwork.
‘That there job. I could do with a bit of extra cash.’ The old lady hobbled to her favourite table in one of the bay windows and eased herself into a chair. She usually sat facing out, but this time she took a seat which gave her a good view of the shop and Stevie.
Stevie watched as she carefully propped her stick up and stuck her bad leg out in front of her and wondered how to break the news to the old dear.
‘Pah! With your memory? You’d have forgotten the order before you’d got to the counter,’ a voice from the corner said. It belonged to a woman of around eighty-years-old, dressed bizarrely in a flowing multi-coloured skirt, a T-shirt, and a floor length purple cape. She had been in several times and Stevie was beginning to think of her as a regular. ‘Now, I could do it with my eyes shut,’ the woman continued.
Not wanting to offend Mrs George, Stevie said, ‘We could give it a trial run, if you like. How about giving me a hand for an hour after you’ve had your tea?’
‘Oh, no dear, I can’t do Thursdays. I go to the doctors on a Thursday.’
‘Every Thursday?’
‘Mondays are too busy, what with all those people who were ill on the weekend, Tuesday is my Salvation Army day and Wednesday I like to go to my bridge club. I go to the doctors on a Thursday.’
‘I’m surprised you can get an appointment,’ the purple-caped woman piped up. ‘They’re always full when I ring for one.’
‘Oh, I don’t have an appointment,’ Mrs George said, airily. ‘I just like to sit in the waiting room and have a natter. Thank you, dear.’ This last was said to Stevie who had just placed the pot of tea in front of her. ‘And I think I’ll have one of those scones with jam and cream, or maybe a slice of cake. What are those?’ She pointed to a selection of individual tarts in a variety of flavours.
‘Would you like to come up to the counter and choose one?’ Stevie offered.
‘Not with my leg,’ she refused, firmly. ‘I can’t walk far, and I like to rest it as much as possible.’
‘Do you think you’d be up to being on your feet for a few hours every day?’ Stevie asked, gently.
‘I was thinking, I could sit here and shout the orders over to you,’ Mrs George suggested.
‘That’s great,’ Stevie said with a pained smile, ‘but what about serving, or clearing the tables.’
‘You can do that.’ Mrs George nodded to herself, as if the whole thing was a done deal.
‘Actually, Mrs George, I need someone who can run the shop while I’m in the kitchen.’
‘That’s no way to run a business,’ the old woman stated. ‘Lounging around while you get a poor old woman to run about for you.’
‘That’s not what—’
‘Don’t be an idiot, Mary,’ the woman in the corner said. ‘You can’t work here, and that’s final.’
‘Er…’ Stevie said.
‘Keep your nose out of my business, Betty Roberts. Go get your own job,’ Mrs George said.
‘This is my job,’ Betty replied loftily. ‘You’re just too stupid to see it.’
‘Er… ladies…’ Stevie tried to intervene.
Betty got to her feet, and Stevie realised that she was actually quite tall and lanky. She had orange wellies with big yellow flowers on her feet, and a pink beret completed her outfit.
‘Let me know when you want me to start,’ she said to Stevie and swished out of the door, her cape billowing out behind her, reminding Stevie of a geriatric, multi-coloured Batman.
Mrs George had also risen to her feet and was wrestling with her walking stick. ‘I don’t think I’ll be taking the job, after all,’ she called to Stevie from the doorway. ‘I don’t like cats.’
Eh? What was the old dear talking about? What did she mean, cats?
Stevie watched them both as they hurried down the street, not giving Mrs George a hope in hell of catching the sprightlier Betty Roberts, but at least their joint departure had removed the sticky issue of the job.
After thinking for a moment, Stevie removed the advert, added, “Please apply with a CV” and put it back up.
Then she screamed as something soft rubbed against her leg.
It was a little black cat.
At least that explained Mrs George’s parting comment.
‘Where did you come from?’ Stevie asked the feline, bending down to stroke it. ‘You can’t stay here, oh, no you can’t, no matter how cute you are.’
She opened the door, to usher the cat out but instead of leaving, the animal wove a figure of eight around her ankles.
‘Go on, shoo,’ Stevie said, trying to extricate her feet from the determined feline, and hopping on one foot as she tried to avoid stepping on it, and when that didn’t work, she picked it up and popped it on the pavement outside. ‘Be a good kitty and go home. I’ve got nothing for you here.’
The cat ignored her and shot back inside the tea shop. Stevie dashed after the animal, but there was no sign of it. Where did it go?
‘Here kitty, kitty.’ Stevie bent down to peer under the tables.
‘Here’s my CV.’
‘Arrgh!’ Stevie straightened up and banged her head on the underside of a table.
‘Sorry, but the door was open, so I assumed the café was too,’ a female voice said.
‘It is,’ Stevie rubbed her head and took the sheet of paper the woman was holding out. ‘That was quick.’
‘I always carry a few around with me. You never know when a job opportunity will arise. Like today.’ The woman laughed, a little nervously, Stevie thought.
Stevie scanned the CV. Cassandra Curtis, aged thirty-four, was more of an executive type than a waitress, if her employment history was to be believed.
‘All your previous jobs have been in London,’ Stevie noticed. ‘You’ve worked for a couple of big companies.’
‘And you’re wondering why I’m answering a “Help Wanted” ad in a little village in the middle of nowhere, right?’
‘Er… right.’
‘Because my husband and I live here. We both got fed up of the rat race and wanted a simpler way of life. Yeah, we got that all right.’ She sounded sad.
‘I’m sorry?’ It came out more of a question than an expression of sympathy.
‘We simply can’t afford all the repairs to the house and let’s not even begin talking about the outbuildings and the land. You see, we bought a smallholding, with grand ideas of being almost self-sufficient. If we could grow roof slates, I’d be a happy woman.’ Cassandra paused. ‘I know none of my previous jobs qualifies me for this one, but I’m a dab hand at mixing cement, and I’m a quick learner. Please, I need this job.’
Stevie didn’t like seeing anyone beg and the woman seemed nice enough. ‘One month trial?’ she offered.
Cassandra bit her lip and Stevie wondered whether she was going to laugh or cry. ‘You won’t regret it,’ she promised. ‘I scrub up well, honest.’ She gave an apologetic wave at her attire of muddy hiking boots, scruffy old Barbour jacket, and worn jeans. ‘I was off to the Post Office when I saw the advert. Then I was going home to wedge some buckets in the attic.’ She saw Stevie’s puzzled expression. ‘Rain is forecast for later. When do you want me to start?’
‘Oh, um, tomorrow?’
‘Great!’ Cassandra was beaming broadly, and Stevie noticed how pretty she was without the worried expression on her face. ‘Would a white shirt and black trousers be OK?’ the woman asked. ‘I’ve still got most of my old work clothes somewhere.’
‘Perfect. Welcome to Peggy’s.’ Stevie stuck out a hand and the two women shook on the deal.
‘I can’t wait to tell Aiden the good news,’ Cassandra cried as she headed for the door. ‘See you tomorrow, Peggy.’
‘I’m not Peggy,’ Stevie said. ‘My name is Stevie.’
‘Sorry, I just assumed… is it the cat’s name?’
‘What cat?’
Stevie had forgotten all about the little black cat, until she saw where Cassandra was pointing. The cat was perched quite serenely on top of the display cabinet, washing its face.
‘It’s not my cat,’ Stevie objected.
‘It seems to think it is,’ was Cassandra’s parting words as she skipped out of the door.
Stevie took the advert down and marched over to the cat. ‘You can’t be in here,’ she said, scooping the animal off the display cabinet, and making a mental note to disinfect both it and the counters. ‘What will the Health Inspector say?’
The cat meowed and rubbed its face against hers. It was certainly very friendly.
This time, when she put it outside the door, it stayed outside, jumping onto the windowsill and peering into the tea shop. All through the day, Stevie was conscious of those pleading green eyes following her, so it was inevitable the last thing she did before locking up was to pick the little bundle of fur up and take it upstairs to the flat.
‘OK, Peggy, you win,’ Stevie said, thinking the name was as good as any for now. ‘You can stay here for the night, but tomorrow I’m taking you to the vet, and seeing if you belong to anyone.’ Stevie didn’t know much about animals, but she did know that by law all dogs had to be microchipped – maybe cats did too.
Chapter 18
‘No microchip,’ the vet said. ‘But you’ll be pleased to know she’s healthy. About six months old, I’d say. Do you want her spayed?’
‘Do I want her what?’
‘Spayed, neutered. She’s about to come into season any minute, and if you don’t act now you’ll have lots of kittens running around the place.’
‘I don’t want to do anything with her, except to find her owner.’
‘I don’t recognise her and I never forget a face,’ the vet said, tucking a stray strand of hair back into her messy bun. ‘You can put up posters and hope someone gets in touch.’
‘Or?’ Stevie sensed an “or”.
‘Take her to an animal shelter and see if they can rehome her.’
‘What if they can’t?’ Stevie asked, her arms tightening protectively around the cat. Peggy purred loudly.
‘It depends on the shelter. Some will keep her indefinitely, others will…’ The vet thumped her hand on the table, making Stevie jump. Peggy gave a piteous mew.
‘I’ll try the poster route,’ Stevie decided, and took the cat home with her, stopping off at the supermarket on the way to buy food, a couple of bowls, a litter tray, some treats, and the odd toy or two. Not that the cat was staying or anything, but while the animal was under her roof, the least she could do was to look after it properly. She even bought it a little red collar with a bell.
As she put it on the cat, she said, ‘Now I’ll know where you are. No sneaking downstairs. You’re not allowed in the shop or the kitchen,’ she warned. ‘If I catch you in either of those places, I’m taking you to the animal shelter.’
Peggy mewed softly and rolled over onto her back, batting her paws in the air.
The cat was really cute, Stevie acknowledged, and it would be nice to come home to a friendly welcome after a day slaving over a hot oven.
She thought back over the day. Cassandra had arrived promptly at nine, and after being shown how to use the coffee machine (a degree in engineering was needed to make the darned thing work), she set about taking orders and serving them as if she’d been doing it all her life.
Stevie had been so impressed with her that she’d left Cassandra on her own in the front of house after the lunchtime rush and had taken herself off to the kitchen to rustle up tomorrow’s batch of goodies. Which was why she’d had the time to take the cat to the vets this evening.
On the flip side, she now had several hours before bedtime when she had nothing to do. After heating up a tin of soup and eating it, Stevie decided to work on the idea she’d had of offering homemade soup when the weather began to turn. So she popped downstairs, grabbed some ingredients and returned to the flat, where she set about peeling and chopping.
As she worked, she hummed to herself, and every now and again had a one-sided conversation with Peggy.
The cat, for her part, sat and watched her with an inscrutable expression.
Chapter 19
‘I’m all done.’ Cassandra took off her rubber gloves and placed them on the gleaming steel worktop.
‘How about a coffee before you go?’ Stevie asked. ‘I’ll let you have a piece of that marble cake,’ she added, enticingly.
‘Oh, don’t. That damned cake bypasses my stomach and plasters itself all over my behind. Do you realise how much weight I’ve put on since I started working here?’ Cassandra slapped her ample rump. ‘And most of it is because of that marble cake.’
Stevie patted the seat of the chair. ‘Come on, you know you want to.’
‘All right,’ Cassandra sighed, resigned to her fate, ‘but just a normal Nescafe for me, none of that fancy latte stuff with a shot of caramel, or whatever rubbish people stick in their coffees these days. I don’t need the extra calories.’
Stevie laughed. ‘That’s like ordering a burger with extra fries, and a diet Coke.’
Cassandra narrowed her large, dark eyes at her boss. ‘Careful, or I might swap this job for one at McDonald’s.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Stevie handed Cassandra her cup and cut her a slice of cake. ‘Enjoy.’
‘Oh, I intend to,’ Cassandra mumbled, her mouth already full of her first bite of the cake.
Stevie sat down at the small table she’d installed in the kitchen. As much as she could, she tried to separate work life from home life, although that wasn’t so easy, she conceded, when she lived in the same place as she worked. But since she’d taken Cassandra on, she’d developed a routine of preparing everything the afternoon before if the ingredients allowed, so she was able to stack it all in the ovens or the fridge to cook fresh first thing in the morning. While her ovens were busy, she would concentrate on other things, like chopping copious amounts of salad, washing berries and whipping cream, and the smells of cooking would gradually permeate the tea shop, mingling with the aroma of freshly ground coffee. Stevie wished she could bottle that particular mixture of scents – it was mouth-watering.
Seeing Cassandra shovelling marble cake into her mouth, wearing one of the tea shop’s pinnies and with a cloth draped over her shoulder, Stevie found it hard to envisage Cassandra in her old life as a personal assistant to the managing director of an engineering company. She wondered what had happened to the power suits Cassandra once wore: Stevie thought she probably used them to mop the floor, knowing her. There was no doubt Cassandra had gone native when it came to embracing her new lifestyle, although the couple were a long way from becoming self-sufficient. Stevie, selfishly, was glad they weren’t, because otherwise Cassandra wouldn’t be working here and Stevie didn’t know how she’d ever managed without her.
‘How’s the house coming on?’ Stevie asked, when she no longer had to compete for Cassandra’s attention with a slice of cake.
The waitress wiped her mouth on a napkin. ‘I don’t think the roof leaks any more,’ she replied, brightly. Whenever there was even the slightest hint of Welsh drizzle, Cassandra and Aiden had to rush around with assorted buckets and bowls to catch the drips. ‘Do you remember I said I wanted a wet room? Well, I didn’t mean I wanted one in every room in the house,’ she added.
Stevie laughed, imagining her friend’s dilapidated three-bedroomed cottage with a state-of-the-art shower. Hell, the couple barely had hot and cold running water.
‘Actually, it’s becoming quite habitable,’ Cassandra continued. ‘If Aiden manages to finish that commissioned piece he’s been working on for the past one hundred years, then we will be able to afford to buy the new boiler.’
Aiden had found a newly-discovered ability to carve wood, and was busy making interesting woody things to sell to supplement their income. Stevie had bought a couple of large ladles from him, and they hung from hooks behind the counter, ready for when she offered soup for sale.
Cassandra scrunched up her nose. ‘I can’t face another winter here with a fair-weather boiler. And we’ll need proper heating, especially if…’
She trailed off. Stevie knew how much Cassandra wanted a baby, and she and Aiden had been trying since they moved to Tanglewood.
Stevie smiled sympathetically. ‘Your body is probably waiting until you have got that damned house fit for a baby. Unless, of course, you actually want the baby to be born in a barn.’
