The Tea House on Mulberry Street Read online

  Chapter 4

  HENRY BLACKSTAFF’S DILEMMA

  Henry Blackstaff was the next customer in Muldoon’s Tea Rooms that day. He came in just as Brenda was leaving. She did not return his smile. He settled in to his favourite spot by the window and sat down. Daniel was at his side at once. Henry said hello and ordered a full Ulster fry with extra soda bread and a pot of coffee. Daniel was pleased to take down the first decent order of the day. He brought Henry his cutlery and set it down on the table with a showy flourish. An old big-tip gesture from his hotel days at The Imperial.

  Henry pulled a copy of The Guardian from his jacket pocket. He spread the newspaper on the table, and began to read.

  Henry was forty-one and a failed novelist who spent his days sitting behind a large desk in his antique bookshop on Great Victoria Street. He had inherited the shop, his lovely home and a substantial sum of money from his uncle, Bertie Blackstaff. Bertie had made his money building railways in England and when he died without a family of his own, Henry got the lot. He sat in his shop, writing his dreary novels, and selling the occasional book, and living a peaceful life. Then he met Aurora.

  She came into his shop one day, hoping to find a first edition of Jane Eyre, or a signed copy of anything by Charles Dickens, and found Henry instead. It was love at first sight for both of them. Aurora Blackstaff was an institution in her school. All-Girls of course, and only the brightest students were admitted each September. English and Drama were her subjects, had been for twenty years, and she was now Deputy Head Teacher. She had dedicated her life to the abolition of regional accents, and the promotion of classic English Literature of the Nineteenth Century. In her spare time, Aurora formed a literary appreciation society and called it The Brontë Bunch. The members of the society met at Aurora’s house twice a month, when they all squeezed into the sitting-room for a cup of tea and a reading.

  Aurora wore her long blonde hair in a tight bun and swept along the school corridors wearing floral-print dresses. She was forty-five but looked older. Once, she thought she heard the voice of Emily Brontë calling to her when she visited Haworth Parsonage in Yorkshire, with a group of her students, but it might have been only the wind moaning over the moors.

  They had no children. Aurora was too busy for that, and Henry’s days were filled with dreams of a prestigious publishing deal that never came true. Aurora often commented that Henry was not as tall as he used to be, and Henry assumed that this was due to his disappointment in life in general.

  Now Aurora was embarking on her most ambitious plan to date. She was going to have an enormous conservatory built on to the back of the house. She planned to hold the society meetings in it. The Brontë Bunch was growing in popularity. The Irish News wrote an article about the society for their culture section, and in the days that followed, a small mountain of letters dropped through Aurora’s letterbox. There were twenty people in the society already, and another fifty new applications. Aurora sorted through them carefully. She did not want any social climbers or lonely hearts milling around her Victorian mansion on the Malone Road, or eating her iced cakes and cucumber sandwiches.

  Henry Blackstaff did not like the man who came to the house to give them a quotation. He thought that Arnold Smith was oily and brash, and he had a habit of touching things that did not belong to him. Henry remembered that the man had picked up an antique vase and inspected the underside of it, before setting it down again in the wrong place. Henry wanted to ask Arnold Smith to leave the house at once and never come back, but unfortunately Walley Windows and Conservatories of Distinction were the only firm in Belfast who could build the huge conservatory that Aurora wanted. Henry remembered that day in photographic detail. That was the day his whole life changed.

  “I don’t like that man. He’s a greasy little charlatan,” said Henry, when Arnold Smith’s blue Jaguar went silently down the tarmac driveway. “He’ll say anything to get a sale. ‘Are you an actress, Mrs Blackstaff? Your face is so familiar…’ He must think we are idiots!”

  “He is a colourful character, I’ll give you that,” said Aurora. “But one must expect a little drama from these trade types.”

  “When will we know how much they are going to charge for this white elephant? That’s what I want to know. I don’t see why you couldn’t just rent a hall. Or meet in a pub and have a few drinks while you’re at it. That’s what other people do in these situations. In these clubs.”

  “Henry, dear, I cannot hold the meetings in some dim and draughty hall or in a smoke-filled public-house, with drunken males swearing in the background. The atmosphere would be entirely wrong. It is not simply a book club. It is more than that. It is a society.”

  “Oh, pardon me! A society, no less.”

  “Yes, indeed. And a society calls for dignity, Henry dear. A conservatory will be the answer to all our problems. We will have plenty of room to spread out, and you won’t have to run away and hide in that little tea house of yours.”

  “Well, you know I can’t stand them all. Especially Mrs Johnson, trying to look like Queen Victoria with her fingerless gloves and her silly black cloak.”

  “Stop making such a fuss, Henry. Honestly, you are quite obsessed with Mrs Johnson and her darling cloak. That garment is a genuine piece of Victoriana, a family heirloom, if you must know. What a fantastic eccentric she is! We might all attend in costume some day. That is an excellent idea, though I say so myself. Now, be a dear, and brew a pot of tea. I want to read over these brochures before dinner.”

  After dinner, they had a blazing row. That was when Aurora told Henry that most of his beloved garden would have to be removed by the mechanical digger, to make way for the conservatory. He hadn’t realised it was going to be so big.

  “Mr Smith assures me,” said Aurora, “that his company has years of experience in the safe removal of mature trees. Now, won’t that be nice for you? You won’t have to worry about the gardening any more. It’s ruining your posture, if you must know.”

  “But, my greenhouse, Aurora! My little greenhouse! Surely it can stay? It’s full of rare specimens – I’ve all kinds of grafting experiments going on in there –”

  “Oh, Henry! You’re too much! You can’t honestly expect me to read aloud to the society with that decrepit eyesore spoiling the view. Ha, ha! The thought of it!”

  “So that’s it? It’s not even up for discussion? You’re just going to throw my prize plants away?”

  “A few old bits of half-dead twigs? What do you think? I’m doing you a favour, my darling. And by the way, I thought you might like to grow a moustache; it would look so in-period when you’re serving the refreshments.”

  There was nothing Henry could say to that little speech, without using the kind of language that would make Aurora faint.

  Remembering that moment, Henry shook his head. He couldn’t concentrate on his newspaper. Maybe he was a chauvinist, like Aurora said. Maybe it offended him to see his wife make important decisions involving large sums of money.

  He looked up as Penny brought him his breakfast. She was carrying the hot plate carefully, with a clean tea towel. It made him feel guilty, to be waited on by this gentle woman. They’d become good friends in recent months. Penny knew all about The Brontë Bunch, and how much Henry resented it.

  “Will there be anything else, Henry?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “This looks absolutely delicious,” he said, to show his appreciation. The cafe itself has seen better days, he thought, but the food is second-to-none. It was worth the long walk from the Malone Road. “It’s Aurora,” he said, as Penny turned to leave. “Another mad scheme. A very expensive scheme, this time. A conservatory, to be precise. Huge bloody thing. The whole garden will have to be bulldozed. But she won’t listen to me. Oh, no!”

  “You’re a sweet man. You dote on that woman. I’m very jealous, you know.” Penny did not tell Henry what she’d read in a magazine: that buying a conservatory was a sign that a couple needed more space. That
perhaps their home was becoming claustrophobic. Daniel maintained that magazine editors made half of the stuff up as they went along. Penny agreed with him, this time. After all, what could possibly be wrong with a lovely conservatory? Penny would love one, herself.

  Henry was pleased. Penny’s comment made him feel like a romantic fool, a rich husband indulging his pretty wife. That was the line he would take. He would pretend he had changed his mind, and he would tell Aurora to go ahead, and buy the best model on the market. No matter what the cost. Then, when faced with actually writing the cheque, she would hesitate, and worry about spending her life savings. She would announce that the whole project was cancelled and Henry would be gracious and not say ‘I told you so’. And she would adore him again.

  He would make it up with Aurora, he decided, and they would laugh at her silly scheme to build a conservatory. Yes, he thought. By this time tomorrow, she would have abandoned the idea. It was an outrageous extravagance, to spend so much money on what was, after all, a hobby. Uncle Bertie’s monkey-puzzle, and all the other trees, ripped out on a whim? Surely she wouldn’t be able to go through with it?

  Feeling much better, he shook salt and pepper onto his breakfast, and began to eat.

  Chapter 5

  THE SECRET LIFE OF SADIE SMITH

  Unknown to Henry Blackstaff, the long-suffering wife of that greasy conservatory salesman, Arnold Smith, had just come into the shop. Her name was Sadie. Head cook in the Smith household. Chief bottle-washer, solitary carer of Arnold’s bored parents and all-round general martyr.

  After making sure there was no-one she knew in the place, she removed her headscarf and dark glasses, and made her way to the counter. Sadie Smith was on a diet, but Muldoon’s Tea Rooms served the best home-made cheesecake in the city.

  Today, they were serving cherry cheesecake, Sadie’s favourite. There it was, behind the glass. Huge, black cherries on the top, dripping glistening sauce down the sides of a pale, yellow base. Sadie willed Penny or Daniel to hurry up and serve her. They were dithering in the kitchen, and didn’t return to the counter for at least thirty seconds. Sadie was weak with desire by the time she caught their attention. She asked for two slices of cheesecake, fresh cream, two scoops of vanilla ice cream – and a cappuccino, chocolate powder on the top. She whispered her order to Daniel, like a spy revealing national secrets. As Penny heated up the milk at the coffee-machine, Sadie sat with her back towards the other tables and she waited, with her stomach in a knot of anticipation. When the food came she set upon it like a starving woman. Daniel gave her a wink, the old charmer. He knew what she was up to. Starving women on crash diets were very good for business.

  Sadie tried not to think of her husband, Arnold. She was breaking her diet, breaking it spectacularly, and Arnold would be very disappointed with her. But Arnold would never find her here. He would not be seen dead in a place like this. Tucked away in a shadowy corner of this forlorn cafe on Mulberry Street, she could eat these sinful foods in secret and get away with it.

  Sadie had been living on low-calorie soup and undressed salads for two weeks. She was permanently hungry and very irritable. And she had only managed to lose two miserable pounds. The sheer disappointment she felt, when she stepped on the scales, had driven her here today, in fact. Now, every cell in her body relaxed as the hot creamy coffee caressed her lips. As Arnold used to, she thought sadly. A long, long time ago. Before he became obsessed with conservatories and patio doors and burglar-proof locks. Sadie’s dainty lips opened and closed quickly. The cherry cheesecake melted on her tongue and filled her hollow self with culinary joy. She closed her eyes with pleasure when she swallowed the last spoonful, and then heaved a sigh of relief. Her sense of physical satisfaction was absolute.

  Sadie had been on diets for years, and every one of them had been a dismal failure. Her bedside locker was filled with books on nutrition. Her attempts at losing weight followed a familiar pattern. First she bought a diet book. She began the new eating plan on a Monday and followed it religiously for about six days. Then, while doing the shopping on a Saturday afternoon she gave in to her cravings for bacon sandwiches with tomato sauce, and chocolate éclairs filled with fresh cream. She ate all evening and went to bed on Saturday night feeling disgusted with herself. She threw the scales in the bottom of the bathroom cabinet on Sunday morning and tried not to think about her figure for approximately two months. Then she bought another diet book.

  She weighed twelve stone when she was twenty-one. And she weighed twelve stone now that she was forty-one. But she was a tiny woman and Arnold called her his Little Toby Jug. Or his Fat Little Turnip. She did not like to think of that. Or of all the years spent counting calories and stirring fresh fruit into plain yoghurt. She walked everywhere, rushing around the stores with her shopping-bag, but it didn’t help at all. Her legs were rounded and white, the bones well-cushioned with soft flesh. She fretted over what to wear on special occasions. She was always looking for something that would hide her short neck, her large ankles, her square back, her wide hips and her dimpled knees.

  She looked at her watch. Maurice and Daisy had been on their own for two hours. Arnold’s parents lived with them in the bungalow, following a serious operation on Daisy’s knee five years earlier. They would be fidgeting for their lunch. With great reluctance, Sadie gathered up her coat and bag, and hurried to pay the bill. She dropped her receipt into a wastepaper basket on the way to the door. Arnold’s sharp eyes missed nothing. She would buy some flowers on the way home, and say she had gone out to get them for Daisy, to cheer her up following a cold. Her trip to the tea house would be a secret.

  Unfortunately for Sadie, Arnold had a guilty, little secret of his own.

  As she was leaving the shop, Sadie saw her husband’s distinctive Jaguar come gliding up Mulberry Street and she shrank back inside the door. She could not bear to be caught coming out of a cafe. He would know instantly that she had eaten rich food. She peeked out from behind the blind. His spotless car approached at a leisurely pace, glittering in the weak, morning sunlight. He was smiling, and patting the knee of a very thin blonde woman, and saying something intimate to her. Sadie could tell by the way he raised one eyebrow that he was saying something obscene. He took his eyes off the road then, something he never did when Sadie was in the car, and looked hungrily down the front of the woman’s blouse. The woman threw back her head and laughed out loud, showing long, predatory teeth. She reached over to Arnold and straightened his tie and he caught her hand in his greedy fingers and held it to his mouth. As Sadie pressed her round face to the glass in astonishment, Arnold kissed the ring-encrusted hand of his companion as if he were a pantomime prince and she were his Sleeping Beauty. Then, they were turning into Camden Street. And then they were gone.

  Sadie stumbled out of Muldoon’s and stood in the street, looking after them with her mouth wide open, like a landed fish.

  Her husband, Arnold, was a pompous businessman. He sold over-decorated conservatories to the nouveau riche. He was utterly unremarkable-looking, and a tiny bit overweight himself, but he made up for these shortcomings with his overbearing personality. When Arnold was in the room, no-one else could say a word. He had an opinion on everything, and he was always right. It didn’t matter if the subject was world politics, or the general decline in the flavour of mass-produced bread, Arnold was always right.

  But Sadie loved him. She loved the spirit of determination in Arnold. He never gave up. Unlike Sadie and her failed diets, when Arnold decided he was going to sell a conservatory, he kept on going until he had sold it. He had a knack for assessing people, and he would appeal to their vanity, their weaknesses and vulnerabilities. He convinced them that a conservatory was the answer to all their problems, and he got that all-important signature. He was arrogant, but he was effective.

  Sadie forgave his arrogance, and he forgave her disappointing appearance. Their love life was dull and predictable and had produced two sons, now living in Australia. How would sh
e tell them the awful news?

  She waited, desolate, for the bus. When it pulled in at the stop, she accidentally spilled all the coins in her purse into the gutter. She couldn’t even be bothered to pick them all up. She handed a shiny pound coin to the driver. He punched out a ticket. Sadie didn’t say thank you, and neither did the driver. On the way home, she did not allow herself to think about Arnold and his secret love. She did not know what to think. Her brain had turned into a lump of cheese. High-calorie cheese, mature cheddar. She felt foolish and fat and a failure. She got off at her stop, in a daze.

  As she trudged up the avenue, the heavens opened, and she was drenched, along with the bouquet of pink carnations she had managed to buy for Daisy. She’d left her umbrella on the tea-house doorstep, she realised, as the raindrops stung her eyes and ears. She arrived home dripping wet and in despair.

  Chapter 6

  THE STORY OF DANIEL STANLEY

  The day passed in a blur of serving and cleaning and washing-up. At seven o’clock, the cafe became quiet, and Penny and Daniel sat down to their supper, in the kitchen. Needless to say, when Penny put her suggestions to Daniel, he was not impressed.

  He did not think it was a good idea to employ a cleaner and a couple of waitresses and give Penny some time off. Why would she need time off? There were weeks when the takings were down. And that was the great thing about not having any staff: it kept the overheads to a minimum. He patiently went through the familiar arguments for her.

  And then the bombshell: she wanted them to try for a baby before it was too late. He was deeply shocked that she was still harbouring the idea at all. He thought she’d forgotten about all that, thought that they were now very cosy running their own business together.

  He pointed out to her that it would be impossible to run the tea house and take care of a baby, that they could not afford it. And, by not having children, look at all the trouble they were saving themselves: the sleepless nights, the months of teething, the crawling stage when they might put dropped coins and bits of carpet fluff into their mouths and choke until they had to be thumped on the back…