Page 11 of The Little Teashop of Lost and Found
Once I was there, I’d try to trace my real mother. I even took the first step in that direction by ordering a copy of my birth registration document, though I had no idea what kind of information I’d find on it. I’d never bothered before, because since I’d been abandoned there wasn’t going to be any major clue as to who I actually was on it, was there? My parents must have had one, because I’d had a passport for school trips to France and Switzerland, but I’d never seen it.
When I had a rough idea of how much money the insurance wouldbe I spent hours in Edie’s small back office, surfing the internet to see what kind of property I could afford in the Haworth area.
Lola looked too, when she had time, and sent me links to cottages she thought nice and also suggested we meet in Haworth for a couple of days to view anything suitable together.
But actually, you can virtually tour most properties on the internet and … well, something wasstillholding me back from going there. It was a sort of spell, an evil enchantment that I knew would be broken the moment I bought my stake in the village. No frog required.
The birth registration certificate was a brief and not very illuminating document, giving the parish where I was born, which wasn’t a surprise, and my birthday as 2 March, the day I’d been found. I discovered I’d been registered as Alice Oldstone, but although I’d always been Alice, I had no idea where the Oldstone came from, unless it was the name of the person who found me, or something like that. It wasn’t my social worker, because she signed the certificate as Janine Parker. I supposesomeonehad to.
Alice Oldstone … It sounded quiteCold Comfort Farm, unlike Alice Rose, which I’d always felt was a bit Victorian miss.
They say good things come in threes and following hard on the heels of the insurance money came number two: an offer from a large and well-established publisher for my next full-length novel, and they also wanted to do a deal for my self-published e-book novel and the two novellas.
After all those years of submitting adult horror fairy tales and being rejected, now they were actually askingme! I thought about it and felt it might work to my advantage. Also, I rather liked the idea of print books that I could hold in my hands.
But I really needed the guidance of an agent and I’d been firmly rejected by a few of those in the past, too. Then I remembered that I’d once actuallymetone.
I didn’t just read horror, supernatural and fairy stories; I liked a bit of historical romance, too, especially by my favourite author, Eleri Groves.Just before I moved up to Scotland I’d been lucky enough to win the prize of an afternoon tea with her at Framling’s Famous Tearoom in London, along with two other fans. I’d travelled up from Cornwall by train, feeling very nervous, but Eleri was a lovely, friendly and interesting person, and it had all been great fun.
I’d also looked forward to seeing the swish Framling’s Tearoom, and it had certainly been quite an experience. Everything had seemed to sparkle: the light bounced off the pristine white tablecloths, the rose-pink china and the silvery teapots. And the food was wonderful, especially the cakes, although I was alittlecritical of the Battenburg. It should have been soft squares of vanilla yellow and pale pink, wrapped in a good layer of marzipan, not a garish chequerboard of primrose and cerise, the squares stuck together with thick red jam and then the whole wrapped in marzipan so thin you couldn’t taste it. Mine was definitely better.
Also at the tea had been Eleri’s agent, Senga McWhirter – a name so odd that it had stuck in my head – so I thought I’d try her first, reminding her that we’d once met. The slight connectionseemedlike a good omen and I was always keen on signs and portents. She’d had a liltingly familiar Scottish accent that had made me feel relaxed in her company, but she struck me as a tough cookie under her soft baby-blue cashmere twinset, which I suspected was exactly what you needed in a literary agent.
I contacted her via her website and within hours she rang me and talked at length in that persuasive voice. She wanted me to go down and see her until I explained the circumstances … and then somehow it appeared that I’d agreed terms with her and she was to send me a contract to sign in the post.
In return, I was to email her all my published backlist e-books and my new novel as soon as I’d finished it.
‘What’s it about?’ she asked, obviously assuming I was in the middle of writing it.
‘About?’ I repeated blankly. ‘I … well, it’s about Sleeping Beauty – when she wakes up, her bower’s been transported to the middle of a run-down housing estate and she mistakes one of the locals for her prince,’ I gabbled.
Now, where the hell didthatidea come from?
‘Wonderful,’ she enthused. ‘I’ll look forward to reading that very soon.’
I realized I’d sold my agent a fairy tale, so now I’d have to put my money where my mouth was and write it!
Once business matters had been settled to her satisfaction, we chatted a little about the time we met, and Eleri Groves’ amazing Brontë find: the previous year she’d discovered a formerly unknown mention of Charlotte Brontë in the diary of a school friend, revealing she’d frequently walked out on to the moors in the hope of seeing a certain farmer, who inspired her to create Mr Rochester. Eleri, when researching the novel she’d based on this, met and married a descendant of that farmer and settled there, near Haworth. It had been in all the papers around the time of the book launch, which was held at the farm’s teashop.
‘It’s quite a coincidence, because I’m hoping to move to Haworth myself soon,’ I told Senga.
‘Great idea! I sometimes travel up to see Eleri and I’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone,’ she enthused. ‘She’s holding the secondTea with Mr Rochesterbook launch at her husband’s farm in September and I’ll be there for that – perhaps you could get a ticket?’
‘I’m sure they sold out long ago – probably the moment they were released,’ I said.
‘Perhaps, but I’ll tell Eleri to squeeze you in.’
‘No – please don’t,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s only a couple of months away and I may not have moved by then. Perhaps next year, though.’
‘We’ll see,’ she said, then broke off to hum a little of ‘We’ll Keep a Welcome in the Hillside’, before saying she’d be in touch soon and ringing off.
Edie, when I told her about Senga, said I’d done a sensible thing and was predisposed to think that a Scot would naturally be the best kind of agent to have.
‘I hadn’t realized your books were doing so well, dear,’ she added.
‘I was surprised when they took off too, really,’ I admitted. ‘Lola always said they were a bit of a niche market, so I’m going to ring her and tell her the niche is about to get a lot bigger.’
I soon discovered that Fear of Agent overcomes creative inertia. Idea sparks flew around my mind until they coalesced and the glimmering of a story formed around the dark heart of the Sleeping Beauty.
