Page 17 of The Little Teashop of Lost and Found
The food was served by the military-moustache man, who seemed even less talkative than the previous night and, while the place wasn’t quite in the Fawlty Towers league, it wasn’t far off. I had the uncomfortable feeling that the owners were surreptitiously observing me and reporting back to Mrs Muswell, too.
I packed and settled my bill right afterwards. I wasn’t sure where I would be staying that night, because it would take some time to make the flat over the café habitable, but there had to be a better option than the Gondal Guesthouse.
I decided to worry about it later, when I’d seen the café in daylight and, I hoped, electric light, too.
When I emerged from the guesthouse, the sun was attempting to come out from behind a lot of billowing dove-grey clouds and, though the cobbles of the main street were still slick and damp, I felt my spirits rise slightly.
I longed to explore the village and visit the Parsonage and church, not to mention walk beyond them on to the moors, as Emily Brontë used to do. But there would be time for that later, when I’d got to grips with the realities of my impulse buy.
I turned into the narrow entrance-way to Doorknocker’s Row, which was easier to spot in the full light of day, and noticed for the first time that a shop faced the café across the courtyard.
‘Small and Perfect’ boasted the sign over it. Curious, I veered over and had a look. It seemed to be some kind of curio shop. I could dimly make out various bijou objects by peering through the bow window, which was made from small squares of thick greenish glass, just like that of the café. The door was locked, with a sign on it that more or less said, ‘Tough luck if I’m not open, but call this number to make an appointment’, only it put it marginally more politely. It was signed ‘Nile Giddings’. There weren’t any opening times.
I wondered if the proprietor of Small and Perfect was small and perfectly … I veered away from finishing that thought. He was probably elderly and retired, keeping the business on as an interest and opening when he felt like it.
And what sort of name wasNile? Did he have parents with a river fetish? Siblings called Zambezi, Seine and Mersey?
I pulled my mind back to my present task and turned to scrutinize the café. Set in the good Yorkshire stone walls, the shallow bullion-glass bow window resembled a painted harlot smile on the face of an honest, plain woman, but the sacrilege had clearly taken place a good century or more ago.
The way the light fell into the courtyard revealed that the Branwell Café sign had been roughly painted over the previous one, so the raised outline of ‘The Butty Box’ could still be seen.
Then I narrowed my eyes and peered again and was certain I could pick out an even earlier stratum that might have said the Copper Kettle.
The damned thing had more layers than an archaeological dig!
The wooden, lattice-sided porch was another Victorian addition, as incongruous as the window, but sort of charming in its way – or it would be when the broken and rotten bits were mended.
Apart from the café and Small and Perfect, the walls around the little courtyard were the blank stone backs of other properties, only broken by the entrance to the narrow passage next to the café, which ran under part of the flat above.
When I let myself into the café (remembering the step down, this time), rays of weak sunshine were fingering a pile of junk mail on the window ledge like a dubious shopper. The long room looked marginally lighter and less dismal, though no more upmarket than before. I suspected Mrs Muswell had merely changed the name to something fancier when she bought the place, but kept the greasy spoon ambience and menu.
Crossing my fingers, I pressed down the light switch … and lo, there was light! I switched it off again (I was going to need all the money I had left from the insurance to turn the café and flat around, so I might as well start being thrifty), and went through into the kitchen, dumping my overnight bag next to my suitcase in the office.
Down to business: I took the contents inventory, a pen and notebook out of my tote and started to check off what was supposed to be there against what actually was.
All the tables and chairs were certainly present, but I’d naturally assumed they’d be the pine farmhouse-style ones in the photos she’d sent me. Those tubular Formica and plastic monstrosities looked as if Mrs Muswell (or perhaps the proprietors of The Butty Box) had bought them as a job lot from a failed low-end diner. They didn’t really go with the rustic charm of the wooden floor, either, which was a bit battered at the moment but would probably strip and seal well.
There was a rustic, Spanish-style wooden light fitting in the middle of the room and matching wall lights, all fitted with dim bulbs thatleft the corners of the room swathed in darkness. This was possibly why Mrs M had missed a couple of plates that hung on the wall next to the steps, which I discovered led down to two spartan and basic toilet cubicles. She hadn’t taken the chipped sinks, the loos or the rusty hand driers with her, so I supposed I should be grateful for small mercies.
There was a door marked ‘Private’ beyond them, which, when I peeped through, led to a storeroom full of empty metal racking and stairs leading up – presumably the ones I’d noticed near the back door, on my first visit.
I went back up into the café to explore behind the counter, my ghost image in the mirror coming to meet me. There was an antiquated till and an even more antiquated but gleaming metal water geyser, racks full of thick white pottery mugs, saucers and fat, round teapots. A glass-fronted cake display unit sat on the counter.
I supposed Mrs Muswell had kept within the legal limits of our bargain in that the café was furnished with chairs, tables and crockery, even if not the ones I’d expected, but the kitchen, with its work surfaces denuded of equipment and the spaces where larger items had once stood, was another story. There was no catering-sized mixer, hob … or even an oven.
But then, after going through Mrs Muswell’s menu last night, it didn’t sound as if they’d done much in-house cooking at all, apart from some fancifully named burgers, wraps and cheese toasties. But there had been cake – what had they baked that in? Or hadn’t they? Maybe they boughteverythingin and microwaved whatever needed to be served hot?
And come to that, the microwave from the list was missing, too.
I felt grateful that the chiller cabinet, large fridge and freezer had been left behind, for, though so ancient they looked fashionably retro, those still worked when I flicked the switches.
I sorted through the keys and unlocked the back door, stepping out into a paved courtyard surrounded by beds of overgrown, neglected roses, old inhabitants fallen on bad times.
There was a side gate that gave access to the passage under the flat ifyou turned right, but I went the other way along a path running between my garden and the high stone wall of the next building. I was looking for the parking space and found it was a large patch of rough ground next to a row of bins. There was plenty of room for my Beetle when it arrived – you could get two or possibly even three cars on it. I’d have to figure out where the alley led, so I could give Rory directions when he brought the car down, but that could wait for now.
I went back in and braced myself for another look at the flat. Downstairs had at least beenclean.In fact, whoever was in charge of that aspect of the café evidently had a thing about it, for there were notices all over the place exhorting the staff to use good hygiene and food safety practice, along with a whiteboard with boxes to tick for daily and weekly cleaning tasks.
But whoever was responsible clearly hadn’t extended their activities upstairs. I wondered if Sleeping Beauty had shared her bower with festoons of cobwebs and giant spiders … and, one thought leading to another, had to dash back into the office where my laptop lay on the table and type quickly:
