Page 53 of The Little Teashop of Lost and Found
‘Yes, but what if when you kiss her awake, breaking the enchantment, she has an evil face but a beautiful nature?’ she asked.
The prince, who expected his bride to be the slenderest and fairest in the land, shuddered slightly.
‘Then the deal would be off,’ he said firmly.
True to Bel’s prediction, Nile had set off from London so early next morning that his dark Mercedes estate came bumping down the track well before the palatial Sunday lunch of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding went on to the table.
He appeared to be in morose mood, but when I asked if the collector hadn’t liked the pair of early Meissen shepherd and shepherdess figurines that had been the reason for the trip, he said that on the contrary, he’d been delighted.
Then he seemed to haul himself back from some deep thoughts with an effort and added, ‘While I was down there, I asked around and one of my friends knows someone wanting to sell a job lot of café tables andchairs – all simple, good-quality white wood. I went and had a look and I’ve got some pictures and the dimensions on my phone.’
‘That was very thoughtful of you, Nile.’
‘Well, you needn’t sound so amazed,’ he said, then got out his phone, flicked to where they were and handed it across. ‘They’re solid, but they might want a fresh lick of paint.’
‘That doesn’t matter if they’re the right size,’ I said, scrutinizing the pictures. ‘I wanted a mix of round tables and smaller rectangular ones, so if the measurements are OK, these look perfect!’
‘I think I’ve found a home for your current Formica monstrosities, too,’ he told me. ‘Zelda knows a dealer who buys retro furniture, so if you like I can contact him and see if he’ll make you an offer? It’ll probably be peanuts, though.’
‘Really?’ I said, amazed. ‘They’re so vile I thought I’d have to pay someone to take them away!’
‘Your tearoom is going to look very elegant,’ Bel said, leaning over to look at the photographs. ‘But our Norwegian waffle house will have a more homespun, country kitchen feel to it.’
‘Waffle house?’ repeated Nile.
Kim, the cleaner at Upvale, was a serious, silent and efficient woman with whom I had always been on perfectly good terms, so I was certain her warning was kindly meant.
And, once my eyes were opened to the possibility of Father’s carer having designs on him, I recalled certain signs that she was right.
Father had recently ceased to press me to move home more quickly and, in fact, had only a day previously assured me that the current arrangements were very satisfactory and there was no rush.
Clearly, this was not so, and decisive and quick action was necessary. In the autumn of 2004, less than a fortnight after the warning letter, I was installed in Upvale, along with my rather elderly Bichon Frise, Drogo.
At my sudden advent, the chagrin of Father’s carer, Patsy Dodds, was barely concealed, though she greeted me on the doorstep with the graciousness of a chatelaine welcoming an unexpected guest into her home.
I informed her in no uncertain terms that I required no assistance in finding my way about my own home and that she should return to the duties for which she was being handsomely paid.
Clearly, her pretensions were in sore need of a good squashing.
22
Slightly Listing
I’d meant to go back to the flat right after lunch, but time flew by while we were talking, so it was late by the time I set off home.
Home– that was a strangely permanent-sounding concept! And no one could take it away from me … or not unless the teashop bombed and I lost all my money. But I consoled myself with the idea that even if that happened, the premises would still be worth so much more than I’d paid for them, with a renovated and habitable flat and an updated café.
Oldstone Farm now felt like a second home too, one where I always seemed to be welcome.
Nile wasn’t returning to Haworth until next morning, so when I parked behind the café everything was still, dark and deserted. And after I’d fallen over the recycling bins and then had to feel my way to the kitchen door, I vowed to get an outside light put in.
Inside the rear entrance hall, my fridge-freezer, oven and washing machine were still lined up at the bottom of the stairs – I’d entirely forgotten about them over the weekend. I’d have to try to hijack a strong man or two next day.
With Nile away and no other neighbours facing into Doorknocker’s Row, the flat felt isolated, and yet, when I opened the front window a crack I could hear people talking on the main street beyond the end of the passageway.
It made me remember the many times in the past when, at the end of a long, hard day’s work, I’d sat listening to distant voices in the streetbelow and the random yelps of seagulls, feeling content in my own little world.
I opened the laptop I’d laid down on my new desk and began spinning dreams, just as I always had: the baby princess left for the wolves in the forest, Heathcliff, the infant abandoned on the moor, Moses in the bulrushes and the child cursed at her christening by the evil fairy godmother …
