Page 129 of The Little Teashop of Lost and Found
I put the newspaper in my bag and read the article again while I was having an extended coffee break, my patients appearing a little thin on the ground that day.
I found it extremely galling that my perfectly logical actions of that night had been ascribed to some kind of mental instability caused by the shock of unwanted childbirth. However, there was no way I could correct this inaccuracy and defend myself without risking the disclosure of my identity.
I disposed of the newspaper in a rubbish bin on my way out of Haworth.
43
Fat rascals
I’d dreamed of this moment for so long that when it finally came, I had to keep pinching myself to make sure I was awake.
The first service was in full swing and I peeped through the kitchen door into the tearoom. Every single table was occupied, and a constant buzz of conversation filled the air like the sound of a happy hive. Nell and Tilda, in their all-enveloping white frilled aprons, bustled busily about.
There had been a round of applause when I’d opened the door to welcome everyone to the opening of The Fat Rascal, and the reporter had insisted on taking my photograph, flanked by Nell and Tilda, before I beat a hasty retreat to the back premises.
Luckily he now appeared too busy stuffing his face with sandwiches and cake to think about taking any more. George Godet was sitting opposite him and, with his beaky nose and grey-streaked black hair sticking up in an angry crest, looked like a slightly demonic cockatoo. He’d shaved and spruced himself up for the occasion, though, in a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and a finely checked shirt.
‘It’s going well, isn’t it?’ I whispered to Tilda as she paused briefly next to me, holding a fully loaded tea-tray. ‘I think I’d better do a little circuit round the tables and talk to some of the customers.’
‘It’s like Blackpool on a bank holiday in here!’ Tilda said, which from her expression I took to be a good thing, then with a nod at George’s table added, ‘Them two seem to be having some kind of eating competition. Eh, you’d think it was an all-you-can-eat buffet!’
‘I suppose it is, in a way,’ I said. ‘An all-you-can-eat tea.’
‘Tables three, six and nine are the competition,’ she hissed, though they were well out of earshot. ‘Come to see how much threat you are to their business.’
‘The competition? You mean from other local cafés?’
‘That’s right, and the expressions on their faces could curdle milk,’ she said with satisfaction, then headed off back into the fray, while I worked my way round the room, having a brief word with everyone.
Most were friends: the Giddingses, of course, were seated in the bow window, though Nile had been in and out of the kitchen helping me, and Bel was with Thom at one of the smaller tables down the side of the room. Ross had brought his mum and they were sharing a round table with Jack and his wife, Viviane.
When I got to Henry and Eleri, she said the Bump had made her ravenous and she was eating for six.
‘Why not?’ I encouraged her, thinking how glowingly pretty pregnancy had made her. ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying your tea. Just ask Nell or Tilda if you’d like some more of anything.’
‘Those scones weren’ttoobad, but—’ began Henry critically, and then I think Eleri must have kicked him under the table because he suddenly shut up and glowered at her. She didn’t look noticeably impressed by this, so I expect it’s simply his default expression.
‘It’s all delicious,’ she assured me.
‘That’s right, flower, and you need to keep your strength up, when you’re expecting,’ chimed in Tilda, neatly decanting lemon and orange curd tartlets on to the depleted top tier of the cake stand. ‘Don’t let yon great streak of nowt snaffle all the tarts, this time.’
Henry seemed pleased with this rudeness and grinned at her. ‘Couldn’t I entice you into coming to work for me, instead? Seeing such a vision of loveliness and hearing your dulcet voice every day would be worth paying good money for.’
‘Give over, you daft bugger,’ she said amiably, and I left them to their verbal sparring and moved on to greet Emily Rhymer and her husband. I was sure she’d said he was a vicar, but if so, he wasn’t in the traditional style, since he had long grey hair tied back in a ponytail and wore goldcrosses in his ears. They’d both arrived in black motorbike leathers, though after a while they’d hung their jackets over the backs of their chairs, probably because it had got hot in the teashop.
I promised to give Em my fat rascal recipe and was about to stop by George’s table when I heard Nell tell him roundly, ‘If you ask me for any more of them cheese scones, greedy guts,you’llbe the fat rascal and we’ll be able to hire you for a mascot!’
‘If I’d wanted to be insulted by a skinny old bat, I could have stayed at home,’ he rejoined dourly.
‘Think thisen lucky any decent body talks to thee, tha miserable little snirp,’ she told him. Going by his dropped jaw and mottling red face, I think he must have missed the advertising about the rudest waitresses in Yorkshire, so I beat a strategic retreat to the kitchen.
I have to admit that I’d wondered if perhaps my natural mother might have booked a table today, so that she could see me without making herself known, but none of the women present struck me as an obvious candidate.
But then, maybe we humans don’t possess an innate ability to tell our parents from the rest of the herd?
I had to bake more cheese scones for the second sitting, mainly due to George taking such a liking to them, and while I was mixing the dough Sheila came in with Nile to say goodbye.
‘Congratulations, darling. It’s a huge success!’ she said, kissing me.
