11 The Teashop on the Corner (3 page)

Naw. She didn’t believe it. Martin would have gone out and bought himself the new iPhone if he’d had any money at all, that much she did know. She’d found his mobile in his
pocket after his death and it was one which cost him ten pounds from Asda. There were few contacts on it when she’d checked it: Domino’s Pizzas, The Happy Duck Chinese takeaway, Andrew,
work, herself, but no record of Julie, nor any texts.

‘Obviously, I’ll give you some time to get your things together before you leave the house. You can have the furniture,’ said Julie. ‘A month okay with you?’

‘What?’ said Carla.

‘The house. Obviously it’s mine now.’

‘My house is yours?’ Now it was Carla’s turn to laugh, but Julie wasn’t smiling. Her granite features were set in a very serious expression.

‘Martin’s house. It’s in his name, I do believe. My husband’s name.’

Martin’s house was indeed in his sole name. He had inherited it from his mother the year that Carla had met him and they’d never bothered to change the name on the deeds, or write
wills. After all, they had no children and what was his was hers as a married couple . . . except that she was now finding out that it wasn’t.

Then Julie said a sentence that made Carla’s stomach lurch.

‘That house is our son’s rightful inheritance.’

Son. Our son.

‘Do you have a child?’ Carla stammered. ‘With Martin?’

‘What do you think this is – wind?’ said Julie, flicking open the two buttons on her coat and sticking out a surprisingly prominent stomach. ‘I’m five months gone.
And yes he’s Martin’s. And they’ll never see each other because of you and your fucking dressing table.’

Carla’s Martin had said he didn’t want children. And because she loved him, she had sacrificed her desire to be a parent for his wish not to be.

Through her tears, Carla could see that Julie was savouring each twist of the knife. It was sick, cruel.

‘You’re enjoying this aren’t you? How can you? I didn’t know any of it.’

Julie’s small sharp eyes hardened.

‘Because he should have died with me, not you. Because if he hadn’t been heavy-lifting your tatty furniture, he wouldn’t have had a fucking heart attack and left me. Because
you arranged his funeral and not me. Because I had to find out about my husband’s death from a story in yesterday’s bleeding newspaper.’ She opened her bag again, pulled out a
page torn from the
Daily Trumpet
and proceeded to read it.

‘“Paper salesman dies suddenly trying to shift wife’s hand-painted furniture from garage into house”. How’s that for a snappy headline?’

Carla gasped. ‘I didn’t even know it was in the newspaper.’

‘They reported the wrong funeral time and the wrong church. And they said that Martin was seventy-four. And that his grieving widow was called Karen. I’ve been ringing no end of
churches and funeral parlours this morning trying to find out what’s bloody happening.’

She wiped a tear that fell from the corner of her left eye and despite everything, Carla felt a too-kind surge of sympathy welling up within her for the older woman. If what she was saying was
true then what a terrible shock she must have had too.

‘Julie . . .’

Julie snarled at the pity in her voice and stabbed her finger at Carla. Her momentary lapse in composure was over. ‘Don’t you dare feel sorry for me. And don’t you think
you’re going to take his ashes. They’re mine. He was my husband and I fucking want them. Every single one of them.’

And with that, Julie Pride and her posh black handbag, her swingy coat and brazen red shoes clipped out of the vestry and boldly walked down the aisle. Carla listened to the sound diminishing,
heard the heavy church door crash shut and then realised that her body didn’t have a single clue how to react.

As Shaun McCarthy drained the last of the coffee from his cup, he watched the woman with the spiky dark brown hair tip her watering can over the brightly coloured flowers
sprouting from the boxes in front of the teashop windows and thought of the cover of an old Enid Blyton book he had once had, with an elf on it. That’s what
she
reminded him of: a
fragile little creature with wings hidden under her bright blue pinafore dress. He was too far away to hear, but he bet she was humming as she watered the plants. And smiling. She was always
smiling, as if she had been born with a natural upturn to her lips.
Ms Leonora Merryman.
One of those infuriating people for whom life was filled with confetti, sparkles and fairies, no
doubt. Her glass wasn’t just constantly half-full but fizzed out coloured sprinkles as well. He suspected that despite being around the mid-thirties mark, she would have a collection of My
Little Ponies in cabinets at home.

Still, it didn’t matter. As long as she paid her rent for the shop on time, he’d be equally happy as she was, if not as outwardly smiley; and there was no reason other than business
for their paths to cross. She was initially on a six month lease, although he had given her one month gratis in exchange for decorating the place, because she had wanted to do it herself and at her
own expense. He suspected that she would terminate the lease at the end of the period rather than renew it. He’d hardly seen any customers in there since it opened a month ago and surely she
needed footfall through the door to make a living? Any idiot knew that. Still, he’d been fair on the rent seeing as she was the first of the businesses in this quadrangle of shops to open up:
Spring Hill Square. The second unit was finished – although the least said about that, the better – and they had now started on the third. The other four units weren’t finished
but there had been a few enquiries about them. He’d said no to the couple who wanted to open a sex shop. He was, after all, a good Irish Catholic boy with guilt and honour issues, as well as
being a savvy businessman.

The Teashop on the Corner
. ‘It’s a sort of literary café,’ she had told him. No doubt Leonora (‘
Oh do call me Leni
’) thought she was in
Oxford or St Andrews, and the erudite and scholarly types would be queuing up at her door every morning demanding their skinny lattes. He wondered if he should be the one to inform her that they
were actually in a small backwater outside Barnsley on land which had been a real shit tip until Shaun had bought it to turn into his empire. He’d had to demolish an old wire factory and
level the ground, which had cost a small fortune; but he hoped it would be worth it, cashing in on the increased trade which passed by en route to Winterworld, a Christmas theme park only a few
miles down the road.

Ms Merryman had had a lot of furniture delivered. He kept seeing the vans turning up and men carrying it in. He’d peered through the window a few times when she’d gone home. The
walls were now delicate shades of cream and shell pink and around three edges of the room were runs of glass cabinets full, from what he could tell at first glance, of paper and pens and other
items of stationery. The central space was taken up with six round tables, cream-painted ironwork, three with four heart-shaped-backed chairs around them. It was all very pretty and girly and
French-chic. He gave it another two months before she did a moonlight flit and he turned up on site to find her and her fancy furniture all gone.

She was smiling. Again. He could see her lips curved upwards as she turned to one side. That sort of constant chirpiness irritated him. What the hell was there to be so cheerful about, anyway?
Everyone he knew was complaining about it being the crappiest spring in history. Sub-zero temperatures without let-up ever since November, even snow on May Day Bank Holiday. Only now, in mid-May,
was the sun attempting to blast through the clouds with its rays; but bright as its beams were, they were half chilly too.

Leni turned without warning and caught him staring at her. ‘Mr McCarthy!’ She waved. ‘Hello there. Have you got a moment?’

Shaun cursed himself for not averting his eyes quickly enough. ‘Sure,’ he said, grumbling under his breath. He strode over to the pretty teashop and nodded a man-greeting.

‘Good morning, Mr McCarthy. The square is really coming together now, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is,’ he said, thinking,
Did she call me over just to ask me that
? He had neither the time nor the inclination for idle chit-chat.

‘I hope you don’t mind me mentioning that the tap in the teashop sink has a leak. It’s just a small one but I don’t want it to get any bigger.’

‘I’ll get my tool-bag and come back in a couple of minutes.’

‘Thank you.’

The tearoom was invitingly warm and smelt delicious when he walked in.

‘I’ve made a jug of vanilla hot chocolate. Would you like one?’ Leni smiled at him.

Shaun hadn’t had time to stop for lunch and was both hungry and thirsty in equal measures. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘Cake?’ She pointed to two glass domes on the counter. A dark brown cake sat under one, a lemon cake under the other. They looked good but he passed. He’d mend the leak and
then get quickly off before she started talking girly things to him. Rainbows and teddy bears and how to make cupcakes.

She poured him a mug of chocolate with a swirl of cream on the top and stuck a flake in it.

‘New recipe,’ she said. ‘For when all the crowds come.’ Her eyes were sparkling with mirth.

He humphed inwardly.

‘Do you think they will?’

‘Of course,’ she smiled. She had white, even teeth, he noticed. ‘I’ve had someone in who has been back three times so far for lunch. A Sikh gentleman. He’s bought
two pens from me as well.’

Wow, you’re just months away from retiring on the profits
, thought Shaun, digging his wrench out of his bag whilst taking a swig of chocolate. The cup had a large ginger cat on
it.

‘
Miaow
.’

For a moment, Shaun thought the cup had made the noise.

‘Now Mr Bingley, you get back to your bed and stop being nosey,’ said Leni, bending down to a huge ginger cat who had wandered over and was sniffing around Shaun’s bag. She
lifted him up, turned him around and he toddled off to where he had come from.

‘Are you allowed that thing in a café?’ asked Shaun, wrinkling up his nose.

‘I don’t know,’ said Leni. ‘But he’s staying. Chocolate okay?’

‘Er, yeah,’ said Shaun. Environmental health would be swooping down on her very soon, he reckoned. Surely cats and cafés didn’t mix?

‘Is it too thick? Does it need more milk in it, do you think?’

Dear God
, thought Shaun. It was a cup of hot chocolate, not an entrant for
Masterchef
.

‘It’s fine,’ he said, tinkering with the tap. He noticed her apron was patterned with covers of old Penguin books but the pocket at the front was an orange sleeping cat.
She’s added that herself
, he thought.
And made a good job of it
. She looked the arts and crafty type. He could imagine her making her own rugs at night in a house full of
shelves of books.

Shaun liked books and read a lot at home in the quiet evenings. He didn’t like cats particularly, but then he had never had much contact with pets. He didn’t do emotional ties.

‘What happens to the cakes that you don’t sell?’ he asked, bending to check the cupboard underneath the sink for leaks.

‘I drop them off at the homeless shelter,’ replied Leni.

‘But soon there won’t be any left to take. I have every confidence this little place will be booming. Anyway, selling tea is just my folly. The shop is the real business of
course.’

And that’s just as heaving
, Shaun muttered to himself.

‘Most of my orders come from the internet,’ Leni expanded, as if hearing his thoughts. ‘I’m very busy ordering and packing up what I’ve sold during the day when the
teashop is empty. So you don’t need to worry about your rent, Mr McCarthy.’

And she laughed and he thought that the sound it made was like that of a tinkly bell.

‘There, it’s done,’ he said, throwing the wrench back into his bag. He drained the cup of the last dregs of chocolate. It tasted like melted-down biscuits and would keep him
going for another hour or so before he stopped for a sandwich. He could have done with another, if the truth be told. He had no doubt that if he asked for a fill-up, she would have obliged –
with another smile – but that would mean more small talk and Shaun McCarthy wasn’t in the mood.

‘Thank you,’ said Leni Merryman. ‘Do I owe you anything?’

‘No,’ he said, waving the suggestion away. ‘All in with the rent.’

‘Well, you know where I am if you want to give me some custom,’ Leni tilted her head as she spoke.

‘I’m not a visiting-coffee-shops sort of person,’ said Shaun. ‘Too busy. I only build them.’

She chuckled as if his gruffness amused her. ‘Well, thank you anyway.’

Shaun lifted up his bag and walked back through the teashop. It was a shame it was always empty of customers because she’d done it up really well. He dragged his eyes along the glass
cabinets as he passed them. They were filled with gifts – quality gifts – cufflinks made from old typewriter keys, tiny silver charms in the shape of books, gift tags made from book
pages: romantic books, he presumed, seeing as the word ‘Darcy’ was ringed in red. All quirky, fancy things that literary types would go gaga over – himself excepted, of course. He
might enjoy reading books, but he had no use for a tie-pin silhouette of Edgar Allan Poe.

Between the last cabinet and the door was a long pinboard studded with postcards sent from all over. He spotted one from Madrid, one from Kos and one from Lisbon.

‘What’s your online shop called?’ he asked.

‘Book Things. Nice and simple. You have a lovely accent, Mr McCarthy. Is it Northern or Southern Irish?’

‘Northern,’ said Shaun.

‘My daughter Anne was born in Cork,’ said Leni. ‘She wasn’t due for another two—’

Shaun’s small-talk alarm went off. Time to go.

‘Thanks for the chocolate,’ he said, taking hold of the door handle. ‘Must get on and earn a living.’

‘Of course,’ said Leni with an understanding nod. ‘Busy lives.’