The Seafront Tea Rooms (15 page)

‘Your English sounds great to me. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding a teaching position.’

‘I can’t wait to start.’

‘Children or teenagers?’

‘Teenagers, I hope. Seems more of a challenge. Although I doubt anyone could be a bigger challenge than Zoe.’ She laughed. ‘Have you got any photos of your son, Kat? I’d love to see one.’

‘Sure. Yes. Here’s Leo.’ Kat took out her phone and showed Séraphine her screensaver, a picture of Leo on a swing, his hair golden in the sun. ‘He’s three. No reading under the covers yet.’

‘He’s gorgeous.’

‘Thank you. He’s pretty good. The terrible twos certainly lived up to their name, but, fingers crossed, I think we’re coming out the other side.’ She bit her lip, recalling it. ‘This past year it’s been tantrums in the supermarket, refusing to get in his buggy, climbing into my bed every night. It nearly drove me crazy. But now he’s sweet as anything.’

‘I remember that time with the twins. Being so much older, I’m more like a mum to them than a sister. I Skype them when I can. They’re far better with gadgets than I am.’

‘Leo’s the same.’

‘You must miss him a lot,’ Séraphine said.

‘I do. Even though him being away gives me the freedom to do things like this – I still can’t wait for him to come back. Isn’t it silly? When he’s here I’m usually desperate for a minute to myself. I dream about being able to pop out to the shops, or go out with a friend without having to beg a favour off someone. Even to read a magazine in peace. But the moment he’s gone, I wonder what I ever did without him.’

‘This can’t be it, can it?’ Kat said, peering in through the windows of a shabby-looking tea room by the water. She and Séraphine had arrived in Whitby shortly before midday, and walked down to the port in search of the café Letty had mentioned. There was only one place that it could be.

‘It does say the Hideaway,’ Séraphine said. ‘Look.’

Kat looked up at the sign, where raised lettering reading
THE
HIDEAWAY
had been crudely whitewashed, with the new name painted over it. Another sign hung in the doorway announcing that it was under new management.

‘Not quite what I pictured,’ Kat said. ‘But appearances can be deceptive, can’t they? Let’s give it a go.’

They went inside, and found a table out towards the back. A man in his fifties, with grey hair and a moustache, came over to them.

‘What can I get you, ladies?’ he asked kindly.

‘Hi,’ Kat said. ‘Could we have a pot of tea and two of your strawberry tarts, please?’

‘Coming right up.’

‘Can I ask a question?’ Kat said, as he turned to go. He smiled and nodded. ‘Have you just taken this place over?’

‘Yes. A couple of months ago. Me and my wife fancied a project. It’s uncharted territory for us, this tea business, but we’ve always enjoyed a cuppa. We’re getting on OK so far.’

‘I see,’ Kat said.

‘That’s the missus’ – he gave a nod in the direction of a stressed-looking woman juggling pots in the kitchen – ‘trying out a new recipe.’

He left to get their order.

‘The décor could do with some sprucing up,’ Kat whispered, when the owner was out of earshot. She pointed to the faded wallpaper, with a repeat pattern of ships just visible on it.

‘It feels quite damp in here too,’ Séraphine added.

‘It doesn’t matter. Letty said not to expect much from the surroundings.’

‘Yes. Of course.’

The teapot arrived a few minutes later, with the tarts on plain white plates next to it.

Kat only needed a quick look. ‘Shop bought,’ she said, disappointed.

‘Oh dear.’ Séraphine took a bite and nodded to confirm Kat’s suspicions. ‘You’re right. The jam’s not good at all.’

The door swung open and a man with a grey ponytail lurched into the café. ‘How’s it going, Steve?’ he called out.

‘And who’s this?’ He made his way over to their table and Kat noticed the strong smell of whisky. ‘Haven’t seen you two around here before.’

‘We’re visiting,’ Séraphine answered politely. ‘It’s our first time here.’

‘A Frenchie, eh? Oooh la la.’ He pulled up a chair, turned it around and sat with Kat and Séraphine. ‘You seem friendly enough, though. Don’t mind if I join you, do you?’

‘Actually we were —’ Kat started.

‘Charming conversation with a local lad, you can’t beat that, can you? Now let me tell you how I came to be here…’

Kat rolled her eyes at Séraphine discreetly and Séraphine’s mouth twitched as she tried to hold in her laughter.

‘I used to work in the merchant navy,’ he drawled. He then burst into song, forgot the words and suddenly remember he’d started a story. ‘I’ve been all around – Singapore, Malaysia, Germany. You name it.’ He pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and showed them his arm, patterned with dark-blue tattoos. ‘A few memories these bring back.’

‘Nice,’ Kat said.

‘You’ve just got the one’ – he pointed at the tattoo on Kat’s wrist – ‘and I bet you it wasn’t as painful as these ones. An old biro – do you know the way?’

Kat looked over at the owner, hoping for rescue, but he was talking to his wife in the kitchen.

‘Grew up in Ireland, I did,’ the man continued. ‘One of ten. I was one of the lucky ones. Two died from TB, we were crammed into a room, all of us and…’

His drunken drawl slowed as once again he lost track of what he was talking about.

Kat wolfed the last of her tart and raised her eyebrows at Séraphine. ‘I’m afraid we have somewhere we need to be.’

‘Do we?’ Séraphine asked innocently. Kat widened her eyes. ‘Oh yes – of course we do,’ Séraphine said, pulling on her jacket. ‘So sorry,’ she said to the man. ‘But we must be going.’

Kat left money to pay the bill on the table and they headed for the door. As soon as they were outside on the pavement, they both collapsed in giggles. ‘God – I didn’t think we’d ever get away from him,’ Kat said.

‘He’d have enough stories to keep going all day, that’s for sure.’

‘Oh dear. Not the most promising start. But the only way is up. Where next?’

They looked at the map, getting their bearings. ‘How about the Alexandra Tea Rooms?’ Kat suggested, ‘That looks a safe enough bet. Don’t hold me to that, though.’

The Alexandra Tea Rooms was a short walk away, and had a terrace overlooking the sea. The tables were filled with a mix of elderly couples and younger day-trippers in groups.

‘I think we’re safe,’ Séraphine whispered, making Kat laugh.

They ordered the full afternoon tea and Séraphine put on her sunglasses, looking out at the water. ‘It’s beautiful here.’

‘Yes, stunning. What a view – completely unobscured. I thought Letty had the best view going, but this —’

‘I’ll tell her you said that,’ Séraphine teased.

‘Don’t you dare!’

The teapot and cake stand arrived, and Kat poured out tea into their two cups.

‘It’s a lovely tradition, this,’ Séraphine said.

‘Do you know how it all started?’ Kat asked, taking a finger sandwich.

‘No, how?’

‘In the mid-nineteenth century a woman called Anna – a duchess, I believe she was – wanted a little something to pep her up in the late afternoon. You know that post-lunch lull when you can’t find the energy to do anything?’

‘Yes. I normally just want to sleep. I think the Spanish have the right idea.’

‘Well, Duchess Anna requested a cup of tea and something to eat, and before long her friends were doing the same. The idea caught on and spread.’

‘Then here’s to our friend Anna,’ Séraphine said, raising her teacup. ‘She was a very smart woman.’

‘Would you ever be tempted to come and live here?’ Kat asked. ‘More permanently, I mean?’ Séraphine seemed so at ease in England, relaxed and confident.

‘I don’t think so,’ Séraphine said. ‘There are things I’d miss.’ Her eyes took on a distant look.

‘People?’ Kat asked gently.

Séraphine nodded.

Something in her expression told Kat not to pursue the line of enquiry any further.

‘Well, we’ll just have to see to it that you enjoy your time here as much as possible,’ Kat said.

In the afternoon, after two more tea-room stops, Séraphine and Kat browsed the antique shops in the town, picking up small trinkets and souvenirs.

‘Are you hungry?’ Kat asked. ‘I mean, a macaroon is only so filling. Do you fancy some fish and chips?’

‘That would be great. I’ve never had any before. Not proper English ones, anyway.’

‘Then it’s settled. Let’s go.’

They bought portions of cod and chips wrapped in paper and took them down to the sea. On a bench, they ate the warm chips with wooden chip forks.

‘These are good,’ Séraphine said.

‘Incredibly healthy too,’ Kat said, with a smile.

‘Oh yes, all that salt and ketchup in particular.’

‘We used to have these when I was growing up. Every Friday, Dad and I would go down to the harbour and pick them up. He’d get fish and I’d get a battered sausage.’

‘Do your parents still live in Scarborough?’ Séraphine asked.

‘My dad does. At least, that’s where his house is. He’s away travelling at the moment – and having the time of his life, if his postcards are anything to go by. He deserves it. He’s worked hard ever since he left school.’

‘What about your mother?’

‘She passed away when I was young.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Thanks. I wish I could remember her better. To be honest, I barely have any memories of her.’ Kat shrugged. ‘I was four when she died. Dad, and Letty – who was a friend of hers – have told me a few things. They both say that she wanted desperately to be a mother, and that having me completed her, in a way. Apparently she was kind and generous, and funny.’

‘Are you similar to her? Do they ever mention that?’

‘No.’ Kat shook her head. ‘Apart from the kind and funny bit,’ she joked. ‘But seriously? No, not at all.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Mum was curvy, as much as I’m not. Red hair, freckles…’

‘Really?’ Séraphine raised her eyebrows.

‘Yes,’ Kat said, with a smile. ‘It’s not as surprising as it seems, though. I’m adopted.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘I should have said that at the start. Sometimes I forget, Dad is so much my dad. He could have been lost on his own when Mum died, but he wasn’t. He was OK. It wasn’t regular, our little set-up, but it’s worked for us. What about your family?’

‘They’re pretty conventional.’ Séraphine smiled. ‘Perhaps a little too conventional.’

‘Too conventional?’

‘Yes. Although perfectly normal for where we live. Church on Sundays, don’t say or do anything to upset the others in the village – that kind of thing.’

‘Does it bother you?’ Kat asked.

‘It didn’t always. But lately, yes. I sometimes wonder how they’d react if they knew the real me.’

Kat wanted to ask – she could see that Séraphine was holding something back, but at the same time she was wary of pushing too much. ‘You’re different around them?’ she asked.

Séraphine considered the question, then nodded. ‘I suppose it’s easier to carry on pretending to be what they want me to be.’

‘You only get one lifetime to be the real you,’ Kat said. ‘You can’t afford to miss that chance, you know.’

That evening, Séraphine sat on her bed, and put her canvas bag down beside her. The fresh air had left her relaxed and pleasantly tired – but what had affected her most was the conversation with Kat.

Her parents were already halfway through their lives, and had been lucky enough to spend a lot of those years in love. Was it fair that she should deny herself that same happiness in a bid to please them? When she met Carla, she felt as if she were coming alive – every interest, each silly joke or childhood memory was received with delight and matched by one of Carla’s. Their synergy was effortless and natural. Séraphine had clumsily pushed Carla away by escaping to England, and yet she could see now that Carla was strong enough in herself not to turn her back on the woman she loved. Séraphine sensed that the door might still be open. Perhaps it wasn’t a case of saying either yes – in its whole, messy entirety – or saying no. Maybe it was also possible to say yes in a slower way. Yes, but I need time.

She laid out the objects she’d collected.

A smooth white-and-peach-coloured shell.

Two jars of tea leaves – Darjeeling and Lady Grey – that Kat had recommended she buy.

A tin of Pinwheel cookies that she had made with Zoe.

A vintage scarf, with a diamond-ring print on it.

A postcard of Scarborough.

She wrapped them all up in bronze paper, and tied the packages with string, before placing them in a padded envelope. On the back of a photo she’d printed, a self-portrait taken on the South Sands, she wrote a message to go with the gifts:

Salut, ma belle,

Où que je sois, tu es avec moi.
 

Je t’embrasse,
 

Séraphine x
 

Wherever I am, you’re with me.

22

Saturday 20 September

‘You look OK like that, you know,’ Charlie said. ‘Reminds me of when we were teenagers. Before you started nicking my eye shadow.’

Pippa was dressed in tracksuit bottoms with tea stains on the knee, and her hair was pulled up into a rough ponytail, her face clear of make-up. As the week wore on, she was sleeping a little better and some of the colour had returned to her cheeks.

Pippa smiled. ‘I couldn’t be bothered,’ she said. ‘I’ll dig out my mascara when I’m ready to go out of the house again.’

‘I hate to mention it, but you do remember that Mum and Dad are coming today? They’re due at midday.’

‘Oh God, I forgot,’ Pippa said, putting her hand to her mouth and looking around the living room. ‘This place is in chaos.’

‘They won’t care.’

‘Can’t we quickly uninvite them?’

‘They’ll be almost here by now. Anyway, they’re our parents. And they’ve been worried about you. They’re not expecting to be entertained, they’ve only come to see you and the kids.’