Two Penn'orth of Sky (41 page)

‘And just who are you thinking of marrying, Mr Mac?’ she asked roguishly. ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it – my, that would give the girls something to talk about!’

Mr Mac laughed with her. ‘Next, you’ll be saying you didn’t realise my flat was really a house,’ he said. ‘But why are you so surprised at the thought of my marrying? I’m not
that
old, you know, though I suppose forty-two sounds very ancient to a young girl like yourself, still in her twenties.’

‘Not so young any more, alas,’ Emmy said, mournfully. ‘I’m thirty-two next year so I’m catching you up fast. But I don’t know why I’m telling you. As my employer, you must be well aware how old I am.’

‘Well, you don’t look a day over twenty-nine,’ Mr Mac said. ‘Now where shall we go for this high tea, eh?’

‘You choose. I’m sure you know all there is to know about cafés and restaurants, seeing as you’re in the business yourself,’ Emmy said, rather guardedly. She did hope that Mr Mac would not choose somewhere in the centre of town where they might bump into Carl. Of course, she had every right to go out with Mr Mac, particularly as Carl had been unable to tell her at what time of day he would visit her, but she still felt rather guilty; she had been happy enough in the past to wait for him, knowing that he would be along eventually. She supposed she should have refused the invitation to high tea, but she was very hungry and anyway she still wanted to consult Mr Mac about Johnny and Carl. What better time would there be to put her problem before him? It was difficult to talk personally at work, and anyway Emmy’s problem had nothing to do with the restaurant. Accordingly, she agreed to let him take her to his favourite tea rooms, and explained that she had a problem which she wanted to discuss with him.

So when the taxi headed away from the city centre and out towards the Wirral, Emmy suffered only the slightest pang of conscience. She might be later back than she had anticipated but the brilliant autumn foliage on the trees, and the soft golden light as the sun sank in the sky, made the trip a memorable one. She and Mr Mac chatted quietly about the merits and demerits of the houses they had seen and, when asked for her opinion, Emmy gave it frankly. ‘They say a girl has to kiss a lot of frogs before she finds her prince,’ she remarked sagely. ‘And by the same token, you’ll have to see a lot more houses before you make
up your mind. The first two places we saw were totally unsuitable, you said so yourself. They were cramped and overlooked, with back yards instead of gardens. And the third . . . well, it had been let go and the smell of damp in the bedrooms was enough to put anyone off. The one in Cecil Road out at Seaforth was quite nice, but you thought there was a problem with the drains, didn’t you? And the last one would have been all right only the kitchen was downright poky and they’d not installed a bathroom.’ Emmy looked curiously about her as the houses grew further and further apart. ‘Where are we going, Mr Mac?’ She laughed. ‘I hope you aren’t aiming to kidnap me, or send me off to South America for the white slave trade, because I told Beryl I’d probably be home by six.’

As she spoke, the taxi drew to a halt in a pretty village, where the houses crowded close to the main street, many of them very old, some with bow windows and others with plate glass. Emmy looked out and saw that the nearest cottage had a sign over the window which read:
The Lilacs – Miss Ethel’s Tea Rooms
. Mr Mac climbed out and went round to open the passenger door. He indicated the tea rooms with a jerk of his head. ‘I can’t see Miss Ethel as a part of the white slave trade,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘And I don’t think she belongs to a kidnap gang, either. But she does make the most delicious parkin, as well as the best scones I’ve ever tasted.’

Presently, Emmy and Mr Mac were seated at a window table whilst a neat little waitress, in a flowered dress and a frilly apron, trotted to and fro, carrying a heavily laden tray and placing all manner of dainties on the highly polished oak table. There was a set high tea which started off with poached eggs
on toast, surrounded by crisply curling bacon, and included a plate full of tiny sandwiches with a variety of fillings, finishing up with home-made cream cakes and the famous parkin. Emmy sighed with admiration; all the china was Royal Albert and the cutlery was silver-plated and gleaming. This was the sort of place to which Peter had introduced her, years ago. She smiled across at her companion and took a sip from her teacup. ‘This is absolutely lovely,’ she said appreciatively. ‘Doesn’t it make you want to own something similar, Mr Mac? After all, there’s nothing you don’t know about catering and I’m sure you could run a place like this standing on your head.’

Mr Mac laughed. ‘Look around you,’ he invited. ‘I couldn’t afford to run a place like this, Mrs Wesley. What would the dining rooms in the city look like at this hour, eh?’

Emmy thought of the dining rooms at around this time. Every table would be full and the waitresses would be rushing backwards and forwards, bearing plates laden with steaming food and trays crammed with cups of tea, whilst someone would be wheeling a trolley full of various cakes and noting down, on her pad, which table had taken what. ‘I see what you mean; but if you owned this place, Mr Mac, you’d know how to fill every table, instead of only two.’ For the fact was, there was only one other table occupied in the spacious tea rooms.

Mr Mac shook his head sadly. ‘Mrs Wesley, where is your business acumen? The only way to fill a place like this would be to move it into the city centre. And then, of course, it would lose almost all its appeal. No, I shan’t open a country tea rooms until I’m too old to run Mac’s. Now, you said you had a problem. Are you going to share it with me?’

Emmy, tucking into poached egg on toast, outlined her dilemma in a rather muffled voice, whilst Mr Mac listened thoughtfully, eating his own eggs in a leisurely fashion as he did so. After some thought, he gave his opinion with all his usual forthrightness. ‘I don’t believe you should make any hasty decisions, since in my opinion you aren’t at all sure of your own feelings and marriage, as you must know, is probably the most important event in a woman’s life – or a man’s, for that matter. If you make a mistake now, I can promise you that you will regret it for the rest of your days. So don’t act hastily. Take your time.’

‘I know all that,’ Emmy said, trying not to sound impatient. ‘But I’ve known these two fellers for years now . . . well, I knew Johnny Frost when we were just a couple of kids . . . and I feel I can’t keep them hanging about for a decision any longer. I’ve been visiting Johnny in Llandudno and I’ve been really happy there but – but I don’t think my happiness comes from being with Johnny so much as being in a beautiful town and enjoying helping Mrs Frost in the guest house. Johnny’s an old friend – I was going to marry him until I met Peter – but I’m not sure that friendship’s enough.’

‘It isn’t,’ Mr Mac said briefly. ‘I don’t mean to embarrass you, Mrs Wesley, but as you know, I’m a practical man and believe in calling a spade a spade. You have to be in love with someone to marry them and it’s pretty clear that you don’t love Mr Frost. How do you feel about Mr Johansson? You’ve scarcely mentioned him.’

‘Oh! Well, he’s awfully nice. He takes me about and makes a big fuss of me—’ Emmy began, only to be interrupted by Mr Mac, who gave something
perilously akin to a snort. ‘Awfully nice!’ he said scornfully. ‘If you were in love with Mr Johansson, you wouldn’t say he was “awfully nice”. Unless you are marrying for the convenience of having a partner, someone to help you manage your life and bring up your child, then you should love him with all your heart and soul.’ She saw that he was almost glaring at her. ‘Why do you think I have not considered marriage until now, Mrs Wesley? It is because I regard it as the most important thing in life and want to be very sure that the woman I love loves me with equal intensity.’

Emmy was so surprised that she could only gape. She had never thought of her boss as anything but a friend and employer, but now she realised that a romantic and passionate heart was hidden behind his practical, sensible exterior. ‘And – and you’re considering marriage now?’ she said, unable to keep the incredulity out of her tone. ‘I had no idea . . . no one at work has ever said anything about – about you having – well, a friend even. Is – is that why you’re thinking of moving out of the flat? But if so, why didn’t your young lady accompany you today instead of myself? I’m sure she won’t be interested in
my
opinions . . . she might even be cross that you’ve consulted me. Oh dear, if only I’d known . . .’

Across the table, Mr Mac smiled. ‘She knew all about today and I can assure you she will have every opportunity to choose the house which suits her best,’ he said reassuringly. ‘But back to your own problem. You’ll know the old saying marry in haste and repent at leisure, I’m sure. I can see you’ve already decided that marrying Mr Frost might be a mistake, and in my opinion at least, you are not yet sure enough of
your feelings to marry Mr Johansson. In fact, you hardly know him, do you? He comes back to Liverpool, takes you out a few times, and then he’s off again. I think you need to be with someone on a more permanent basis before you consider marriage.’

By now, they were at the cake stage and Emmy agreed, reluctantly, that she did not know Mr Johansson as well as she knew Johnny Frost. ‘It’s true that we’ve never spent longer than a couple of days in each other’s company,’ she admitted. ‘And I suppose you’re right. What’s more, Diana really dislikes him, which does make things difficult.’ She sighed, pushing a wing of bright hair off her forehead and tucking it behind her ear. ‘I really envy you, Mr Mac; you haven’t made a fuss or asked for advice, you’ve just found the right person for you and I know you’ve hit the nail on the head: neither Mr Frost nor Mr Johansson is my Mr Right, and it’s time I told them so. And yet . . . and yet . . . I can’t hang on Beryl’s sleeve for ever and if I stop seeing them . . . I shall be most awfully lonely.’

‘There’s no reason why you should stop seeing either of them,’ Mr Mac said reasonably. ‘Just don’t commit yourself, that’s all I’m saying. And now, how about another cup of tea? I could do with one.’

When Emmy returned home, it was past eight o’clock and Mr Johansson had been and gone. ‘He weren’t very pleased, queen,’ Beryl told her, a trifle reproachfully. ‘He arrived at three o’clock, full of plans, and waited till half past four in the hope that you’d come home early. I explained as best I could, made him a cup of tea and gave him a slice of cake. And then he went off, but he come back at six, ’cos that was when you said you’d be home, an’ stayed till seven. He’s
only in port till noon tomorrow, but he said he’d come round in the morning if he possibly could, even if he only stays for an hour.’

‘Oh! Oh, but Beryl, I promised Mr Mac that I’d take a look in all the estate agents on my way to work, and pick up details of any houses that I thought were suitable,’ Emmy said, dismayed. She was on the noon until eight shift and guessed that Mr Mac would await her arrival at work with additional eagerness because of the errand she had promised to undertake for him. ‘Oh, whatever shall I do?’ She looked appealingly at Beryl, but if she hoped for sympathy she was out of luck.

‘Really, queen, you behave very thoughtless at times. You knew Mr Johansson were here for a couple o’ days and you must have told him you weren’t working tomorrow till noon, so you don’t have no choice. I’m sorry, but you’ve got to be here tomorrow mornin’, whether Mr Johansson turns up or not. And if he does come, you’ll have some explainin’ to do, I don’t mind tellin’ you. Oh, I know Mr Mac is your employer,’ she added, as Emmy started to speak, ‘but that’s neither here nor there. You let that young feller down today, but you aren’t goin’ to do it twice.’

‘Yes, I do see what you mean,’ Emmy said, in a small voice. ‘I’ll just have to explain to Mr Mac when I get in to work. But suppose Mr Johansson doesn’t come? Then I’ll have wasted my morning off and let Mr Mac down as well.’ She looked hopefully across the table at her friend, for they were sitting in the kitchen, sharing a pot of tea before going to bed. ‘Suppose – suppose I left you with a message that I’d be in the Kardomah Café at eleven, say, or . . . or—’

‘
No
, Emmy,’ Beryl said grimly. ‘It’s time you grew up, young woman, and learned that other people’s feelings matter just as much as your own; more, sometimes. You should have seen that young man’s face when he left here this evening.’

Emmy began to answer but a quick glance at Beryl’s expression stopped her in her tracks. She knew that she was being both selfish and cruel, and I’m neither, really, she told herself, a trifle guiltily. The fact is, I’ve made up my mind that I’m not going to remarry, but I’ll be needing my job for a long while yet. That’s why I’m behaving so badly; it’s not because I’m a nasty person.

She explained all this to Beryl, who leaned across the table and patted her shoulder before heaving herself to her feet. ‘It’s all right, queen. I know you don’t mean no harm, it’s just that you’ve been spoiled rotten,’ she said. ‘Your being so ill didn’t help, either. As for Mr Johansson, when he sees you tomorrow, looking so pretty and telling him how sorry you were to miss him, he’ll forgive you. And now let’s get to bed before I drop in me tracks; tomorrow’s another day, so we might as well get what rest we can before tackling it.’

When she finally got to bed, however, Emmy found it difficult to fall asleep. Although she had tried to hide it – and thought she had succeeded – she had been dismayed, as well as surprised, to learn that Mr Mac meant to marry. It had been bad enough when he had told her that he meant to live away from the restaurant and appoint a deputy to take his place so that he could have more time to himself. Emmy remembered the rare occasions on which both Mr Mac and his mother had been away at the same time, and the chaos which usually resulted. Oh, it was not
the sort of chaos that the customers noticed – the staff’s training saw to that – but behind the scenes there was a good deal of shouting, tears were freely shed, orders were muddled and the cooks grew short-tempered.

But a wife would change everything. A married man, particularly one newly married, would want to spend time in his new home, and the wife would naturally come in and out of the restaurant as of right. Knowing nothing about the business would not stop her giving her opinion and trying to change things. New brooms, Emmy reflected bitterly, always swept clean, they say, and the last thing she fancied was some masterful young woman lording it over her and the rest of the staff. She could see the new Mrs Mac in her mind’s eye; she would be a bottle blonde, hard-faced but handsome, probably in her mid to late thirties and fond of dressy clothes, the sort that cost a lot but don’t last long.