The Tanglewood Tea Shop Page 2

  She returned to the letter with a mixture of reluctance and a sense of comfort. Reading it made her feel as though her dead aunt was in her head and could read her thoughts.

  And don’t think about courting that Stephen boy again, either. He’s in your past and that’s where he should stay.

  Courting? What kind of a word was that? Unless it was an old-fashioned way of saying two people were getting friendly between the sheets.

  Please, use the money to follow your heart. I know you’ll spend it well. I have total faith in you. You always were my favourite. I know I shouldn’t say it, but it’s true. I loved you like a granddaughter and I always will, wherever I am now.

  Your loving aunt – Peggy.

  The last paragraph was Stevie’s undoing. She put the letter down, leaned forward, folded her arms on the table and sobbed her heart out.

  Despite feeling the old lady had one hand on her shoulder, she knew her aunt had truly gone.

  Her sobs turning to sniffles and snuffles, Stevie sent her aunt silent thanks for her generosity and wondered how she was going to explain her inheritance to Hazel. She was going to have to tell her mother what Peg had done, and she wasn’t looking forward to it one bit.

  Hazel Taylor wasn’t a bad woman, she just hadn’t approved of her aunt. Peg had never married, had been as mad as a box of frogs and had lived in a houseful of cats right up until the day she’d been forced to relocate to Stanley Road Residential Home. Oh, and she’d had a really odd dress sense.

  Stevie’s mother had totally disapproved of her aunt’s eccentricity, and she often took a black delight in recounting stories that Peg had variously been a madam in a strip-club; a cat-burglar when she worked in a posh hotel; a nude model for an under-the-counter magazine. Stevie had once asked her mother what that meant, and Hazel had wrinkled her nose in disgust and had hissed ‘porn’, before refusing to elaborate any further.

  And Hazel had consistently compared the rather flighty Stevie to Peggy (not the porn bit, obviously, or the cat burglar part), which made Stevie think that if her mother had a favourite child, then it certainly wasn’t her. In some ways, Stevie couldn’t blame her. Fern, four years older, had always been a diva of a child, and had appeared to resent having to share their mother with the squalling, red-faced infant that was Stevie. Apparently, Fern had been a model baby, sleeping through the night from day one, never crying, and was so good that Hazel never even knew she was there.

  Her mother had known Stevie was there, all right! Stevie, according to her mother, had hardly ever slept and had cried all the time for no discernible reason. She had driven her mother to her wit’s end, as she had frequently told the young Stevie.

  Fern was charmed, too. Very charmed. The kind of charmed which meant if her sister bought a raffle ticket, she’d win first prize. The kind of charmed that led Fern to have a small lottery win on the one and only time she’d played it; to get PPI cashback, although she’d never taken out a loan in her life; to receive a nice compensation claim for sexual discrimination when it transpired her male equivalent at work was being paid more than her. That kind of charmed.

  It wasn’t all about money, either. The two girls were total opposites. Fern had loved school, Stevie had hated it. Fern had played with dolls, Stevie had climbed trees and more often than not had fallen out of them and broken something. Fern was Mary in the reception class Nativity play, Stevie was one half of the donkey – the not-so-nice half with her nose up Nigel Hemming’s farty bottom, and the donkey had to be quickly guided off the makeshift stage when Stevie persisted in blowing loud raspberries and waggling the donkey’s tail. Fern had handed her homework in on time without fail, Stevie used to claim the dog had eaten hers (“but, you don’t have a dog!”). The list went on.

  As the two girls grew older, Stevie’s sister was clear about what she wanted to do: get married and have babies. Fern very quickly found husband material in the form of Derrick Chalk (“all my friends called me Dezza” – purleeze!), had the traditional white wedding with Stevie doing a guest performance as a pink meringue, and proceeded to produce two daughters with the minimum amount of fuss. The eldest was named Jade, and the next little Chalk to put in an appearance was called Macey, and apparently both were just as perfect as their mother.

  And there was Stevie – jobless, boyfriendless and homeless. Jobless because of that stupid bus, homeless because she was jobless and couldn’t afford her share of the rent on the astronomically pricey flat which she had shared with four other people, and boyfriendless because Steve was an arse. So Stevie had temporarily moved back in with her mother until she found another job.

  Actually, it was about time she started looking for a job, now her leg was almost mended because, let’s face it, two hundred and fifty thousand pounds wasn’t an amount one could live off for the rest of one’s life, was it? And once she’d secured herself a job, then the next thing she needed to do was to find a place of her own to live.

  Stevie, pleased with her sensible decision-making, set about job-hunting. It was only later, when she’d folded the precious letter to put it in her keepsake box where she kept her memory things, like the tiny fossil she had found one year on holiday in Cornwall, a stolen lock of Steve’s hair, and her very first Valentine’s card (no need to tell anyone she’d been twenty-three at the time), she noticed the PS on the back.

  PS Don’t be sad. I haven’t left you, even though it may feel like it. And don’t forget, there are more things in heaven and earth…

  Now, what was the old bat rambling on about? Stevie wondered fondly, and put the letter carefully away, a sad smile lighting her face.

  Chapter 4

  Karen had been Stevie’s best friend since even before infants’ school. She was petite, dark-haired, pretty, great fun to be with and she told it like it was. No flattery or falsehoods from her. If Stevie looked like poo in a dress, Karen told her. If Stevie inherited two hundred and sixty-three thousand pounds and didn’t know what to do with it, Karen would have an opinion on that, too.

  ‘You lucky, lucky, lucky cow,’ Karen said, taking a large slug of wine.

  Stevie waited with bated breath for the advice which would change her life. Instead, all she got was another chorus of “lucky, lucky, cow”, and an “I hate you” to finish it off.

  ‘What am I going to do with it?’ Stevie whined.

  ‘Oh, come on! I can’t believe you haven’t got any ideas of your own. You’re young, free, pretty – go spend! Enjoy!’

  ‘That’s what the solicitor told me,’ Stevie said gloomily.

  ‘If it’s going to cause you this much grief, give it all to your mum. She probably doesn’t deserve it, but she has had to put up with you living back at home.’

  ‘It’s not my fault I got run over by a bus, then lost my job and my boyfriend!’ Stevie protested, her cheeks turning pink with indignation.

  Stevie saw Karen bite her lip to prevent herself from laughing and she narrowed her eyes at her friend. Finishing her drink, Stevie fished in her jeans pocket.

  ‘Fancy another?’ she asked. ‘I guess the drinks are on me.’

  ‘Too right, they are.’ Karen handed her glass to Stevie. ‘Make mine a large one.’

  While Stevie waited for her pint to be poured (no fancy wine for her), she stared at the contents of her purse, feeling like one of those businessmen who were rich on paper but didn’t have a penny to his name. She scraped together the ten pounds fifty the barman was holding his hand out for, counting the change into his waiting palm. If she and Karen stayed for another round, she’d have to ask if he’d take a debit card. Then she’d have the anxious wait to see if her bank would accept the transaction because Peggy’s funds hadn’t gone in yet.

  ‘You might want to get your hair done for starters,’ Karen suggested when Stevie returned with the drinks.

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘You haven’t had it cut since you were about twelve.’

  ‘I like it long.’ r />
  ‘You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, as my mum says.’

  Stevie bent down, rooted around in her gigantic bag and came up with a band and proceeded to comb her fingers through her hair until she’d brought it under some control. ‘Better?’ she asked, turning her head this way and that to showcase her ponytail.

  Karen huffed. ‘Haircut.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts. You should get it cut to about there.’ Karen poked Stevie in the chest, just above her boob.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘And have some highlights or lowlights, or something, put in so it doesn’t look so carroty.’

  ‘Carroty,’ Stevie repeated, deadpan. OK, so she’d been called “carrot-top” all through school, but the colour had toned down a bit since then. Hadn’t it?

  ‘And invest in some decent straighteners,’ Karen added. ‘You’d be surprised how much sexier you’d look without the fr— curls.’

  ‘You were about to say “frizz”, weren’t you?’ Stevie demanded, and Karen blushed.

  ‘Look, chicken, I’m only saying this now because you have the money to do something about it. It costs a fortune to look this good.’ Karen tossed her shiny dark tresses, and Stevie had an urge to find a pair of scissors. ‘You couldn’t afford it before. Hell, you could hardly afford to pay the rent with that good-for-nothing boyfriend sponging off you all the time. Treat yourself. You’re worth it.’

  Stevie knew Karen was only trying to help, but it did rankle a bit that she was only now telling her that her hair was a mess. She could have said something sooner and not let her waltz around thinking she looked OK.

  ‘Anything else?’ she asked, through gritted teeth.

  ‘Now you come to mention it, how about some new clothes? You’ve got a gorgeous figure. You should show it off more.’

  ‘There’s never really been much opportunity,’ Stevie protested. ‘I’m usually in chef’s whites.’

  ‘Look at you – curves in all the right places, and plenty of them. It’s criminal to keep them covered up.’ Karen pointedly looked Stevie up and down.

  Stevie glanced at her jeans and baggy sweatshirt. ‘These were the only clean things I could find.’

  ‘Precisely! Ergo, you need new clothes.’

  ‘Ergo? Eh? Aunt Peg warned me not to fritter it away,’ Stevie said.

  ‘Spending some on yourself isn’t frittering. It’s an investment in your future.’

  ‘What future?’ She lived from day to day, just glad to get through the hours between breakfast and bed without any major mishap, and had little thought for the future, although she did have dreams to own her own restaurant one day and to be famous on TV, like Corky Middleton.

  ‘Your—’ Karen stopped and gasped. ‘I’ve got an idea!’

  Stevie looked anything but impressed.

  ‘Don’t you want to hear what it is?’ Karen demanded.

  ‘Go on, then. If you must,’ came the ungracious reply.

  Karen ignored Stevie’s tone of voice. ‘Why don’t you get your own place?’ she cried, with the air of someone who had just pulled a rabbit out of a hat and shouted, ‘Ta da!’

  ‘What? Move out of Mum’s? I intend to, but not right now, not until I get another job, and anyway I get my washing and ironing done, sometimes; I don’t have to pay much rent; I—’

  ‘Shut up a minute,’ Karen interrupted. ‘I mean, run your own restaurant.’

  ‘Oh yeah, and what mug is going to let me do that? You’ve got to work your way up the ladder and I’m only about halfway there. And it doesn’t look like I’ll get much further,’ she added. Then she said brightly, ‘There’s always McDonald’s. Do you want fries with that?’ she chirped.

  Karen shook her head in exasperation and leaned forward. ‘That’s. What. You. Use. The. Money. For,’ she stated, very, very slowly as if talking to a small child.

  The penny finally dropped.

  ‘Oh? Oh! I see what you mean. Yes! Yes, I could, couldn’t I? Oh. No. No, I couldn’t. It would take much more than two hundred and sixty-three thousand to get a restaurant up and running, not to mention I’ve got no business experience, and I’d be dreadful at all that hiring and firing stuff, and where would it be? I couldn’t afford a shed in London, and I would have to spend lots of time practising main courses and things, because for ages now I’ve mostly done pastry work and…’

  ‘Shush,’ Karen said, firmly.

  Stevie did as she was told for once.

  ‘Think smaller,’ Karen instructed, then sat back expectantly.

  ‘What do you mean “smaller”? Fish and chip shop? Mobile burger van? Café? Tea shop? Tea shop… Tea shop! That’s it!’ Stevie leapt to her feet, her eyes shining, and flung out her arms.

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ she cried, twirling around in sudden inspiration, unaware the whole pub was silent and motionless, staring at her curiously. Karen barely had the chance to respond to a comment from the table next to theirs (‘Is she having some kind of fit?’) before the inevitable happened and Stevie knocked a pint glass out of the hand of a man standing behind her, who had been happily minding his own business. She sent it sailing a good ten feet, arcing into the air and spraying everyone beneath with pale golden liquid.

  ‘Oh, goodness. Sorry, sorry.’ Stevie fished around in her bag and pulled a length of loo roll out, oblivious to the irritated expression on the face of the man whose drink she had sent into low orbit. She dabbed ineffectually at his wet head with the, by now, extremely soggy bit of tissue.

  ‘Come on. It’s time we left.’ Karen grabbed her by the upper arm and dragged her through the door, Stevie profusely apologising all the while, and deposited her out on to the street.

  Stevie fell silent and stared at Karen. Karen stared impassively back.

  ‘So, was it a good idea?’ Karen asked eventually.

  ‘It might be. I’m not sure,’ Stevie replied, biting her lip, then she grinned impishly. ‘Yeah. It’s brilliant.’

  Karen gave her a playful smack across the head. ‘Come on. You’ve got some planning to do.’ She strode off up the road.

  Stevie followed behind, dancing along the pavement, full of excitement, and trying not to step on the cracks. Just in case. Because she still had the unfortunate task of telling her mother and her sister about her inheritance – and their lack of one. And she still wasn’t looking forward to it one bit.

  Chapter 5

  ‘Mum?’ Stevie sidled into the kitchen, aware of the nervous whine in her voice but unable to do anything about it.

  ‘What, Stevie? I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘You’re going to meet the solicitor. I know.’

  ‘I’m surprised he didn’t want to see you too, considering he asked for me and Fern to be there.’

  ‘Um… yeah… about that…’

  ‘Of course, I don’t blame your aunt. No one wants to see their hard-earned money being frittered away.’

  There was that word again, frittered.

  ‘Never mind, I won’t see you starve,’ her mother added, generously. ‘Now, what is it you wanted, because I’m going to be late.’

  Stevie debated not telling her mother at all and letting Mr Gantly do her dirty work for her, but she had a feeling she might seriously regret it if she allowed her mother to be blindsided, so she gathered what little courage she could find and blurted it out. ‘She left it all to me.’

  ‘Left what, dear? Where, oh where, did I put my keys?’ Hazel scanned the kitchen worktops while patting at her raincoat pockets.

  ‘The money. Aunt Peg. She left it to me.’

  ‘What are you talking about, dear? Be a love and see if you can find my keys. I could have sworn I left them in here. I came home from my flower arranging class last night, took my coat off, put my— Ah! I know. The bathroom. I had to do a mad dash for the loo. I must have left them in there. Would you run and fetch them for me?’

  ‘OK, but listen, Mum. I went to the solicitor, yesterday. He wanted to se
e me. Aunt Peg left me practically everything.’ And with that, Stevie turned tail and made a dash for the stairs, racing into the bathroom and slamming the door behind her.

  Her mother’s keys were sitting on the side of the wash hand basin. Stevie scooped them up, cradling them to her chest as she listened for the fallout.

  Silence.

  After a minute or two, she risked opening the door and poked her head out.

  Still silence.

  All was quiet as she tiptoed across the landing, and the calm held as she crept down the stairs.

  Her mother was waiting expectantly, exactly where Stevie had left her. ‘I was just about to send a search party. I thought you must have fallen in. My keys?’ Hazel held out her hand.

  ‘Did you hear what I said, Mum?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Her mother was now digging through her bag, looking for something else.

  ‘About Aunt Peg’s will?’ Stevie persisted.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘That she left nearly all of it to me.’

  ‘Very funny, dear.’ Hazel clearly wasn’t taking this seriously.

  ‘Mum!’ Stevie took a couple of steps forward until she stood directly in front of the older woman. ‘It’s true. Mr Gantly asked to see me yesterday.’

  Hazel narrowed her eyes. ‘You didn’t say anything.’

  ‘I assumed you’d be there too, and when you weren’t and he told me Aunt Peg had left it all to me, except for a thousand pounds each for you and Fern, I sort of didn’t know what to say.’

  ‘I bet you didn’t! I hope you told him Aunt Peg was being unfair and it should be split three ways.’

  You’ve changed your tune, Stevie thought. A minute ago, when you assumed Aunt Peggy’s inheritance was going to be divided between you and Fern, you didn’t mention anything about a three-way split then, did you? she continued to herself.

  ‘I did,’ Stevie sighed. ‘No dice.’