Page 5 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
CHAPTER 1
Herbert’s Café, Newcastle, England, August 1946
Libby Robson, hearing a man call out her name, turned around. She nearly dropped her tray of dirty tea cups in astonishment. George Brewis!
‘Well, well, Miss Robson,’ George said with a whistle of appreciation, ‘you’ve grown into a beauty.’
Libby laughed, her fair face turning puce at his admiring look. ‘And you are still a shameless flatterer, George Brewis!’
‘Not a word of a lie.’ He grinned. ‘You look grand.’
Libby knew she must look sweaty and dishevelled. It was late afternoon on a hot Saturday and the tearoom was airless even though it was now empty and they were about to close for the day. The tray felt slippery in her hands. If she’d known he was going to appear out of the blue she would have worn a frock instead of slacks under the old-fashioned apron, put on some lipstick and brushed out her dark-red hair instead of tying it back with a rubber band.
George was looking in rude good health, his fair face ruddy – perhaps a little wrinkled around the eyes – and his blond hair and moustache well trimmed. She remembered her girlish crush on him; it engulfed her anew.
Libby found her voice again. ‘I thought you were in Calcutta these days, working for Strachan’s?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re well informed.’
‘Cousin Adela writes regularly.’
‘Aye, well, she’s the one told me you were helping out here. Family are really grateful at you lending Lexy a hand on your days off.’
‘I don’t mind; there isn’t much else to do on a Saturday.’
‘Well, the lads round here must be slow off the mark,’ he said with a wink.
Libby’s insides fluttered. Surely he hadn’t come deliberately to see her? She felt ridiculously pleased. She had idolised George for years.
‘Are you back from India for long?’ she asked, trying to sound nonchalant though her heart was racing.
‘No, just long enough to settle some family business.’
Libby felt a kick of disappointment. She hadn’t seen George for three years – since he’d been in the Fleet Air Arm – but she’d thought of him often. Libby had been smitten with George ever since she had met him at a Christmas party at Herbert’s Café during the War and he had showered her with attention and compliments. She had been a gauche fifteen-year-old, and George had been twelve years her senior, but he had lifted everyone’s spirits with his boisterous singing and happy-go-lucky nature. The tea salesman had been kind to Libby and encouraged her to sing along with him. At eighteen, Libby had been heartbroken when he had enlisted, then swiftly married a barmaid called Joan and fathered a child.
Yet Libby had heard his marriage was in difficulty. Before she could stop herself, she was asking, ‘Is Joan going to join you in India this time?’
‘No.’ He gave her a direct look. ‘My wife’s got another lad on the go. I’m back home to finalise a divorce.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. We’ve never really had a married life – with me being away east in the Fleet Air Arm and she ... Well, let’s say we both want different lives now.’
Just then, Lexy, the manageress, came lumbering out of the kitchen, wheezing. She gave a breathless shriek. ‘If it isn’t my favourite lad! How are you, George, hinny?’
‘Couldn’t leave Newcastle without a visit to Herbert’s and all my favourite lasses,’ said George, giving her a peck on the cheek.
Lexy’s puffy, heavily made-up face cracked into a smile of delight. ‘You’ll stay for a piece of cake?’ she panted. ‘I want to hear all your news.’ She put a hand on her chest.
‘Sit down, Lexy,’ Libby ordered. ‘I’ll get George some tea while you have a chat.’
Lexy sank gratefully into a chair, waving at George to join her. Libby left them talking and hurried into the kitchen, plonking down the tray and wiping her brow with her long frilly apron. She had no idea why Lexy insisted they still wore the cumbersome things. Perhaps it reminded her of the café’s heyday when she was young and in good health, not a woman in her sixties with a bad chest who struggled to walk.
Doreen, Lexy’s rosy-cheeked, curly-haired grand-niece, was washing up. ‘You look in a fluster. Clark Gable walked in, has he?’
Libby laughed. ‘Next best thing: George Brewis in a white linen suit and smelling of cologne.’
‘Brewis? He related to the lass Jane who used to work here?’
