Page 89 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
‘Off you go,’ said Adela, brushing his lips with a quick kiss. ‘You don’t want to be late for Plate Day.’
He strode from the house, whistling. It was the first time she’d heard that for weeks. Adela’s insides tightened with sudden anxiety; she hoped what she learnt from MrsSinger wouldn’t drive a wedge further between her and Sam.
As Adela walked down the steep hill from Durham railway station in warm sunshine, the Cathedral bells were striking three o’clock. She had only ever seen the city from the train – the fortress cathedral set on its wooded peninsula – and if she hadn’t been so intent on seeing MrsSinger she would have been curious to see more.
Following instructions that took her under a viaduct, Adela descended into tightly packed terraces of blackened brick houses and on down a wider street of shops that led to an ancient stone bridge spanning the River Wear. Crumbling housing clung to the riverbank on one side, while the other was crammed with twisting lanes flanked by tall elegant buildings. The narrow streets were busy with shoppers and traffic. It struck her how Sam would enjoy photographing all this.
Quelling thoughts of her husband, Adela walked briskly on through the market place, where a policeman was directing traffic from a central box, and made for the far side. Here the street banked steeply once again. She was perspiring and breathless by the time she climbed to the top of Claypath and turned into a cluster of terraced housing.
Adela’s heart was drumming with nerves as she knocked on Lily Singer’s door. She was surprised to see a dark-haired woman not much older than herself answer it.
‘You’ve come to see Mam?’ she asked.
Adela swallowed and nodded, realising this was Lily’s daughter.
‘Come in. I’m Dorothy.’ She opened the door wide so Adela could step into the tiny hallway. ‘Mam’s just in there.’ She pointed to an open door. ‘Mam! Your visitor is here.’ She turned and beckoned Adela into the room. ‘Go on in, I’ll bring tea in a minute.’
From somewhere deeper in the house, Adela could hear the chatter of children’s voices.
She stepped into a small, neat sitting room which felt chilly after the heat of outside. The furniture was plain and functional: an oval table with wooden chairs, and an upright green sofa with wooden arms. Sitting in a high-backed chair next to it was a stout woman with badlyswollen legs. Lily Singer had wavy greying hair and a double chin which increased when she smiled, which, judging by the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, was often.
‘Forgive me if I don’t stand up, MrsJackman,’ she said. ‘My legs aren’t what they used to be.’
‘Don’t apologise, MrsSinger,’ Adela said quickly, crossing the room to shake her hand. It still surprised her when people called her by her married name: she still thought of herself as a Robson.
‘Please sit down,’ said Lily, waving her to the sofa. ‘It’s so nice to get a visit – I don’t see many folk these days.’
Adela perched on the edge of the sofa and smoothed her skirt over her knees. It was a plain utility one to go with the modest blouse and cardigan she was wearing; she wanted to impress on MrsSinger that she was a respectable married woman. At Lily’s feet was a basket of wool and some abandoned knitting.
‘What are you knitting?’ Adela asked, for something to say.
‘Jumper for my grandson.’ Lily smiled. ‘I’ve unravelled two old jerkins that my husband used to wear. Our Michael says he doesn’t like brown but I’ve told him waste-not-want-not. Fancy being eight years old and fussy about clothes!’
Adela’s stomach fluttered. Lily’s grandson was the same age as John Wesley. For a wild moment, she wondered if it was possible that this woman might have kept the baby herself. Perhaps daughter Dorothy couldn’t have children.
‘Is he your only grandchild?’ Adela asked.
‘No, I’ve got five in all,’ said Lily. ‘Dorothy’s three and my other daughter has twins. I don’t see them as much as they live in Cumberland but I knit for them too. Like to keep busy – ’specially as I don’t get out the house much.’
Adela felt a kick of disappointment, yet she would still like to see this Michael just to be sure. Then doubt gripped her. Would she know if it was John Wesley or not? How would she recognise a boy shehadn’t seen since he was a few days old? Adela nearly lost her nerve. She shouldn’t have come. She was here under false pretences and poor unsuspecting MrsSinger didn’t deserve to be put in this situation.
‘But I’ve got nothing to complain about,’ Lily continued. ‘I’m blessed to have my grandchildren – they’ve kept me going since my dear husband was taken from me five years ago.’
Adela licked her dry lips and nodded, trying to calm her erratic heartbeat. ‘MrsKelly sends her warmest regards.’
‘Dear Doris!’ Lily exclaimed. ‘How I miss her and the folk from church. Tell me all about them.’
Adela tried to answer Lily’s many questions about the congregation and the move to the Sandyford hall but it was obvious the woman was disappointed with her lack of detailed knowledge.
‘I haven’t been going there very long,’ Adela admitted. ‘But they’ve been very welcoming.’
‘They are, aren’t they?’ agreed Lily. ‘So tell me about yourself, MrsJackman.’
Adela hadn’t really wanted to say much about herself but Lily had a warmth of personality that invited confidences. She found herself telling the widow about being brought up in India, marrying Sam and coming back to Newcastle to help run the family tearoom founded by her mother.
‘You see my family were from the North East originally. My Belhaven grandfather was from North Northumberland and I have an aunt and cousins in Newcastle.’
MrsSinger’s eyes were wide with interest. ‘Which tearoom is it?’
