Page 113 of The Girl from the Tea Garden
‘What?’ asked Josey.
‘If my father was a distant relation of your mother’s, then we must be related.’
Josey’s eyes widened. ‘So we are!’ She laughed and swung an arm about Adela’s slim shoulders. ‘My cousin Adela.’
‘My cousin Josey!’ Adela grinned, leaning into her hold and feeling her spirits lift.
Adela had been dreading June, the month of her nineteenth birthday and the first anniversary of the nightmarish tiger hunt and her father’s appalling death. She wasn’t sleeping well and often on the point of sleep was disturbed by vivid flashes of memory that left her shaking and upset. Worse were the dreams that she could tell no one, for they were about her baby. They were filled with panic– Adela trying to hide him away– and then she’d wake with a start to find him not there. She’d get out of bed, restless with a feeling of loss, and gaze out of the window, wondering what had happened to him. Sometimes the impulse to find out was so strong that she had to grip the windowsill to stop herself running out into the night to search for him.
‘You’re grinding yer teeth at night,’ Lexy told her in concern. ‘Perhaps you should get yoursel’ to the doctors for a bit o’ sedative.’
But Adela refused, not wanting to have to explain her shameful secrets to anyone else. It was Josey who saved her sanity. In Herbert’s granddaughter she had found a kindred spirit: someone who enjoyed life, the theatre and having fun, as well as being a link to her parents. It was Josey who got her through midsummer with her humour and kindness, keeping her busy at the theatre and protecting her like an older sister. She introduced Adela to her eccentric friends at the rambling house on Westgate Road and their welcoming landlady, Florence. It turned out that she too had known Adela’s mother in the early days of Herbert’s Tea Rooms.
‘Clarrie was wonderful to us suffragists,’ Florence enthused. ‘She let us use Herbert’s for our protest on Census Night before the war. And we often met in her café to discuss tactics, and she’d send over extra cake to keep us going. You will send my fondest regards, won’t you, dear?’
Adela thirsted for these stories of her mother; they made her feel closer to her faraway parent. She wrote letters home telling Clarrie about Josey and Florence. Her mother wrote back, thrilled at the news and sending her love and greetings, especially to Josey. She admitted that the modest amount of trust money had been her idea, and Wesley had arranged it. But nowhere in her letters did Clarrie encourage Adela to come home. Quite the opposite. Yet she kept to herself how upsetting it was that her mother was still pushing her away.
I’m glad things are working out for you in Newcastle and that you are having some fun along the way. It was the right thing for you to go. Stick in at the theatre; you never know what might come of it. I get quite nostalgic at the thought of you sharing the flat with Lexy. What a great friend she has been to us both.
You don’t say much about Olive and the family any more. I hope everything is all right with the Brewises. You would tell me if there was anything to worry about, wouldn’t you? Give them my love as always ...
This galvanised Adela into calling on her aunt. She had only made one brief, awkward visit to Lime Terrace since she had returned to Newcastle, to tell Olive in confidence that the problem of the unwanted baby had been taken care of. She had invited her aunt to a birthday tea at Herbert’s on 13 June that Lexy and Jane had organised, but Olive had not come.
One late June evening she took Josey round to meet Olive and Jack.
Adela’s uncle was bashful but welcoming. ‘Josephine Stock! I remember you from family gatherings at Summerhill. Full of chat. And good at sharing the toys with our George– not like your twin brother.’
Olive seemed agitated by the appearance of someone from her past.
‘Your mam and dad never made a secret of how they looked down their noses at the likes of us,’ she said.
‘Sounds like them,’ Josey said, not taking offence. ‘I remember you doing lovely drawings. Do you still draw, MrsBrewis?’
‘No, not for years.’
‘And those paintings in the café – you did those, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but I’m not well enough now.’
‘Pity,’ said Josey. ‘You’ve got such talent. If you ever decide you want to paint again, we’d love some paintings to hang in the theatre. We encourage local artists, as well as actors.’
‘That would be canny,’ said Jack, ‘if you picked up a paintbrush again.’
‘It’s not that easy,’ Olive said, her hands squirming in her lap. ‘You all talk as if it was easy.’
Adela wished she’d made sure George was at home before calling. He would have lightened the atmosphere. She quickly diverted the conversation. ‘We wondered if you’d both like to come to see the play Josey is in next week. I’ve got you complimentary tickets.’
Neither her aunt nor uncle looked enthusiastic. Jack put on a show of being pleased.
‘That’s very kind.’
‘You know I can’t go to crowded places,’ Olive said with an expression of panic.
‘Perhaps George would like to take Joan,’ Jack suggested.
Adela left the tickets on the table. ‘Whatever you decide is fine,’ she said and smiled, not wanting to make her uncle feel uncomfortable. She made excuses to leave quickly. Outside, as they walked away, she apologised to Josey.
‘Sorry for dragging you along. I thought it might help my aunt to meet someone from the past– something to spark her interest. She’s almost a recluse these days.’
