Page 95 of The Girl from the Tea Garden
‘We do get radio in India you know,’ Adela said, smiling, ‘and my theatre friend Tommy bought the sheet music.’ She burst into a raucous rendition of ‘The Sun Has Got His Hat On’.
‘You’ve got a lovely singing voice,’ said Olive. ‘Maybe you can teach our Jane to sing. George takes after me– he’s got a musical ear.’
‘Mother said you used to play the violin beautifully,’ said Adela.
‘Haven’t touched it in years.’
They drove under the solid metal Tyne Bridge, arching the brown river. The riverside was alive with activity: dockers unloading cargo and rolling barrels; wagons weaving through people and a flock of runaway sheep.
As they doubled back along the riverside, George and Adela sang ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic’.
‘Sing something more romantic,’ Olive demanded.
Adela sang ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ in a rich, melodious voice.
‘You’ll break some poor lad’s heart with that one,’ said George, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror. She looked away, thinking with a pang how it reminded her of Sam. The newly popular tune had been played at her seventeenth birthday party.
Soon they were emerging into a working-class district of pubs and shops with striped awnings and merchandise stacked on the pavement to entice shoppers. There were a few people going in and out, but more were standing around in the hazy sunshine, hands in pockets, leaning against walls chatting or watching passers-by. Below were grimy sheds and engineering works that George said were gun factories.
‘Work’s picking up again since the Germans went into Austria,’ he told her.
‘Why? Are we selling guns to the Germans?’ asked Adela.
‘Don’t be daft,’ George said. ‘They’re making them as fast as they know how. We have to keep upsides, don’t we? In case there’s war.’
‘Don’t say that.’ Olive shuddered.
‘Surely that’s not likely,’ said Adela. She felt quite ignorant of what was going on in Europe. All the talk at home was of Indians agitating for home rule and the Japanese attacking China.
‘It’s becoming more likely, what with Hitler throwing his weight around and Musso cosying up to his fascist friend.’
‘Stop talking politics,’ Olive cried. ‘Look, here we are: Herbert’s Café. Goodness, the windows need a good clean.’
They came to a halt in Tyne Street. As they climbed out, a gaggle of young children surrounded them, shouting out, ‘Can I mind yer car, mister?’
George gave a coin to the oldest-looking boy and ushered the women inside the café. From the outside the tea room looked nondescript, but inside it had a scruffy charm. The yellow wallpaper was tinged brown from cigarette smoke, but there were large, brightly daubed paintings of local scenes and dusty palms in tarnished brass planters around an upright piano. The tables were covered in faded linen cloths, but someone had gone to the trouble of placing centrepieces of fresh carnations, now beginning to wilt. Most of the tables had one or two customers, some sitting reading newspapers, others chatting over empty plates. The room was stuffy and smelt of meat pies. Adela hid her disappointment; this was hardly the glamorous teahouse that her parents had often talked of so proudly.
A buxom middle-aged woman in a white blouse and black skirt with thick make-up and black hair that looked suspiciously dyed sashayed towards them.
‘Eeh, is this our little Adela?’ she cried, opening wide her arms. ‘Come and give Lexy a big hug, bonny lass!’
Adela was enveloped in hot arms, a slight sour smell of sweat masked by a cloying flowery perfume. She had a very vague memory of a loud laughing woman called Lexy who used to feed her cream cakes, but she remembered her as fair-haired.
‘Isn’t she the image of her mam?’ Lexy said to Olive. ‘How is Clarrie? Eeh, hinny, we were that sorry to hear about MrRobson. He was a real gentleman.All the lasses here had a soft spot for him– not that we’ve seen him for years. But he helped us all. If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t be here. Saved this café from ruin and me from the workhouse, so he did. Lovely man.’
She swamped Adela in another hug. Adela was too overwhelmed to speak.
‘Can you bring us tea please, Lexy?’ Olive reasserted control.
‘And some of your cream buns,’ George said winking.
‘Just for you, bonny lad,’ Lexy said, tweaking his cheek. She issued instructions to a young girl called Nance, who wore an oversized apron and had large ears that stuck out under a frilly cap, and then showed them to a table near the piano. Judging by the film of dust on the lid, it hadn’t been played in a while.
‘Jane, I have a new recipe for you,’ said Lexy. ‘French custard tart. Had a Belgian sailor in last week whose family run a café in Antwerp. Rich and creamy; you’ll love it.’
‘Sounds expensive,’ said Olive.
‘I’ll be back in tomorrow,’ Jane said with more self-assurance than Adela had heard so far, ‘and you can show me.’
