Page 93 of The Girl from the Tea Garden
‘She doesn’t have much choice,’ Adela defended. ‘And it was Auntie Tilly who suggested it.’
‘Strange man, James Robson,’ said Olive. ‘Never any good at polite conversation and never had any time for us Belhavens.’
‘Well, he’s making up for that now, helping Mother with the tea garden.’
Suddenly Olive put out a claw-like hand and patted Adela’s knee. ‘That’s good. He didn’t have a good word to say about Wesley when he was alive, but at least he’s standing by family now.’
Adela changed the subject. She asked after Uncle Jack and his business.
‘Works like a Trojan does my Jack,’ said Olive, ‘but business has been bad since the Slump. I don’t know the ins and outs– he doesn’t like me to worry– but we’ve had to tighten our belts. Still, he’s been in charge of Tyneside Tea since MrMilner retired five years ago, and I’m very proud of him.’
‘And he has George to help too,’ Adela said, smiling.
She saw the transformation on her aunt’s face at the mention of George. Her taut features relaxed into a smile and her eyes glistened.
‘Jack couldn’t manage without our George; he’s a born salesman. Got the gift of the gab, just like his father when he was first starting out. Jack used to bring tea to the house in Summerhill where we lived and to see me. That’s when we started courting. Your mam was married to old Herbert Stock– she’d been his housekeeper. She never loved him, just married him for his money so she could start her own business. But me and Jack, we were a love match.’
‘Mother married the love of her life,’ Adela pointed out, ‘when she married my father.’
‘That’s very true,’ Olive conceded. She began to talk about George and his string of girlfriends. ‘Not sure he’ll ever settle down. He’s always spoiling them rotten, then gets bored and finds someone new. Still, he’s only twenty-five. I wouldn’t want him rushing into marriage with the wrong lass. I don’t think much of the current one mind. Barmaid at the cricket club.’
Jane spoke unexpectedly. ‘Joan is canny. She’s very sweet-natured.’
‘She sits there as quiet as a mouse– just like you,’ complained Olive. ‘George’ll get bored. He needs a lass who can string two sentences together, bonny, but not too bonny, and who can do more than pull pints. She only got the job at the club ’cause she’s the groundsman’s daughter. George needs to marry a lass from his own class with a bit of education.’
Adela steered the conversation to Jane. ‘How about you, Cousin Jane? Do you have a boyfriend?’
‘Our Jane!’ Olive exclaimed. ‘She’s much too shy. No one’s ever come courting her. What about you, Adela?’
Caught by surprise, Adela flushed. ‘No, I don’t have anyone special.’
‘But you’ve had a few lads court you, haven’t you? You’ve said so in your letters to Jane. What was the latest one I saw– wasn’t it some Hindoo prince?’
Adela looked aghast at Jane; it hadn’t occurred to her that her cousin would show her letters to anyone else. Jane was blushing and biting her bottom lip, her look apologetic.
‘I acted with a prince at the Gaiety,’ Adela admitted, ‘but I’m not courting anyone.’ She quickly changed the subject. ‘I’d love to visit Herbert’s Café. Would you be able to take me, Aunt Olive? Mother told me how beautifully you decorated it.’
‘I’m not well enough to go painting walls any more. I’m bad with my chest.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Adela. ‘Mother said you’re a great artist.’
Olive smiled, pleased with the compliment. ‘I was once upon a time. But running a family and a house and looking after my Jack takes up all my time. Let alone the café. I haven’t had time for art in years.’
‘Well, while I’m here to help out, perhaps you could try dabbling again?’ suggested Adela.
Olive shrugged. Jane began to clear the tea plates and cups on to a tray.
‘I’ll take you to the café this afternoon if you like,’ her cousin offered.
‘I’d like that very much.’ Adela smiled, keen to get out of the depressing room and away from her aunt’s morbid preoccupations. She jumped up and began help.
‘No,’ said Olive. ‘We’ll all go later, when George can run us down the hill. It’s me who should show you the café– I’m the one who’s been looking after it all these years. Leave Jane to do these. You go and unpack. You’re sharing her room. Jane, pet, show Adela where your bedroom is and help her with those heavy cases; then you can finish off here. I’m going next door to see MrsHarris for a cup of tea. I’ll keep an eye out for George coming back.’
Jane’s room was tidy and spartan. Half the wardrobe and a chest of drawers had been cleared for Adela’s clothes, while a pull-out bed had been erected under the window and covered with a faded patchwork quilt of yellow, red and orange cotton prints. Jane’s dark-framed bed was covered in a blue candlewick bedspread that matched the plain blue curtains. There was nothing to show what interested her cousin– no photographs, no keepsakes on the dressing table– except for a pile of books on the bedside table. They were library books: two history tomes, a travel book about Greece and two novels –South Riding, by Winifred Holtby, andGone with the Windby Margaret Mitchell. So there was a streak of the romantic in her apparently inhibited cousin.
Bored with unpacking, Adela went to the window. Below was a large backyard with a trough of geraniums and two outhouses, while opposite was an identical terraced row. Beyond that stretched other ranks of brick houses, dipping away towards a smoky horizon and the River Tyne. She unlatched the sash window and heaved it up. The breeze billowed into the antiseptic-smelling room. It was suddenly familiar: the mineral smell of coal fires. It brought back a memory of having a bath as a very young child in front of a crackling fire in a cosy, brightly painted house. Aunt Olive’s? It certainly wasn’t this dark, solidly respectable one.
While she was still unpacking and hanging up her dresses, Jane returned. At once she closed the window. ‘Mam doesn’t like the coal smuts flying in. Gets all over the house.’
