The Teashop on the Corner Page 5

  ‘Tea. And what is the cake of the day please?’

  ‘Carrot and orange or chocolate and brandy. The latter is quite naughty.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mr Singh. ‘That sounds very interesting. I think I will have to try the chocolate and brandy.’

  ‘Cream?’

  ‘No thank you. Now, what do you have new that I haven’t seen yet?’

  ‘The handbags,’ said Leni. ‘They’re made out of actual classic books. A present for your good lady perhaps?’

  ‘Alas, my beautiful Nanak is . . .’ Mr Singh raised his hands heavenward by way of explanation.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Leni.

  ‘No, no, don’t be sorry, it was ten years ago.’ Though it still hurt him, even after all that time, to say that she had gone. They should have been enjoying their retirement, seeing the world as they had planned, visiting their daughter in America. But Nanak’s car had been rammed by a drunken driver who had been celebrating his release from prison – for drunk driving. ‘My daughter loves handbags and she has always loved her books. That would be a perfect combination.’

  ‘Not just handbags, the wallets are new. And those gift money wallets. What else? Oh yes and those rocking desk ink blotters with the refill paper. Walnut. They’re from a retired craftsman in Maltstone who makes them himself.’

  ‘Oh my,’ said Mr Singh, hardly able to wait until Leni opened up the cabinet to show him. He handled the largest blotter with a reverence worthy of a rare religious artefact.

  ‘Beautiful, aren’t they? That one is the most expensive at fifty pounds. But you’re in luck. I’ve decided to try and drum up some trade by having special offer Tuesdays. Ten per cent off.’

  ‘I have to have it,’ said Mr Singh, his large chocolate-coloured eyes shining. ‘You understand of course.’

  ‘Oh yes, I understand. I totally get the stationery thing,’ nodded Leni. ‘Ever since I was a young girl I always loved nice stationery: pads, pens – couldn’t get enough of it. I thought I was the only one, until I read an article in a magazine about other people who love it too.’

  ‘And so you started this wonderful business,’ said Mr Singh, taking one of the handbags out of the cabinet. It was a large hardbacked book version of Pride and Prejudice converted into a proper purposeful handbag with handles and a red velvet lining inside.

  ‘That’s fifty pounds too,’ said Leni, not sure if he had seen the price tag. ‘Less ten per cent today of course.’

  ‘It’s very nice,’ said Mr Singh. ‘My little Siana would love this. Although she’s not so little any more. She’s a surgeon in an American hospital. Do you have a sturdy box, Leni? I think I would like to buy this for her birthday next month.’

  ‘I am sure I can find you a box, Mr Singh,’ replied Leni. ‘Is this the book you want? I have Wuthering Heights, The Hound of the Baskervilles, The Tenant—’

  Mr Singh held up his hand and stopped Leni talking. ‘This is her favourite. If only I could get Mr Darcy to deliver it to her in person.’

  Leni chuckled. ‘I can’t arrange that, but I can get you a box,’ she said, taking the bag from him and locking up the cabinet. ‘Come and have your tea and cake and tell me what you think. It’s a new recipe.’

  ‘I will indeed,’ said Mr Singh, taking a place at a table and reaching in his pocket for his wallet. He was so glad that he had stumbled upon this teashop on the corner with its kind-eyed, cheerful owner a few weeks ago. It was such a relief to be lifted from his lonely existence, if only for an hour or so.

  ‘This chocolate and brandon cake is divine,’ chuckled Mr Singh with a look of rapture on his face. ‘I mean brandy, forgive me. I am being taken over by Jane Austen.’

  ‘No need to apologise, Mr Singh,’ mused Leni. He had just given her a cracking idea.

  Chapter 10

  For Carla, the next week passed in a smog of confusion. Something deep within her did its best to help her survive. It drove her to take a shower, get dressed, try and eat something. She did so with the air of a zombie who had managed to retain a smidgeon of its humanity. Everything seemed a major effort – brushing her teeth, putting a slice of bread in the toaster. Get a grip, said the voice within her. This is doing you no good at all. You need to start thinking about your next moves. Seven days after Martin’s funeral, Carla plugged in the vacuum and forced herself to run it over the carpet. Then she took the sheets off the bed and washed Martin from them and cried watching them tumble around in the machine.

  She couldn’t go on without answers, but she had to. But she couldn’t. It was a never-ending circle which she couldn’t break. She sat down with a bowl of soup and turned on the TV. An old black-and-white film was showing – Séance on a Wet Afternoon. She remembered seeing it years ago. It was the story of a medium who kidnaps a child in order to receive praise for finding her with her ‘psychic’ skills.

  A medium.

  The word landed in Carla’s brain like a seed and immediately began to germinate. Of course. That’s what she needed. A medium. A bridge between this world and the next. Theresa would have said she was mental even to entertain such an idea, but Theresa wasn’t here, and it was the only place she had to go.

  She put the soup down, glad to have an excuse not to eat it, and reached for her laptop, typing the words clairvoyants, Barnsley, Sheffield, Leeds into Google.

  She found loads on the internet and a couple in particular stood out. The first had an incredibly slick website so Carla rang her and found that she could make her an appointment in fourteen months at the earliest. The second, in Rotherham, had a massive parade of testimonials, but couldn’t see her until Christmas. The third, in Leeds, carried the profile pic of a friendly, down-to-earth lady sitting on a sofa and holding a crystal ball. She looked warm and genuine and Carla felt drawn to her for a reason she couldn’t fathom. Pat Morrison, Clarevoyent for forty years – as her website title proclaimed – could fit her in the next day at two p.m.

  Pat Morrison lived in an estate of well-looked-after 1960s semi-detached houses in Horcroft on the outskirts of Leeds. The gardens were neat without exception, with well-tended borders and lots of coloured flowers, wishing wells and gnomes with fishing rods. Pat Morrison’s door was a striking shade of cyclamen and the nets that hung at her windows, a delicate hue of blush pink. Carla suspected it was a definite pointer to pink overload inside – and she wasn’t wrong.

  Pat Morrison herself was a vision in fuchsia. She opened the door in a floor-length kaftan that did nothing to hide her small bulky figure. Her lips were coated with a thick slick of neon pink that could have been seen from orbit.

  ‘You must be Carla,’ she said, her accent thick Leeds with a nasal twist. Vera Duckworth with a sinus problem. ‘Come in, lovey, I’m just with a client at the moment.’ She waddled down the hallway, her kaftan-clad girth rocking from side to side like a fishing boat in a force ten crosswind. She opened a door to the left which led into a small sitting room smelling strongly of berry pot-pourri and gestured that Carla take the dark pink-upholstered chair in the corner. From a dish on an oval coffee table at its side, Pat picked up a crystal sphere the size of a tennis ball and handed it to Carla.

  ‘I want you to hold this in your hand for five minutes whilst I leave you here,’ she instructed. ‘The ball will absorb your energies which I will read and interpret. That’s how I work. Now you just take this – that’s it – and I’ll be back for you. And whilst you’re waiting, look through these and pick the one you are most drawn to. Okay?’ She took a square plastic tub from the top of a display cabinet and put it on Carla’s lap.

  Carla nodded obediently. Pat wobbled off and shut the door behind her and Carla rolled the ball around in her hand, letting her eyes take in her surroundings. There were two framed pictures on the wall: one of Pat as a younger woman standing next to an old lady wearing a veil, in front of a tent with a large Petulengro sign behind them. The other featured Pat holding her crystal ball and sporting that bright pink lipstick. Carla wonder
ed what the shade was called. Boiled crab? There were small bowls of cherry-pink pot pourri everywhere and a huge one on the display cabinet which housed a variety of topical items within its ornate glass doors: a rabbit’s foot, models of black cats, crystals, sets of tarot cards, horseshoes, more photos in frames of Pat posing with people.

  Carla poked around in the tub with her right hand whilst holding on to the ball in her left. There were lots of different items: a brooch with the word ‘Mother’ on it, a pipe, a packet of needles, a souvenir pen from Blegthorpe-on-Sea, a ring, a small brass cat, a military medal, an enamel red heart, a lipstick. Carla plucked out that one, took off the top and twisted it out. It was the very same shade of pink that Pat wore. She turned it upside down to read the name on the bottom: French Fanny.

  Blimey, are French ones really that pink, thought Carla with a sudden inner giggle. She squinted to read it again. The letters were slightly worn, hence the mistake. French Fancy. She covered her mouth to stop the laughter frothing up inside her from escaping. The harder she suppressed it, the more it bubbled up. French Fanny. It was too funny. The censoring silence of the room wasn’t helping. She had a sudden vision of being sixteen and having a fit of giggles in her Maths GCSE when the exam invigilator sneezed and let out a giant fart at the same time. She’d thought she was going to burst from keeping that laugh in, it was seeping out of her eyes in tear form, so desperate was it to find its way to the outside. Just like now.

  This was the first time the corners of her mouth had turned up since ages before Martin died, she suddenly realised. She chose the lipstick as her object, then her brain went into reverse thrust. Am I only picking this because I was drawn in by the colour and the comical reading error? she asked herself. She needed to think carefully – after all, the object she chose could have important repercussions. She dug into the tub again and examined the scraps of jewellery and charms but there was nothing that had captured her attention as much as the French Fanny lipstick.

  She sat happily passing some vibes to her ball, zoning out in the process. Trying to empty her mind was impossible. She gave it her best shot, though it would have been easier to build a life-size model of the Taj Mahal in matchsticks. Blindfold. She closed her eyes and let the mellow sound of the clock on the wall fill her head. Tick-tick, tick-tock, tick-tock. She hadn’t slept properly since Martin had died and found herself being lulled by the rhythm and drifting onto another plane.

  The minutes passed and Carla was shaken out of a light doze by the sound of a door opening and voices outside.

  A nasal Leeds accent. ‘Now you remember what I said, lovey. Positive thinking.’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Thank you so much.’ A timid, relieved voice. A comforted one. That boded well. Carla couldn’t wait to get started.

  Pat Morrison entered the room and beckoned Carla towards her.

  ‘Come on, lovey. We’ll get started. Bring your ball and your object of choice.’

  Carla picked up her French Fanny lippy and squeezed some last minute vibes into her ball as she followed Pat down the hallway into a larger sitting room with a huge dusty pink sofa and thick pile pink carpet. There were a lot of lit pink candles around the room – strawberry scented. Pat invited her to sit, and Carla obeyed. Pat dropped into a huge armchair opposite, also pink, a bank of cushions in various shades of pink at her back propping her forwards.

  ‘Your object lovey, please.’ Pat held out her hand. She had huge curved talons painted pink, surprisingly enough. Carla handed over the lipstick.

  Pat nodded sagely. ‘The lipstick. Your femininity is very important to you, isn’t it, lovey?’

  ‘Erm, yes, I suppose so,’ said Carla. She had no desire to start drinking pints or wearing Brut anyway.

  ‘You were drawn to this object because it signifies your womanhood,’ Pat told her in no uncertain terms. ‘You feel the need to accentuate your femininity because it has been threatened.’

  Pat Morrison noticed Carla’s back straighten to attention and she smiled. Yep, she had this one sussed. Not that she didn’t have some psychic ability, but how much exactly she was unsure because she was a great expert at reading people – so much so that this talent alone would have made her appear like a mystic. Her dad had been a notorious conman, Velvet Vernon, a genius charmer with a line in patter as smooth as whipped cream. He could have a woman’s wage from her purse and her knickers round her ankles after a minute in his presence. She had been her father’s daughter, though she had never used her skills in the illicit way he did.

  She was quite content to parade herself publicly as a professional psychic; it was easy, lucrative and legal. Most people who came to see her wanted someone quickly on hand because they were in crisis. And that made them utterly transparent. Most of the time they did her work for her – Can you see my mother in spirit, she’s got white hair and a limp? Is she sending me her love? Has she met up with my dad and the dog? Not that Pat wanted to exploit anyone mercilessly, like her father had done. Pat saw herself as an excellent giver of service and bringer of smiles. The people who came to see her didn’t want an hour’s intense forecast of the rest of their lives, they wanted a quick fix, a fifteen-minute injection of hope that would get them through the next few weeks. She had fitted thirty clients in on one day last week. At forty pounds a pop – cash mostly – Velvet Vernon would have been proud.

  Pat could see that she was spot on with her lipstick deduction so she carried on down that path. It wasn’t hard to figure out what had knocked this woman’s confidence in herself.

  ‘A man has made you feel less than worthy.’ She sighed sympathetically as if she heard this so many times, which she had. Ninety per cent of the women who came to see her had a bloke in the background who had stamped all over their hearts wearing pit boots. ‘But all is not lost,’ Pat went on. ‘The fact that you picked this item means you haven’t given up. You are clinging on to your woman power.’

  She said this with such gusto that Carla believed her for a split second before she remembered that she had absolutely no power at all – womanly or otherwise.

  ‘Trust in pink. It’s a lucky colour for you,’ said Pat, tapping the side of her nose with a long talon, pierced with a small four-leafed clover charm, then she held out the same hand for the crystal ball. Receiving it, she closed her eyes and tilted her head backwards in concentration whilst taking in a slow deep breath.

  ‘Oooh interesting,’ she said, tantalisingly.

  What, what? thought Carla.

  ‘I can see a cat. A big black cat.’

  Carla felt the anti-climax right down to her shoes.

  ‘Have you got a cat, lovey?’ Pat asked.

  ‘No,’ said Carla.

  ‘Not yet.’ Pat wagged her finger. ‘You must look out for this lucky black cat. It will bring you luck.’

  What else would a lucky black cat bring but luck? thought Carla, disappointed by that prediction. Fleas, perhaps – or dead mice. She didn’t have a cat, never had had a cat and wouldn’t be getting one, either.

  ‘I sense a man,’ said Pat. ‘Deception. Past the point of no return.’

  Carla’s eyes widened.

  ‘I see him clearly. You have to forget him and move on. He won’t come back to you and if he does, you must say no, lovey.’

  Pat noticed the small twitch Carla’s head made. She’d cocked up slightly saying that. How? She slid into repair mode.

  ‘I mean he may try to contact you and ask for forgiveness. Not necessarily in person.’

  Carla gave a slow heavy nod. Ah, thought Pat. That struck a chord. He’s dead.

  ‘He has passed. You are full of questions that he cannot answer. You must let him go, lovey. The answers would only hurt you.’

  Carla burst into tears.

  ‘There is great loss here,’ said Pat with her best nasal sympathetic voice. ‘Far more than just the man. There are material things. You must let them all go. Start again.’

  Carla was nodding like the Churchill dog. Pat
had struck gold.

  ‘Think of the lipstick. You have yourself and your woman power and that will carry you forward, lovey. You need fresh things. Leave the memories. They aren’t good.’

  Pat handed Carla a box of pink tissues from which Carla ripped two, blowing her nose on one, and wiping her eyes with the other.

  ‘You think I should let it all go?’ asked Carla.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Pat. ‘I can feel no positivity in hanging on to your past life. I feel very strongly that you must go forwards. Even if you do feel as if you’re going backwards for a while, getting away from your past life is most definitely moving forwards. Trust in pink, lovey. And look out for the lucky black cat.’

  A black cat was always a good thing to say, Pat thought. Who didn’t see a black cat occasionally? And when this poor cow saw the black cat, she would perk up and the positive energy would propel her up and on. What was wrong about telling someone that good things were around the corner – it was as good as magic, even if it was bollocks? She held out her hand for her forty pounds. Her client was wet-eyed but smiling. Ker-ching. Another satisfied customer.

  Chapter 11

  Will Linton opened the door to two men who looked as if they had just swaggered out of Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. One, small and squat in a black leather jacket and a gold medallion around his neck that would have had Mr T turning green with envy; the other thin, haggard and hard-faced, with skin that told of cigarettes and too much alcohol, possibly a lasting legacy of drugs from his earlier days. It was the latter who spoke, in a surprisingly genteel voice.

  ‘Mr Linton. Mr Will Linton?’

  Parked on the road outside their house was a long truck. Will closed his eyes and shook his head slowly from side to side. This couldn’t be happening. Everything was moving too fast. It was only a week and a half ago that Cecilia Williams had told him that the bank was giving up on him.