The Second Chance Tea Shop (Little Somerby) Page 2

  There was a sudden rumble past the kitchen window. ‘Thank goodness for that!’ Anna jumped up as the removal lorry pulled up two doors down. ‘Let’s hope I can find some jumpers and blankets in there.’

  ‘Leave Ellie here for a bit,’ Charlotte said, gesturing to the two three-year-olds, who were stalking Charlotte’s ancient cat Gizzy. ‘You’ll be far more productive without her under your feet, and I’ll give her some tea if you like.’

  ‘If you’re sure. That would make things a bit easier.’

  ‘No worries.’ Charlotte grinned. ‘Now get back over there and give those movers some direction, or you’ll end up with your crockery in the garden shed!’

  Anna smiled, marginally happier. Coming back to the village had been a decision she’d fretted about, but having Charlotte so close definitely made her feel as though it had been the right one. Kissing Ellie goodbye, she hurried back to Pippin Cottage.

  *

  Once the removal men had left, Anna paced her new kitchen restlessly. The cottage was rapidly getting colder, despite the fact she’d lit the wood burner in the lounge using the small amount of logs left in the store out the back. For the thousandth time since her husband’s death, Anna yearned for James beside her to offer her a smile and, in this case, some actual constructive help with the Rayburn. Coupled with the fact that she was now standing amidst piles of her possessions in boxes, she once again felt overwhelmed.

  A sharp knock at the back door made her jump. Turning around, she hurried to open it. The man on the doorstep looked familiar, right down to the expression of irritation on his face. Of all the people to have turned up to solve her problem, it had to be the bloody estate agent who had been so rude to her when she’d viewed the cottage.

  ‘Oh. Could you not get hold of the previous owner after all?’ Anna said, as the man waited on the back doorstep, presumably to be invited in.

  ‘I am the previous owner,’ the man replied. ‘Or rather, my father is.’

  Anna, flummoxed, tried to recover her wits, which seemed to have fled as she opened the door to this tall, grim-faced stranger. ‘Oh. Right. You showed me around when I came to view, and so I just assumed…’

  ‘Well, you assumed wrong. Can I come in?’

  Anna nodded and stepped out of the way to allow the man admittance to her kitchen. So tall he had to duck under the doorframe as he walked in, his wavy dark hair was shot through with threads of grey. Hazel eyes sketched with fine lines of crows’ feet and a jawline with a brushstroke or two of five o’clock shadow framed a prominent, but obviously once broken nose. A broad chest wrapped in a dark blue cable knit jumper tapered down to endless, denim-clad legs. He might have been dressed more casually this time, but his expression of irritation at being called out was the same as when he’d showed her around the cottage. Why hadn’t he told her he was related to the owner when she’d viewed the place?

  ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you,’ Anna said, trying to lighten the mood that he had brought into her kitchen. ‘But I didn’t know what else to do. The Rayburn doesn’t seem to be working, and I was assured when I signed the inventory that it would be serviced and in full working order on completion.’

  ‘My father should have seen to it.’

  Anna couldn’t help but notice the gruff stranger’s pronounced West Country burr.

  He knelt down and examined the power panel tucked away behind a small hatch. After a minute or so, he stood back up again. ‘There’s no oil in it. You’ll have to order some.’

  After a long day full of hassles and irritations, Anna’s temper flared. ‘The inventory said there was half a tank of oil left. Surely that’s enough to run the thing for a little while?’

  ‘Well, there isn’t now. Perhaps the time it took for the purchase to go through meant that the tank ran dry. Heaven knows your solicitor took long enough to come back to us.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault the roof needed fixing!’ Anna retorted. ‘Your solicitor didn’t exactly rush back with confirmation that the work had been done, either. I assume that won’t be found wanting, like the oil tank.’

  ‘I’m sure the paperwork is all in order on our side. I’d get onto your own solicitor if you have any more queries.’ The man seemed to be struggling with a decision, and his eyes flickered from the Rayburn back to Anna. ‘In the meantime, I’ll give the merchant I use a ring and get him to come and fill up the oil tank as soon as he can.’

  Anna exhaled. ‘Thank you.’

  For a moment they both stood, an awkward silence between them. If only James were here, Anna thought.

  ‘I’ll be off then.’

  His voice broke into her thoughts. Anna glanced up at his face; his mouth was set in a grim line still, but his eyes betrayed a trace of something warmer. ‘Right,’ she said, her voice quieter than she intended. As she looked at him, something tugged at her memory; something long forgotten that, as soon as she tried to grasp it, slipped away like sand through her fingers. I’ve met you before, she thought. And not just when you showed me the cottage.

  Before she could ponder further, the man nodded, and then, without another word, he opened the kitchen door and stepped back out of the house. It was only as he closed the door behind him that Anna realised that once again he’d failed to introduce himself. The paperwork on the house had listed Appletree Holdings as the previous owner of the cottage, and she was still none the wiser about who, or what, they actually were. Not that it seemed to matter, after such a long day. Leaning back against the worktop, relieved that Ellie wasn’t around to witness them, the tears she’d been holding back all day slid down her cheeks.

  3

  Matthew Carter looked at his watch and picked up his pace. Normally, a walk down the Strawberry Line – a former railway track that had now been converted into a cycle path which ran alongside the village of Little Somerby – would be enough to take his mind off whatever was causing him stress, lined as it was with oak, ash and silver birch trees and bordered by acres of farmland. Holly bushes, laden with berries, thrust forth their prickly hands in a potent reminder of the festive season, and there was the sharp scent of frost, laced with pine balsam in the air. But this afternoon Matthew had entirely too much to do to appreciate the beauty of the countryside.

  He’d decided to work from home for most afternoons this week, mindful that his teenaged daughter had started her school holiday. His decision in no way reflected a let-up in his considerable workload. The absolute last thing he had needed was to be dragged away from his work to that bloody cottage to fix a problem that wasn’t of his making. He should really have driven over, but after hours at his desk he had been almost glad of the chance to stretch his legs.

  He couldn’t understand why anyone would move house so close to Christmas. Surely her solicitors should have advised against it, being, undoubtedly, in the process of winding down themselves for the holiday? Having had to take a few people around the cottage when the estate agent had double-booked was pushing it, and to be dragged back in there, on the day of the sale, and castigated for an issue that his father should have sorted, was the final straw.

  Picking up his pace, he felt his back pocket buzzing. As he pulled his phone out, he recognised his PA’s number on the screen. He couldn’t even get away from work for half an hour, it seemed. He sighed. ‘Hello? Yes, that’s fine. Tell them I’ll be in touch tomorrow morning. Thanks Jen.’ Yet another thing that needed his attention, he thought. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered employing anyone else when everything clearly still landed on his desk. His daughter would doubtless tell him it was his own lack of delegation skills, but, he thought with a reluctant grin, she’d soon discover it wasn’t quite so easy when she took the family business on. If, indeed, she ever did.

  As he neared his own house once again, he wondered if she’d be at home. He was sure he wasn’t imagining it, but since he’d been working from home, his daughter had seemed to be making herself scarce. Pushing open the back door, which led straight into th
e kitchen, he saw his border collie, replete from dinner, stretched across the rug by the fireplace.

  ‘Meredith? Are you home?’ Matthew heard the muffled sound of the television coming from the sitting room and strolled through the kitchen and hallway.

  ‘In here.’

  Matthew pushed open the sitting room door. Stretched out on the battered brown Chesterfield leather sofa, feet propped up on one of its stubby sides, phone in one hand and a slice of Marmite on toast in the other, was his daughter. The television blared, and Matthew automatically reached for the remote to turn it down a notch or two, just as he had when she’d been a viewer of CBeebies, many years ago.

  ‘Have you finished for the day?’

  ‘Nearly,’ Matthew replied. ‘Just got a few more figures to look at. This close to Christmas, there’s a hell of a lot to go through before shutdown.’

  ‘Aren’t you ever off duty?’ Meredith asked, leaning over to stroke Sefton, who, ever hopeful of a dropped morsel from his mistress’ plate, sniffed around.

  Matthew grinned at his daughter. ‘The boss has told me I can take Christmas Day off.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ Meredith grinned. ‘The last time I checked, you were the boss.’

  ‘You’d never know it, sometimes,’ Matthew said. He glanced down at Sefton. ‘I take it, from the way that dog’s behaving that you’ve walked him already today.’

  Meredith ruffled the collie’s furry neck affectionately. ‘He’d been pacing the kitchen since lunchtime so I thought I should get him out, as I didn’t know what time you were going to be back. I took him over the East Orchard.’

  ‘I’m surprised I didn’t see you there,’ Matthew said.

  ‘Why? What were you doing over there?’

  ‘Some woman rang moaning about the Rayburn in that old cottage that Granddad just sold,’ Matthew’s brow furrowed as he remembered the rather combative discussion he’d had at Pippin Cottage.

  ‘Her name’s Anna,’ Meredith said wryly. ‘I met her earlier, too. She seems nice.’

  ‘Nice or not, I didn’t really have time to go sorting out something your grandfather should have already done. I’ve got to break the back of what’s on my desk before start of business tomorrow or I really will be working Christmas Day.’ He glanced at his daughter, who had been joined on the sofa by the dog. Sefton met his gaze, unrepentant, as Meredith pulled his head onto her lap. ‘He’s not allowed on the furniture. Do you fancy a curry tonight?’

  ‘No, Dad. Remember I made that casserole for us. I’ll stick it in the oven now,’ Meredith kissed Sefton’s black nose. ‘It’ll take two hours, I reckon.’

  ‘What would I do without you, daughter of mine?’

  ‘Starve to death, probably. Or die of heart failure. Now get back to work so we can chill out and watch the next episode of Game of Thrones together later.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Matthew muttered. Sometimes he wondered who was the parent and who was the child in this relationship; he was lucky to have such a practical and considerate daughter.

  Walking back out of the living room and towards his study, where a dozen different bits of paper awaited him, he hoped he’d be able to pick up where he’d been forced to leave off. Before he did, however, he had a couple of calls to make. The one to his father could wait, but he found the number of the oil merchant and rang through.

  ‘All right John? I was hoping you could sort out some heating oil. No, not for me, for Pippin Cottage. Yes, needs a full tank. Stick it on my account. Can you check the condition of the tank as well; let me know if it needs replacing. Thanks. Merry Christmas to you too.’

  As he ended the call, his thoughts wandered back to the new occupant of Pippin Cottage. He couldn’t help thinking he’d seen her somewhere before, but he was buggered if he could put his finger on where. Not that it mattered; the cottage was sold. At least he could now, hopefully, put it, and his encounter with its new owner, behind him. It was a place, for many reasons, he was none too keen to revisit. Shaking his head, he settled back down at his desk and picked up the nearest sheaf of papers.

  4

  Anna didn’t have time to be miserable for long. The meeting with Ursula at The Little Orchard Tea Shop was looming. What had possessed her to arrange it on the day she moved in, she now wasn’t sure, but at least it would give her something else to focus on other than the packing boxes.

  It was about a ten-minute walk from the cottage to the tea shop, and as Anna walked up the High Street she was assailed by all things Christmas. Real fir trees, around two feet tall, had been attached high up on the walls of virtually every building, and the festive light panels that were fixed to the lamp posts were shining in the winter darkness. The shops were still open, as this close to Christmas they were encouraging all the trade they could get. As Anna passed The Stationmaster pub, enticing smells from the restaurant drifted on the chilly air. The chill presaged snow, but in this part of the world a white Christmas was hugely unlikely. A few people walked past Anna, and smiled or nodded. She found herself smiling back.

  The Little Orchard Tea Shop was about to close when she arrived, and as Anna reached the front door of the shop she could see Ursula behind the counter slicing up a rather delectable winter fruitcake. Her head of wild grey curls gave her a bohemian air, but under the crazy hairstyle lay an astute business brain. The Little Orchard Tea Shop had been a joint project with her husband Brian, who worked behind the scenes and kept the finances in order. Ursula herself had been running the shop for nearly twenty years, with the help of Lizzie, her chief waitress, currently sitting on one of the squashy red sofas that were in the far corner of the tea shop, and a troop of teenagers, who passed the baton to younger friends when they either lost interest or moved on to university or permanent employment. Anna herself had done a stint at the tea shop the summer before she went to university.

  Over the years she’d kept up to date with the progress of the tea shop, as not only was Ursula a dear friend of her mother’s but she was also Anna’s godmother. Though neither of them was remotely religious these days, the bond between them had always been strong, and even when Anna had settled on the other side of the country, she’d kept in touch with Ursula by letter and, later, despite Ursula’s technophobia, by email. Anna was one of the first to know when, due to worsening health, Ursula was looking for someone to take over the management of the tea shop, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity for both of them to make a fresh start.

  The Little Orchard Tea Shop had become a goldmine over the years; converting even the staunchest tea drinkers into aficionados of various types of Italian and Columbian coffee. With the nest egg that they’d accumulated for their retirement, Ursula and Brian had decided to buy a villa in Umbria, where the climate was kinder for Ursula’s arthritis.

  As Anna crossed the threshold, Ursula looked up from the cake and gave her a welcoming smile. ‘You made it in one piece, then,’ she said, putting the cake knife down. Stepping out from behind the counter, she enfolded her goddaughter in a warm embrace.

  ‘Just about!’ Anna replied. ‘My furniture took a bit of a detour, but everything’s arrived at last.’

  ‘You could have always rearranged tonight,’ Ursula started to walk over to the sofa. ‘I mean, you don’t officially take over the management of this place until the New Year, so we have a bit of time.’

  Anna noticed, with a stab of sympathy, the wooden stick Ursula used, and the stiffness of her movements.

  ‘I wanted to come in and catch up as soon as I could,’ Anna sat down on the other end of the sofa, feeling relieved at actually having somewhere comfortable to sit after a very long day. ‘And I’ll have a bit of time between Christmas and New Year to swot up on how things happen in here.’

  Lizzie, who was still wearing her green apron with ‘The Little Orchard Tea Shop’ embroidered in white on the front, smiled at Anna as she reached for a slice of the fruit cake that Ursula had brought over to the table. In her late forties, with thick dark ha
ir and a friendly smile, she exuded calm. ‘Hi there,’ she said. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’

  ‘You too,’ Anna replied, sitting down.

  Ursula poured Anna a cup of tea from the pot that was already on the table. ‘I’ll be on hand, for a bit while we sort out the final arrangements in Italy. You’re still happy to sign the contract for a year?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Anna replied. This move back to Little Somerby was, hopefully, her last major upheaval for a while. ‘Managing this place seems like a really good way to get back into village life.’ And, she thought, it would hopefully allow her to combat the last of the darkness that her grief over James habitually plunged her into. The tea shop took her back to a time before her ‘proper’ career had started, when she’d managed a small sandwich shop after university. She hoped the skills needed for retail would come back to her fairly easily, given a week or two behind the counter. And Lizzie would continue to work her own shifts at the tea shop, leaving Anna free to work around Ellie’s nursery hours and also to do the baking of the stock. She knew, if she wanted to take any annual leave at any point, that Ursula also had a number of local suppliers who could be called upon to provide stock if needed. This gave her some much-needed reassurance, since home baking was one thing, but baking professionally was an entirely new venture.

  ‘This cake is gorgeous,’ Anna replied, taking another bite of the slice of fruit cake. Its moistness came from not just the fruit, but a generous addition of cider, which made a nice change from the usual seasonal brandy-soaked recipes.

  ‘I’ve no doubt you’ll be producing things just as good,’ Ursula said. ‘Those lavender and honey cupcakes you baked for your mother’s birthday in the summer were superb. You should add those to the menu when you’ve taken over. There’re a few local honey producers you might want to look up, to give them a real Somerset flavour. I’m sure if you go onto the internet you’ll find quite a few you could try.’