Page 50 of The Girl from the Tea Garden (The India Tea #3)
T he household came alive when George burst back through the front door and shouted up the stairs.
‘Come on, ladies, where are you hiding? Want a spin in the car, Adela? Thought I’d take you for a sightseeing trip. Mam says you want to visit Herbert’s Café.’
Adela and Jane clattered out of the bedroom, where they’d been lounging on the bed absorbed in Jane’s two copies of the new photographic magazine, Picture Post .
Jane, it turned out, was a keen photographer, but couldn’t afford to buy or develop much film.
Adela was fascinated by the pictures of ordinary British life: miners walking to work in the mist; women wearing flowery aprons hanging out washing in cramped backstreets; a child riding to school on a bicycle.
‘Yes to all of those,’ Adela said and grinned as she jumped down the stairs.
Olive was already dressed for an outing in a green coat and matching hat.
It turned out that George had swapped the van for his father’s car so he could ferry their visitor about. They all climbed into the small Austin, Olive up front with George, while the girls sat in the back.
‘Don’t drive too fast,’ Olive said, tensing as George revved the accelerator and pulled on to the main road into town.
‘This area is called Arthur’s Hill, and we’re joining Westgate Road,’ George said, pointing out landmarks as they went.
He drove them back past the railway station and the impressive Palladian buildings of central Newcastle, with their massive soot-blackened pillars and grand windows.
They dipped steeply downhill towards the quayside.
‘We don’t want to see the mucky Tyne,’ cried Olive. ‘Adela will want to see the shops.’
‘All in good time,’ said George. He began to whistle ‘The Lambeth Walk’ and Adela immediately joined in singing.
‘You know the show Me and My Girl ?’
‘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.’
Lexy sat with them until the tea and cakes arrived, plying Adela with questions about her family and Belgooree, then about Tilly and Sophie.
‘They’re spending most of the visit in Dunbar with Tilly’s sister, but Tilly can’t wait to have a trip to town.’
‘You tell her to come here for her dinner and see me,’ said Lexy. ‘I’ll make her steak and kidney pie and her favourite chocolate cake.’
‘And you make sure she pays for it,’ muttered Olive.
The order arrived, and the manageress watched with an eagle eye as Nance transferred the tea, cakes, china plates and cups to the table. ‘Fetch an extra pot of hot water, lass. Adela will take hers black and it might be too strong.’
‘How do you know that?’ Adela laughed.
‘’Cause you’re your mam’s daughter.’ Lexy smiled.
Afterwards, George drove them around the centre of town, pointing out the large department stores of Fenwick’s and Binns and the Theatre Royal and various cinema houses.
‘Can we all go to the pictures one evening?’ Adela asked in excitement. She was thrilled with the bustling city centre and the wide choice of entertainment.
‘George can take you,’ said Olive. ‘Jack and I are not ones for films and silly musical hall acts.’
Back at the house, Adela met her uncle Jack.
He was a smallish man with receding fair hair and a wiry moustache that was already white.
He looked frail, his suit a little big for him and his face deeply scored, but he had attractive eyes, and she could see how once he would have been handsome.
George took after him. He gave her a friendly welcome before going off to wash and change. Olive fussed in his wake.
They all ate in the dining room at six thirty prompt. The room felt musty and cold, as if it was rarely used. George did most of the talking, regaling them with stories of his customers.
‘Don’t believe the half of it,’ Jack grunted. ‘Our lad likes to tell a tall tale.’
‘Cousin George, you should go on the stage,’ Adela said, laughing.
‘Over my dead body,’ said Olive. ‘He’ll be a respectable businessman like his father.’
‘Well, that’s what I want to do,’ Adela announced, ‘go into theatre.’
Olive shook her head and clucked in disapproval. ‘Surely our Clarrie won’t let you.’
‘Mother doesn’t mind. In fact she encourages it.’
‘Good for you,’ cried George. ‘I’d come and watch you any day of the week.’
After that, Jack got up and retreated to the sitting room to doze over a newspaper in front of the unlit gas fire. George kissed his mother and went out, calling, ‘Don’t wait up. I’ve got my key.’
For the first time in her life, Adela helped with the washing-up. Jane had to show her what to do.