Page 103 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden

Adela’s heart pumped and her stomach churned with nervous excitement. She had gone to MrsKelly’s expecting to find out little about a nameless French couple, not wanting to raise her hopes toomuch. But the friendly organist had given her a precious gift. Not only did Doris remember John Wesley as a cheerful, engaging baby called Jacques, but she had told her where he lived.

As Adela walked briskly in the soft twilight, she felt a clash of emotions about the Segals. She was grateful that such a caring couple were bringing up her son. Both Lily and Doris had had nothing but warm words for the Belgian couple. She tried to imagine what they looked like. Perhaps Elene was dark-haired like she was. Would MrSegal be as handsome as Sanjay? Adela thought that was unlikely.

It was unsettling thinking of her former lover. The only good thing that had come out of their brief, intense affair had been their beautiful baby. But now another couple would spend a lifetime bringing him up. A sharp stab of envy made Adela stop and clutch her stomach as if she’d been winded.

Two women standing gossiping on a nearby doorstep stopped and stared.

‘You all right, hinny?’ one called out.

Adela gulped for breath. ‘I’m fine,’ she gasped, trying to control the palpitations in her chest. ‘Just walking too quickly.’

‘I’ll fetch you a cup o’ water,’ the woman said and dived into the house before Adela could refuse.

A minute later, Adela was gulping at the tepid water the kind woman had brought her. ‘Thank you.’ She gave her a grateful smile.

‘You’re not from round here, are you?’ the older neighbour asked.

‘No,’ said Adela. ‘I’m looking for Railway Terrace.’

‘You’re the wrong end of Heaton, hinny,’ said the bearer of the water. She gave Adela directions.

Adela set off, annoyed at herself for not asking the way sooner. She had been in such a state after her visit to Doris Kelly that she hadn’t been thinking straight and had headed in the vague direction of the railway line.

Perhaps she should give up and come back in full daylight when there would be people about and children playing in the street. Yet she was so close now that she couldn’t give up the hunt.

Twenty minutes later, Adela was standing at the end of a street proclaiming itself as Railway Terrace. It was identical to the streets on either side: soot-blackened red-brick rows with neat lace-curtained windows and uniform doors. Pulse quickening, she set off down it, looking eagerly from side to side, though she wasn’t sure what clues would tell her where the Belgians might be living.

Halfway down the street, the houses came to an abrupt stop and open waste ground took over. In the half-light, she could see the earth was pock-marked with craters and strewn with piles of brick and rubble like crude temples. A large part of the street had been bombed and not rebuilt. At the far end, factory sheds clustered around a railway siding.

Doris’s words came to her clearly:‘Railway Terrace near the goods yard.’

Adela realised in horror that this was the end of Railway Terrace where the Segals had lived with John Wesley. She gasped aloud. ‘Please don’t say he’s dead!’

She picked her way across the bomb site, scouring the ground, as if she would suddenly come across some evidence that they had been here. Perhaps she would find the precious pink swami’s stone that she had bundled into the baby’s blanket as a good luck charm when they’d come to take her son away. Her mother had given it to her as a talisman:‘I want you to wear it and always be under the swami’s protection and my love.’Adela had treasured the stone and it had been all she could think of to give John Wesley as a token of her love.

As Adela searched fruitlessly, she knew how ridiculous she was being. She made herself stop and take deep breaths. She didn’t know for sure if the Segals’ house had been bombed and even if it had, that didn’t mean anyone had died in the raid. They might have been rehoused nearby. Or they might have moved away from Railway Terrace beforethe bombing. An hour ago, she had felt jealous of the Belgians who were raising her child. Now she prayed fervently that they were alive and well and looking after her son somewhere safe.

Her emotions in shreds, Adela turned for home. She would return another day and make enquiries about them. She had to believe John Wesley was alive – the alternative was too unbearable to contemplate.

It was the following week before Adela was able to get away from the café and return to search Railway Terrace. She told no one what she was planning to do – least of all Sam. They only spoke to each other about the running of the café and allotment: mundane arrangements as if they were merely business partners and not husband and wife. He brought in the baking that his mother did, muttering that his mother was tiring of the travelling and preferred to stay at home.

On the day she was planning to slip off early to go to Heaton, Sam caught her attention.

‘You might have to find someone else to make the pies,’ he said, glancing warily at Adela. ‘Mother is finding it’s getting too much for her.’

‘That’s all we need!’ Adela said in exasperation.

‘You’d be better off finding someone younger and more local anyway,’ Sam suggested, before leaving swiftly for the allotment.

Adela felt overwhelmed by responsibility for the café; when would it ever stop?

‘It’s always me who has to sort out the problems,’ Adela complained to Doreen. ‘Mother must have had the patience of a saint to run this place.’

‘He’s right, you know,’ said Doreen forthrightly. ‘MrsJackman’s not reliable – she comes in when it suits her and you’ve never got on with her in the kitchen. We need a proper cook who can do the whole menu.’

Adela sighed, knowing Lexy’s grand-niece was speaking sense.

‘You’re the only one I can rely on around here,’ said Adela, swinging an arm around Doreen’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you go leaving me for some office job too soon, will you?’