The following week, a ten-year-old child was found dead from malnutrition in a block of luxury flats, and a woman who ran a successful clothing company in Oldham won ten million pounds. She told the clamouring press that her good fortune would in no way change her lifestyle.
STILL LIFE
Outside, the bell clanging, the rain falling. Inside, the cat, gingerly picking its path through the clusters of chair and table legs. Black as the coal in the dented copper scuttle standing in the corner. Its tiny tongue rasping the parquet floor, collecting the few crumbs of rock cake that remained.
'Beryl, take a broom under table four. We'll be having mice in here next.'
'Yes, Mrs Bagot.'
The woman behind the counter cracked upright, tall and pale and dry as a stick, cardigan pulled tight about her flat bust, colourless hair scraped high. 'For the life of me I really don't know why people can't use their napkins properly.' A bony forefinger ran around the rim of the cake dish on the corner of the counter. The edge of an apron was applied.
'I said to Mr Sanders, you ought to put down linoleum what with people traipsing in and out of here in all weathers. I might as well have saved my breath.'
A coal popped in the grate. Beyond the tearoom, drizzly twilight faded into darkness. A brisk stamping of boots on the platform outside and Mr Godby entered, his station-issue raincoat buffeted by the wind. With him came cascades of rain and the chill of the October evening. Faced with the imminent attack of Beryl and the broom, the cat fled from beneath a table out into the night.
'Are them Bamburys fresh? If so you could do worse than let me 'ave a couple with a nice cup of tea.'
'Most certainly they're fresh.' Myrtle's height grew with indignation. 'And you can take just one. I've got my customers to think of.'
'Customers?' asked Mr Godby with a wink to Beryl, 'I don't see any customers. Wouldn't be surprised meself if your rock cakes hadn't driven them out into the rain.'
Beryl turned her giggle into a cough and concentrated hard on the floor.
'I'll thank you not to be so cheeky, Mr Godby. We had newlyweds in this afternoon, off on their 'oneymoon. Pretty as a picture, she was. No complaints from them, I noticed. Haven't you got the boat train to let through?'
'It's not due for another ten minutes, so it's a cup of tea or a kiss, which?'
'I'm sure I don't know to what you are referrin'.' Myrtle turned over a cup and stood it beneath the urn. 'You can have a cup of tea and welcome if you keep your sauce to yourself. Beryl, put some more coal on. That wood's too damp to pick up.'
All along the platform, the light shades clanged rhythmically against the girders of the station roof. Rain cascaded down the tobacco-coloured sloping glass. Laura stepped through the swinging pools of light toward the butter-glow of the refreshment room windows, coat knotted tightly around her, Boots library book tucked high under one arm.
Inside, she waited for a break in the conversation to order. The reedy, tittle-tattle voice of the woman behind the counter faltered as she acknowledged her customer. This is how I want to remember it, thought Laura, the pop and crunch of the fire in the grate, the rain outside. I shan't be coming here again.
'A cup of tea, please.'
'Certainly.' Myrtle turned a cup. 'Cake or pastry?'
'Perhaps a Bath bun. Are they fresh?'
Mr Godby shot a knowing look at Beryl.
'Made this morning.' Myrtle removed the glass dome and tonged a bun on to a thick white plate. 'That'll be fourpence.'
Laura dug into her purse, the volume of Keats sliding from beneath her arm toward the floor. Mr Godby stopped it, placing it on the counter.
'Thank you so much.' Laura awkwardly removed her purse, tea and cake to a nearby table, returning for the book.
The tea grew cold in her hand as she idly turned the pages. How many times so far this week? Six or seven at least. Soon, perhaps, it would only be once or twice. Perhaps his earnest face would only come to mind on rainy Thursday afternoons, describing a routine day at the hospital until the whistle for the boat train gave him pause. Sometimes she played a game, staring hard at the book until she was convinced that he would be standing there when she looked up. She played it now, closing the cover and wiping it dry with the back of her glove. Now she would look up and see -
'Laura! Goodness, we do seem to be running into each other a lot these days! My dear, you look frazzled. I'm not a bit surprised, this ghastly weather is enough to tire anyone out.'
Dolly Messiter, bustling with chat, garlanded with packages, dropped into the chair opposite. Laura forced a smile of recognition, if not welcome. Dolly failed to notice. She scraped her chair around and addressed the counter.
'I say, could I have a cup of tea, not too strong, and a bar of Nestles?' She turned to Laura. 'It's for Tony. I'm surprised he still has a tooth in his head.'
'Sixpenny or shilling?' Myrtle was displeased at having to call from the counter. Dolly showed no sign of rising to collect her tea.
'Oh, the sixpenny, plain if you have it.' She lowered her voice and turned back. 'Laura, you really do look rather peaky. Would you like a fresh cup, buck you up?''No, really, I'm fine thanks, just a little tired.'
'Iron pills. They're the answer. Margo swears by them, not that they've done her much good, poor soul.'
Beryl brought over the tea and the chocolate.
'Thank you, dear.' Dolly handed her eightpence and plopped in the cube of sugar from her saucer. 'Who would have thought that the shops would be so crowded on such a beastly day? My dear I'm all done in, and soaked thanks to the pavement outside McFisheries.'
Laura's gaze had returned to the back of the library book.
If you have enjoyed this book, why not try these other fine -
'These stockings were a present from Tony, and now of course they're quite ruined…'
In the distance, machinery rattled. Rails pinged with the weight of a locomotive. 'Could you tell me, is that the Ketchworth train?'
Mr Godby looked up from his Daily Sketch, propped against the cake stand.
'No, it's the express, the boat train.' He set down his cup of tea. 'Early too!' and hurried out of the door.
'Really, Laura, you ought to see a doctor. You looked exhausted the last time I saw you. But of course, you were with a doctor, weren't you? Doctor…'
She searched the air for a name, waiting for Laura to supply it.
'Doctor Harvey. Alec Harvey.'
'Harvey, that's right. What a charming man. There are so few about these days. Didn't he go to India?'
'Africa. He moved his practice there.'
'Africa, that's it. He should have prescribed you something. Have you heard from him?'
'No, nothing.' Laura drank the last of her cold tea. The express roared through, beating a tattoo on the sleepers, halting conversation.
She's going to ask how Fred is now. What can I tell her? Fred will be sitting at home listening to the wireless, doing the crossword. Fred is writing in the answer to a clue, checking his watch, waiting for his dinner. Fred is Fred. Not Alec.
'Well, much as I hate to brave the cold, I'd really better heave these parcels on to the platform or I'll never board the train in time. What time is it?'
'Twenty to six. It's due in three minutes. They don't bother to close the gates between the two trains. Here, let me give you a hand with those.'
Dolly thankfully handed her one of the smaller packages.
'You go ahead,' said Laura, 'I'll bring the rest.'
Dolly staggered out of the tearoom clutching her purchases while Laura rose and folded up the fur collar of her coat. As she pulled on her gloves she gazed around the refreshment room for the last time. The door had closed on Dolly. Myrtle was attending to her accounts, squinting over the top of her spectacles as she made ticks on a list. For a moment the only sound was the shifting of fireplace coals.