A Scone To Die For (Oxford Tearoom Mysteries ~ Book 1) (5 page)

I made it back to my parents’ house with a minute to spare but by the time I’d hung up my cycle helmet and dashed into the downstairs toilet to wash my hands, I was definitely late when I arrived at the table.

My parents were already seated—my father, Professor Philip Rose, at his customary place at the head of the table, with a full dinnerware place setting laid out in front of him and a linen napkin at his elbow. My mother, Evelyn Rose, had just served the first course: split pea soup with croutons and a drizzle of sour cream, in elegant porcelain bowls. No chipped crockery in my parents’ house or any stained mugs either. I don’t know how my mother did it but she kept all her china looking as pristine as the day she bought them from the Royal Doulton section in the local department store.

“Sorry I’m late!” I gasped as I dropped into my seat. “I was—”

“Darling,
volume
…” My mother frowned at me.

I sighed and made an effort to lower my voice. “Sorry, Mother—I was having a drink with Cassie and Seth at the Blue Boar.”

“Oh, how is Seth? Such a nice boy.”

“He’s not really a boy anymore, Mother. But yes, he’s fine. He’s having some teething troubles settling into his new college, but otherwise he seems on good form.”

“Which college has he transferred to?” My father spoke up for the first time. My father was an Oxford professor and the stereotype of the absent-minded academic, spending more time with his nose buried in his books than in the real world. Even though he was now semi-retired, he still kept an active interest in all things to do with the University.

“Gloucester College,” I informed him.

He nodded. “Good cricket team.” He lapsed into silence again, concentrating on his soup.

“Yes, well, I was thinking, dear…” my mother continued smoothly. “Perhaps you could ask Seth to help you.”

I looked at her in puzzlement. “Help me with what?”

“Why, find a job, of course!”

I gave her an exasperated look. “Mother, I have a job. I run a tearoom.”

She made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Yes, that’s nice, dear—but surely that’s not what you intend to do long term? I mean, you didn’t go to Oxford just to become a… a tea lady!”

I sighed. We’d already had this conversation a thousand times. While I shall always be grateful that I attended one of the best universities in the world, it did come with a lot of baggage—the main one being a nagging sense of failure if you didn’t win a Nobel Prize, become a multi-billionaire top CEO, or run for Prime Minister once you’d left Oxford. Somehow you were always dogged by the constant question of: “What have you achieved that’s worthy of your brilliant education? You’ve been to Oxford! Why aren’t you living up to your potential?”

I’d lived with that guilt for years—it was what had driven me to climb the corporate ladder, even though my heart wasn’t in it, and to remain in a career which had left me feeling empty and miserable—just so I could hold my head up and have an impressive title to whip out when people asked me what I had done since graduating from Oxford.

But three months ago—when I turned twenty-nine and realised that the big 3-0 was rushing towards me—I had one of those “Oh my God, what have I done with my life?” moments. Maybe it was an early mid-life crisis. Suddenly I was sick of doing what was expected of me; I wanted to rebel, to do something crazy, to be
that person
that family and friends whispered about—with horror and disapproval and yet also admiration and envy—for having the
guts
to just do what the hell they wanted to and not care what other people think.

The next day, I’d walked into my office in Sydney and handed in my resignation. A week later, I heard about the tearoom in Meadowford-on-Smythe while on an internet chat with Cassie: the owners were selling out and moving to the Costa del Sol, and the beautiful 15th-century institution was under threat. I didn’t know the first thing about running a food business—and I couldn’t bake to save my life—but I fancied a challenge… and I missed England.

So I made probably the first impulsive decision in my life: I sold my swanky penthouse apartment in Sydney, bought the Little Stables Tearoom, packed my things, and came home. Of course, once I’d tasted a couple of weeks of British weather and maternal smothering, the romance did begin to fade a bit… but still, I didn’t regret it.

I pulled myself out of my thoughts and back to the conversation at the dining table. “Why can’t I just run a tearoom if it makes me happy?”

My mother looked at me as if I had grown two heads, then she continued as if I hadn’t spoken.

“Dorothy Clarke told me that her daughter works for the University in their Alumni Office. She was having her highlights done at the hair salon when I was there last month and she told me all about Suzanne’s job. It sounds very glamorous and Suzanne gets to travel sometimes on University business. Wouldn’t you like a job like that, dear?”

“No,” I said firmly. “I
had
a job like that in Sydney, Mother. Don’t you remember? And I hated it.”

My mother tutted. “You didn’t
hate
it. How could you have done it for eight years if you hated it?”

“Trust me, Mother. I’m much happier now. I’m proud of my little tearoom and I want to make a success of it. I don’t need another job.”

My mother was silent as we finished the rest of our soup and I thought that she might have finally accepted my position on the subject. It was too much for hope for. As we began our main course (roast lamb with spiced parsnips, carrots, and crispy roast potatoes, accompanied by home-made mint sauce—ah, I’d missed a good traditional British roast) she launched a new attack from a different angle.

“Has Cassie got a boyfriend yet?”

I shook my head.

“Why is she never with a nice young man?”

I shrugged. “Cassie is just… a free spirit, I guess. Besides, you know her first love is her paintbrush.”

“Well, it’s about time she thought about settling down, you know…” She gave me a meaningful look. “I mean, Cassie isn’t as young as she used to be and everyone knows that once a woman passes thirty, everything starts to go downhill.”

I had a sneaking suspicion that she was not talking about my best friend, but I could be as obtuse as my mother when I chose to be.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Cassie—I think everything is still very uphill with her,” I said cheerfully

My mother pursed her lips. “Yes, but it is so strange, dear. Such a pretty girl too. I would have thought that the men would be flocking around her.”

“They do flock around her,” I said. “The problem is that she’s not very interested in what they have to offer.”

My mother gave a gasp and put a hand up to her throat. “Do you mean Cassie is a lesbos?”

“Lesbian, Mother. The word is lesbian. Lesbos is an island in Greece. And no, Cassie is not lesbian. Not that there’s anything wrong with that anyway.” I glowered at her.

“No, of course not, dear. I’m sure lesbians are lovely people.”

Argh. Argh. Argh.
I wanted to face plant on the table, but resisted.

“Anyway, I was thinking…” my mother continued airily. “Perhaps you’re right, after all. Career isn’t everything. There are
other
things a woman can do that are very worthwhile—perhaps even more worthwhile. Such as making a home and starting a family…”

“You could be right,” I said dryly. “But she usually needs someone to make a home and start a family with.”

My mother pounced on me. “I’m so glad you say that, darling, because I’ve been thinking the very same thing! You’ll never meet anyone stuck out there in Meadowford-on-Smythe all day. Why, most of the men in the village are old enough to be your grandfather! So I was thinking, perhaps I can help you become acquainted with some of the young men in Oxford.”

I gave her a wary look. “Mother, I don’t need you to set up blind dates for me.”

“Who said anything about blind dates?” She gave a shudder. “What a horrible, common word. No, no, you see… I was chatting with Helen Green the other day and she mentioned that Lincoln is back in Oxford now. He’s got a consultant position at the John Radcliffe, in their ICU Department. And I thought: what a wonderful coincidence! You’re both back again after a long time away—perhaps it would be a good idea for you to get together and swap notes—”

“Mother!” I said, forgetting the rule about restrained, ladylike volume. “I do not need you to set up a date for me with Lincoln Green!”

“Oh, but it’s not a
date
, really. It’s just sort of… socialising. He’s ever so nice—and Helen tells me that he’s one of the top Intensive Care specialists in the U.K., you know. He’s bought a townhouse here in North Oxford—a beautiful Victorian maisonette.” She looked around distractedly. “Helen gave me his number and if I can just get into my iPad, I could find it for you… I don’t know why, darling, but my password isn’t working…”

“Did you capitalise the first letter? You know that the first letter is always a capital in your Apple ID password.”

“Oh… is it, dear? Well, you’ll have to show me after dinner.”

That would be the sixth time I’d showed her this week. I sighed. I don’t know what had possessed me to suggest that my mother should get an iPad.

My mother was continuing, “Helen sent me a recent photo of Lincoln and my, he’s grown up into such a handsome young man! It seems like only yesterday that he was that adorable little boy going off to Eton and now he’s a dashing young doctor.” She sighed dreamily.

I rolled my eyes. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe her. I was sure Lincoln Green was a lovely chap. In fact, I’d sort of known him since childhood. Helen Green was my mother’s closest friend and Lincoln and his younger sister, Vanessa, had been frequent visitors to our house when we were growing up. I remembered a tall, serious-looking boy with impeccable manners. I was sure he had grown up into a very nice young man but I had no particular desire to renew the acquaintance. Nevertheless, from the look my mother was giving me, I could see that I was not going to avoid this acquaintance easily. I wondered if it might be easier just to have the date with him and get it over with.

My mother was saying something which brought me back to the present. Something about a book club and her turn to host the meeting this coming Sunday.

“I’m sure you’d like to join the club, now that you’re back,” she said.

I groaned. “Mother, I’m not really into book clubs. I like to read what I fancy, when I fancy—the minute I get told I
must
read something, it totally puts me off the book.”

“Well, I think you should get involved with
some
local community activities,” said my mother severely. “It is the best way to make connections and meet the right sort of people. We’re very exclusive in our book club and only admit a certain class of member.”

I shuddered. The last thing I wanted to do was sit around for a couple of hours making small talk with my mother’s snooty middle-class friends.

“Well, I don’t want to sit around with a bunch of strangers, arguing over whether the author meant the blue curtains to signify depression or hope—when it probably didn’t have any special meaning at all and he just liked the colour.”

“Oh, but they’re not all strangers. You
do
know some of them—like Dorothy Clarke and Eliza Whitfield… oh, and Mabel Cooke has just joined too.”

There was no way I was going to join this book club now!

“Sunday mornings I’m busy,” I said quickly. “I’ve got the tearoom, remember? Saturdays and Sundays are our busiest days.”

My mother frowned. “Really, Gemma… This ludicrous business with the tearoom…”

I sighed and tuned her out as I focused on finishing the rest of my dinner. For dessert, we had a spotted dick—that wonderful British classic made with delicious sponge cake filled with juicy currants, steamed to perfection, and served with a dollop of custard. In spite of my irritation with my mother, I had to admit that her culinary skills were exemplary. Shame that the domestic gene seemed to have skipped a generation. Considering how bad I was at baking anything, it was probably a joke that I wanted to run a tearoom. Still, I enjoyed
eating
the items, which I considered half the qualification for the job.

I put the last spoonful in my mouth and licked my lips appreciatively, wondering if I should ask my mother for the recipe. Perhaps Fletcher had one of his own already. I would have to check with him tomorrow…

The next morning, I discovered a flat tyre on my bike and had to swap my usual routine of cycling to the tearoom for a bus ride into Meadowford-on-Smythe. As I alighted from the bus, I took a deep breath of the fresh morning air, a smile coming to my face. Much as I hated early starts, I had to admit that there
was
something nice about being awake at this time, when the streets were still empty, the air was quiet except for the chirping of birds, and everywhere was that hushed feeling of waiting for the day to begin.