The Tea House on Mulberry Street (17 page)

Penny was stacking cups on the counter early the following morning when Clare came in carrying an expensive-looking handbag and a brown-paper wrapped package. Penny recognised her as the magazine editor. She had paid for a hefty meal for Brenda Brown and herself the night before, and several cups of coffee as well, and the two of them had been engrossed in conversation for well over two hours. Penny wondered how they knew each other.

“Excuse me,” said the woman. “My name is Clare Fitzgerald. I wonder if you could help me?”

“I’ll certainly try,” said Penny.

“I’m trying to find someone. You’ll think I am quite mad, but I’m trying to find a man I knew, in Belfast, about seventeen years ago.”

“Well, what’s his name?”

“Peter Prendergast.”

“Oh, dear, I’m afraid I don’t know any Prendergasts. And he lives around here, does he? I know the district well, I might be able to put you in touch with somebody else who might know him.”

Clare smiled sadly. She wondered if she was losing her sanity, asking this brightly-dressed waitress if she knew some man from the distant past. But the cafe was empty and the woman behind the counter looked very sympathetic. She decided to press on.

“I don’t know anything else about him, actually. But I sat with him in this very cafe, you see… and I suppose I was hoping against hope he might sometimes come back here… We sat there, by the window, and talked for a couple of hours. I fell in love with him. Hopelessly. The way you do when you’re young.”

Both women laughed nervously.

“He wrote his address and telephone number on a cassette, and I put it in my handbag. Anyway, I lost the bag. There was a riot and I left it on a bus. I’m always losing things.”

“Oh, dear,” said Penny sympathetically, “but – forgive me for asking but – did you not give him your details?”

“Well, I didn’t have a telephone in my flat, in those days. He knew where I lived, though. It was right next door from here, you see. He couldn’t have forgotten the address.”

(Ah, so she had lived in Brenda’s flat!)

“But he didn’t call. I searched for him at his university and left messages. I got an address for him from this girl, and I wrote. But I heard nothing. Then, my dad decided to move to England and soon we left. Cornwall, it was.” She paused, and sighed. “I eventually moved to London to study. Then, when I got my degree, I went to America. I work in publishing now. Interiors. Storage is my thing. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Useful for a person like me! But, about Peter… you might think it was just a crush, but I never forgot him. And I thought…”

“And you thought it couldn’t do any harm to look him up,” said Penny quickly. “I understand. Tell me, did you not think of putting an ad in the
Belfast Telegraph
?”

“Oh, I’m not sure… that seems a bit extreme… he might not appreciate that… I mean, who knows what his circumstances are…”

“Yes, I know what you mean,” said Penny. “Look, if you have no objections, I’ll put a wee note in the window, and if anyone asks, I’ll pass on the message. Will that do?”

“Thank you,” said Clare. “You’re very kind.” She gave Penny her business card, with the name of the publishing house on it.

“That’s okay. It’s no problem. I know what it’s like to be in love with someone you can’t reach,” said Penny, sadly.

Penny poured a cup of coffee for the lady in the velvet coat. “On the house,” she said.

Clare Fitzgerald took it and went to sit near the window. Penny saw her touch the table with the palm of her hand, as if connecting with that long-ago encounter. They would have sat on the same chairs, at the same table. Peter and her. Nothing ever changed in Muldoon’s. Penny was moved by the gesture and filled with sudden longing, herself. The ache to hold a man, and feel wanted, and feel desire, had never been stronger.

And then, suddenly, Penny remembered something. A vague recollection of a letter; an image of a handwritten name.

She took Clare’s business card and hurried to look in a drawer in the kitchen. There was one particular drawer that they hardly ever used; it was full of nails and thread, string and screwdrivers, paper bags, old receipts and business cards. Penny pulled the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. She peered in and saw a piece of cardboard or something wedged down the side. In a sudden burst of temper, she grabbed the handle with both hands and pulled with all her strength. The cardboard tore, the drawer came right out of the dresser, and its entire contents scattered across the kitchen floor.

“This blasted kitchen!” she hissed. “Nothing works the way it should!” Bending down to retrieve the junk of years, she spied a faded envelope among the debris. There it was! It said, on the front:
To Clare Fitzgerald
.

Penny gasped out loud. She had probably seen it in the drawer dozens of times over the years but this was the first time the name meant anything to her. She hurried back to the front of the cafe with it. Clare was still sitting at the window.

“It’s extraordinary but – I just found this, in a drawer,” said Penny, breathless. “I wonder, could it be for you?”

Clare took the envelope, and held it in both hands. Her breathing almost stopped. Penny went back behind the counter and tried not to stare.

Clare opened the envelope and read the note with tears in her eyes.

Dear Clare,

I feel a bit silly doing this, but I haven’t heard from you and I’m anxious. I’ve called at the flat a few times, but there was no answer. You might have thought I made a fool of myself that night, when I said I loved you, but I meant it. If you still want to see me again, please get in touch. As I might have to move out of my student house soon, here’s my parents’ address. I really miss you.

Love, Peter

She turned the note over, and read the address on the back. Then she rushed to the counter and asked Penny to call a taxi right away. Penny was so excited, herself, that she had to dial the number three times before she reached the taxi depot.

Clare went back to the table and sat, sipping her coffee to take her mind off the tangled mass of nerves that her body had become. She thought of Peter, and then tried not to think of him. She kept the painting she had bought on her lap, afraid to set it down, even on the table, in case she lost it.
Waiting For My Love
. A small canvas. Clare would be able to take it onto the plane with her, as hand-luggage. Only £300. A bargain at twice that price. Clare wanted to pay more, but Brenda wouldn’t hear of it. Socialist principles, she’d said.

Clare peeled off the brown wrapping-paper and studied the self-portrait of Brenda Brown. With those deep shades of blue, and the vigorous brushwork, it could have been the face of a man or a woman. It could almost be a portrait of Peter. She would have it framed as soon as she got home, and hang it in her office in New York.

Her heart seemed to be fluttering in her throat. She concentrated on Brenda Brown.

Brenda was a funny little creature. She was living in that awful dump next door, until her boyfriend in America found a place for the two of them in LA, and broke the news to his old-fashioned mother that he was going to marry an Irish girl. Poor Brenda, taking on a traditional Italian Momma! Good luck to her. Usually, these holiday romances faded away with the suntan.

And she wasn’t a bad painter, either. Maybe she would have more luck with her career when she moved to America. Coming from Belfast, she would have some novelty value. Brenda had refused to believe her when Clare said that, although she assured her it was true. Sometimes, an artist just had to move away to a new place to be taken seriously. Nobody wanted to listen to a know-it-all from their own town.

Clare had taken one of Brenda’s brochures and a nice snapshot of her, and said that she might put a little note about her in the arts section of her magazine. She gave Brenda her business card, as well as the cheque for the painting.

Clare had achieved a lot, on this trip, in one way or another. She had enough photographs of the gentleman’s residence in Stranmillas to fill an eight-page spread. She had the gorgeous pictures of the summerhouse, and one of them was definitely going on the front cover. She had met a Belfast artist and bought a beautiful painting. She had a small piece for the arts section, too. Whatever happened now; whether this note would lead her back to Peter or not, it had been a worthwhile trip.

All the same, she hoped it would help her to find Peter. She hoped with all her heart. When the cab pulled up outside the window of the tea house, and beeped its horn Clare’s heart contracted to the size of a walnut, with sheer desperation. She drank the remains of her coffee, gave Penny a huge hug, and went out to the taxi, hugging the portrait of Peter to her chest.

Chapter 19

T
HE
C
RAWLEYS
G
O
S
HOPPING

Beatrice had been reading over and over the important-looking invitation from the City Hall in Belfast. In fact, Alice warned her that it was becoming a little bit grubby round the edges. Just to be on the safe side, they placed it in a pretty gold frame, and set it on the mantelpiece.

“In light of the good work that you have both done for worthy causes, over the years,”
read Beatrice,
“the Lord Mayor invites you to join him for a formal lunch, followed by the official opening of our Wartime Memorabilia Exhibition. Please note; formal dress. RSVP.”
The 26th of September was the date of the lunch. Of course, they had replied the same day they received the invitation. Beatrice turned triumphantly to Alice. “I knew something like this would happen some day! All our good work rewarded at last!”

“I still can’t believe it,” whispered Alice. “We
must
find out if there are going to be any royal guests. Though I suppose they wouldn’t say yet because of security reasons. There must be somebody on the council we could ask. Isn’t Mrs Cunningham from church something to do with bins and sewage?”

“Never mind that,” said Beatrice. “She might not know either. Why would they tell Mrs Cunningham, and not us? But what are we going to wear? Where are we going to find two perfect hats?”

“Don’t panic,” said Alice. “There’s plenty of time.”

Beatrice was doubtful. “The time will go quicker than you think. And there’s so much to be done!”

They gave details of their father’s regiment and military service, his many medals and heroic achievements, and a selection of faded photographs to the organising committee. There was one picture of Sergeant Crawley standing at the gates of Belsen concentration camp that the committee found very moving. They decided to have the picture enlarged, and given pride of place in the exhibition. There was also a picture of them standing with their father in a war cemetery in France on Remembrance Day, 1973, five months before he died. It was their most treasured possession, but after the committee promised faithfully to take good care of it, they agreed to lend it to the exhibition.

Their acceptance of the invitation to the formal luncheon was confirmed and they booked special appointments at the local hair salon. Beatrice went on a diet, and Alice read all the vulgar celebrity magazines in the newsagent’s from cover to cover. She was soon familiar with every well-known face in the Western world, and who they were married to, and what charities they supported. It was all very interesting, but she would never admit that to her sister, who read very intellectual poetry in the evenings.

“I don’t want to come face to face with a VIP and not even know who they are,” she said firmly, when she lifted a stack of magazines from her shopping bag and Beatrice raised her eyebrows in disapproval.

They continued to agonise about their outfits. They did not want to let Belfast down. They must look well on the big day, no matter who the guest of honour was. There would be photographers present and a camera crew from both of the local television stations. They might even appear on the national news. If there was nothing else of interest that day.

Of course, they did not want to outshine the VIP guests either. That would not be in good taste. They had a lengthy discussion about it and decided that they must assume the Queen herself would be there. They must not, under any circumstances, appear under-dressed. Or over-dressed. The Queen was known to wear dowdy colours from time to time. She was a conservative dresser by nature.

If they wore red, white and blue, they would appear embarrassingly over-patriotic. They didn’t want to look like two leftovers from the Twelfth of July. Black was too sombre. Black was for funerals. Royal blue was too
Margaret Thatcher
. White and cream were too bridal. Green was too Irish. Pink was too common, purple too regal. Alice worried that a busy pattern might give the Queen a headache. Beatrice dismissed tweed as too provincial.

The days slipped by and still they had not chosen. They would have to find matching coats, hats and shoes, as well as dresses, handbags and accessories.