The Tea House on Mulberry Street (29 page)

She had a scrapbook full of magazine-pictures, postcards and reviews. She chose one of him wearing his snakeskin jacket, in
Wild At Heart
, staring at the camera with his big, poetic eyes. She sketched it out on the canvas with a long piece of charcoal. She poured herself a large gin and tonic when she was finished the drawing and sat back to contemplate the canvas. She decided to paint it in full colour, not in her usual palette of blues and greys. She got her jar of paint-brushes from the kitchen and selected the tubes of colour she needed for the painting, from the big toolbox she kept them in on the sitting-room floor. She laid everything out neatly on the coffee table, and studied the exquisite contours of Nicolas’ face for a while. When she was ready to begin, she poured herself another drink.

“We’ll show, them, Nicolas,” she told the canvas. “You and me, together. We’ll save the world with our joint talent, and show them that the only important things are art and music and films and love. And they’ll all stop fighting and arguing over trivial things, and everything will be perfect.” She smiled then, already tipsy, with four gin and tonics inside her. She topped up the glass again, from the big green bottle of gin on the mantelpiece, and reached for a brand-new paintbrush.

“God bless those auld credit cards,” she said, as she began to paint.

At five o’clock, the painting was finished, and it was very good. Maybe it was the best painting Brenda had ever done. An excellent likeness. She collapsed onto the sofa to admire it. She was tempted to put it in the show but, sadly, the paint would still be wet in the morning.

But, never mind, she told herself. On the day of the show, the world would know what a huge talent Brenda Brown was. Then, all the galleries who had turned her down would be killing themselves with regret. They would be begging her for pieces of work, and she would take great satisfaction in telling them that, sorry, she was moving to the Irish Republic, and would no longer be exhibiting in the north.

Almost without thinking about it, she pulled the phone, by its cable, across the carpet towards her and began to flick through the Yellow Pages. Art Galleries. Art Galleries. She found the page and dialled the number of the first gallery she recognised.

“Hello,” she said. “It’s me, Brenda Brown from Belfast Town, here. I just wanted to tell you that I am having a major show in Galway tomorrow and I will also be moving there to live. So I won’t be able to show my work in your gallery in the future. Unfortunately. I’m sorry about that, now.”

“Oh, dear! Thanks for letting us know,” said an amused voice. “Goodbye.”

“Just a minute! Are you familiar with Vincent van Gogh’s
Portrait Of Doctor Rey
, painted on wood, in 1889?”

“I am.” A sigh.

“Did you know that Vincent gave that painting to Doctor Rey, as a gift? And that the good doctor nailed that painting over a hole in his chicken-shed? And that it was rescued years afterwards, when Vincent was recognised for the true genius that he was. And it was sold for millions of dollars?”

“Have you been drinking, Miss Brown?”

“Well, in my humble opinion, all the paintings in your gallery should be nailed onto a chicken-shed without further ado. But they won’t be worth anything in a few years. They’ll still be on the side of a shed and you’ll still be a back-street gallery in a one-horse town, and I’ll be famous. And married to a movie-star. Goodbye.” And she slammed down the phone.

Brenda wasn’t sure how much of this speech the gallery-owner heard before he hung up the phone, because she was quite drunk, but she felt exhilarated. She put her Placebo CD in the stereo, and turned the volume up as high as it would go. She replenished her glass of gin, saw that she was out of tonic water, and plonked a few ice cubes in, instead. She ran her finger down the list of galleries in the directory, and found another one that had rejected her, and she dialled the number and took a deep breath. Why not burn a few bridges, she thought. I don’t need this town any more. I’m finished with Belfast. She had to shout over the level of the music, but she managed to call seven galleries before she gave up and replaced the receiver with a shaky hand.

At six o’clock, she carried her painting of Nicolas Cage to her little bedroom, and hid it carefully under the bed, beside her shoebox of letters.

“I’m sorry about this indignity, Nicolas,” she told the picture. “It’s a little dusty in there, and I’d rather you were in the bed, not under it, if you know what I mean. But there are thieves everywhere these days. You’ll be safe in here, from burglars, till I get back.
If
I come back.”

Finally, she lay down on the sitting-room floor, beside her lovely Christmas tree, and sang along to the music, drinking the last bit of gin, neat, out of the bottle, watching the room spinning and the fairy-lights twinkling off and on, off and on, in a delicious drunken haze. She slept for half an hour before waking suddenly with severe hunger pains. A rummage in the kitchen cupboards proved futile. She phoned her mother and invited herself over for supper. Mrs Brown had just made a nice pot of Irish stew, and some pink and green meringues with vanilla butter-cream.

“Get a taxi over, love, and I’ll pay the fare when you get here. You might as well stay over.”

Bliss.

Brenda drank some strong black coffee, and combed her blue-black hair. She suddenly felt gloriously certain
he
would turn up at her exhibition.

At nine o’clock, she phoned a taxi and staggered down the stairs to spend the night at her mother’s house.

“Goodbye, Belfast,” she announced, as the front door closed behind her. “I’m finished with you! Hello, Galway! Hello, Nicolas Cage!”

Well, Brenda might have been finished with Belfast, but Belfast wasn’t finished with Brenda.

Chapter 37

T
HE
O
THER
M
RS
S
TANLEY

Penny got out of the taxi and paid the driver. She waited until the blue Mercedes reached the end of the street before she moved a muscle. Then, she turned and looked up at Daniel’s house. It was not a palace. Richard was right about that. A little Victorian terraced house, covered with decades of coal dust. There was a narrow passageway leading to the back garden. The tiny patch of grass at the back was neatly clipped, though, and there was a single lilac tree in the centre of it.

She opened the gate and went up to the bay window. The curtains were old but clean. She tried to see through them but she couldn’t. She tried the doorbell. There was no answer. The front door was firmly locked.

The street was quiet. There were no people about, not even a stray dog. Still, there might be someone watching her through the lace curtains of the house across the road. She walked quickly through the passageway to the backyard.

She searched about, hoping there might be a key. Failing to find one, she lifted a stone from the flower-bed and broke a pane of glass in the back door. She reached in and found that the key was in the lock. She twisted it slowly and opened the door. Then, with her heart thumping she went inside.

She walked from room to room, looking for something significant. A clue that would tell her why her husband had bought a house in the same city where they lived, and kept it a secret from her for fifteen years. All of the furniture in the sitting-room was old and worn, and nothing special. There was a nice dresser in the kitchen, with some plates and cups on it, and some loose tea leaves in a black and red tin.

Penny went upstairs. In the front bedroom was a brass bedstead, with an old eiderdown on it, and some bottles of Apple Blossom perfume on the dressing-table. Penny saw at once, a white envelope leaning against the mirror. She went over and lifted it. It was addressed to a woman called Mrs Teresa Stanley. She opened it.

“My Dearest Teresa, if you ever come back to the house, and I am not here, please wait for me. I bought the house for you, so you won’t have to go away again. I own a little cafe on Mulberry Street but I come here for a short while some afternoons. I want you to know that I forgive you for leaving me all those years ago, and that I still love you with all my heart, and that I hope every day that you will come back to me. It is not too late for us to get to know each other again, and I will take care of you, and look after you always. All my love, Daniel.”

Penny read the letter over and over. It was inconceivable that Daniel had a wife already, but there it was in black and white. He had been married to someone called Teresa. Maybe he still was. No wonder he didn’t want children. He was besotted with this Teresa creature. He didn’t love Penny at all. He had married her for the business, nothing more.
I own a little cafe on Mulberry Street
. Well, thought Penny, we’ll see about that. She put the letter in her pocket and left the house silently.

When she returned to the shop that afternoon, Daniel was rushing about the kitchen in a fluster.

“Where have you been?” he cried. “You can’t keep disappearing like this. I’ve tried to be patient with you, Penny, but I’m trying to run a business here.”

“Get out,” said Penny, quietly.

“What?”

“I said, get out of my shop.”

“Are you feeling all right, Penny?” He set down the teapot he had been holding. This was new territory for Daniel Stanley. He had come to think of Penny as part of the business, like the water-heater or the toaster, as indeed she was. “It’s those magazines,” he cried. “They’ve put your head away. You shouldn’t read them. Magazines are destroying the institution of marriage!”

“Oh, you!” she shouted at him. “I don’t believe you’re right in the head!”

“Penny, what is going on?”

“I am giving you fifteen minutes to pack your bags and get out of my family business. I know about the house on Magnolia Street. Does number fourteen,
Magnolia Street
ring any bells? And I know about your long-lost wife, Teresa; and I am absolutely fed up with you, and your pointless penny-pinching. Now get out to hell!”

Daniel suddenly found it hard to breathe. His eyes were wide with panic. “Please, we can talk –”

“It’s too late for talking. Our marriage is over. It isn’t valid anyway, you fool! You’re a bigamist. A criminal! You have no right to be here. You’ll get nothing in the divorce.”

Daniel looked as though he had been slapped across the face. He stared at Penny for what seemed like an eternity.

“Divorce? Penny, please listen to me –”

“No. No more lies. Just go before I call the police.” She took the letter from her pocket and placed it on the table.

His blue eyes were pools of dread. “I can explain about all this. How did you find out?”

“It doesn’t matter how I found out. It’s true, isn’t it? You’ve lined your pockets for seventeen years out of my dear father’s cafe. And you’ve used the money to buy your other wife a house. You’ve used me as an unpaid skivvy and wasted my youth. I hate you!”

“Penny, please, don’t do this to me!”

“I hate you. You’ve made me into a pathetic excuse for a woman. I blame myself for most of this. Millie Mortimer told me not to get married so soon after we met. I should have known that there was something wrong with you – in your thirties and still single. Only, you weren’t single, were you? You were married to Teresa!”

He had his hands up to his face. His voice came out in a whisper. “Teresa is my mother.”

Penny laughed in his face. She wanted to kill him. “You liar! Do you never stop? Your mother was called Kathleen.”

“No. Kathleen was my aunt. I swear it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Look, there are customers waiting. Let me get rid of them and we’ll close the shop and I’ll tell you everything.”

“No, it’s far too late for that. I don’t care what you say any more. I’ve nearly gone out of my mind, wondering what was wrong with you, all these years. Wondering why you didn’t want me more, why you wouldn’t give me children. I want you to leave this minute and take all your secrets with you.”

“Please, Penny!”

“It’s over between us, Daniel. I’ve been having an affair. I want a divorce. I’m going to a lawyer to get a divorce.”

“An affair! How could you?”

“Because I’m a
normal
person. Didn’t you even suspect? All the late nights I’ve had? The new clothes? I’ve been with another man. And he doesn’t find me so unattractive he prefers to read cookery-books than make love to me! Now,
get out
.”

“You can’t just end it without listening to me! And, Penny, we have the business to think of.”

“You can keep whatever money you’ve managed to wring out of this place. Think of it as a settlement. A final settlement. And if you think for one second I am going to let you take this shop away from me, you can forget it. I’ll burn it to the ground, rather than let you darken the door, ever again.”

She went into the cafe and asked everyone to leave. They did not have to pay for their meals, she said. Could they just eat up and go? There was a family crisis. Grumbling, astonished, curious, the customers left the premises. Penny locked the door. When she went back into the kitchen, Daniel was gone. She locked the back door, and sat down on a chair, shaking all over. Then, she made three calls. She called Millie to tell her that Daniel was a bigamist. She called a local builder and told him to come round, first thing in the morning for an estimate. And finally, she made an appointment to talk to a solicitor.