Welcome to My World
Harri smiled. ‘Yep. Every year.’
‘Thomas! In the unlikely event that you actually decide to do anything resembling work today, that window display needs refreshing sometime before the end of the twenty-first century.’
‘Yes, boss.’ Tom winked at Harri. ‘Ever get the feeling that George was trained by the interception squad at MI5?’
‘I can hear your sarcasm from here, Thomas!’
‘Right, fine. Sorry, H, better go before George busts a blood vessel or shops us to the KGB.’
Harri waved. ‘Have fun.’
‘Cheers. So – Rob does take you to different places camping, right?’
‘Of course! We’ve been all over – usually the Lake District but sometimes Snowdonia or Pembrokeshire too. We just drive around until we find a campsite and then explore the area for a couple of days before we move on. It’s nice to not be tied to a schedule, you know? And Rob’s great at planning little surprises for us. There was one time when we were staying at a site on a hill farm near Troutbeck and Rob arranged a candlelit meal for us, snuggled under travel blankets watching shooting stars in the sky over the mountains. I honestly couldn’t have been happier anywhere else on earth that night.’
Tom’s spotty face was a picture as he walked away. ‘Ugh. Pass me the sick bucket, purrlease . . .’
Harri’s tales of Rob’s makeshift romantic gestures were far better received by Stella, despite the fact that, as far as she was concerned, public displays of affection were nothing if they didn’t include luxury, indulgence and a hefty blow on a credit card.
‘I know your Rob is a sweetie, but why on earth hasn’t he taken you abroad yet?’ she asked, one Wednesday evening, when Harri had arrived for a chat after work. ‘He’s been in your life for seven years, Harri – you’d think he would’ve at least whisked you off to Paris or somewhere by now.’
Harri dunked a chocolate digestive biscuit in her tea. ‘He says he just doesn’t feel comfortable being somewhere where he can’t speak the language. But I suspect it’s because he doesn’t like flying. His mum told me that a couple of years ago – I’m not supposed to know, but it makes sense when you think about it.’
‘I suppose so. Hey, maybe he’ll spring a big trip abroad on you when he pops the question.’
Harri raised her mug. ‘I’ll drink to that!’
Every year, Stella promised to take Harri abroad with her. Around January or February, she’d beg Harri to bring home the latest brochures from work so that they could spend happy evenings poring over impossibly gorgeous destinations. Over countless bottles of wine, takeaways and coffee-shop visits they would plan their Big Girly Adventure: ‘like Thelma and Louise without the death or guns,’ Stella would quip. But somehow, as summer approached, she would find a new man and get so caught up in romantic stuff that Harri would inevitably get invited for ‘a really nice meal out’ and receive a tearful confession somewhere around dessert. This would generally go something like: ‘I know I promised I’d take you with me this year, but before I could say no I’d agreed to go with [delete as appropriate] Joe/Mark/Matt/Juan [yes, really], but I completely, honestly promise we’ll go somewhere next year . . .’
Despite the annual let-downs, Stella’s ill-timed romantic liaisons weren’t the problem. Neither was the recession, the weak pound or the rising cost of airport taxes. And, despite what Stella and Viv said, Rob wasn’t the problem, either. At the end of the day, it was down to her.
Every year, Harri would entertain the notion of choosing a destination from a travel brochure at SLIT, packing a case and heading off somewhere on her own. But when she thought it through, the reality of spending two weeks by herself began to tarnish the dream. What was the point of seeing wonderful places if you had nobody to share them with? Unlike Viv’s son Alex, who seemed entirely at home in his own company, for Harri the prospect held no allure. Ever since her parents died, she had become all too familiar with the sense of aloneness – why would she want to take that with her to another country? One day, she knew she would be able to do this and love it. But until she could overcome the fear of the unknown, she was content to stay as she was. Surely holidaying with Rob in the UK was far more fun than being abroad alone, wasn’t it?
In Harri’s world, there were two versions of herself: the confident, spontaneous one in her mind, who would throw caution to the wind and go wherever her heart desired; then the real Harri – thinking about things too much and planning imagin ary journeys from the safety of her little cottage at the far end of Stone Yardley village.
One day, she frequently told herself, one day I’ll stop worrying about it and just go.
So, instead, Harri would buy another travel book and spend hours poring over the intricate details of other people’s adventures across the world. She became an armchair traveller – fluent in three languages and a dab hand at pub quizzes whenever travel questions came up. The world in her mind was safe, constantly accessible and, most importantly, just hers – a secret place she could escape to without anyone else knowing. For years, this had been her solitary pursuit. Until she met Alex. Then, all of a sudden, she wasn’t alone.
Chapter Three
All About Alex
A cold breeze blowing through the gaps in the grubby skylight above Harri’s head increases and small drops of rain begin to hit the toughened glass. She shivers and hugs her thin cardigan round her, feeling goose bumps prickling along her shoulders.
Trying to take her mind off the cold, she looks around the vinyl walls of the cubicle, absent-mindedly reading the motley collection of graffiti. There’s quite a selection of revelations (‘Debbie is a dog’, ‘Kanye Jones luvs ur mutha’ and ‘Sonia likes it backwards’, to name but a few), along with some startling creativity (one wit has written ‘Escape Hole’, with an arrow pointing to a Rawlplugged scar where a toilet-roll holder once was). Over in one corner of the cubicle, by a rusting chrome door hinge, one small message catches her eye:
ALex woz eRe
Harri catches her breath and shuts her eyes tight.
When Alex Brannan moved back to Stone Yardley, Harri’s world suddenly became a whole lot bigger.
Viv’s only son had always been around when Harri was growing up, but she’d never really had that much to do with him; their paths rarely crossed. It was only when he returned from ten years of travelling the world that their friendship began in earnest.
It started with the closure of Stone Yardley’s traditional tea rooms, three years ago.
When the Welcome Tea Rooms closed, many locals declared it a sad day for the town, bewailing the loss of an institution. The truth was, however, that most of those who complained had not actually set foot in said institution for many years, largely because it was anything but welcoming. The proprietress, Miss Dulcie Danvers, was a wiry, formidable spinster who had inherited the shop from her maiden aunt. No amount of scalding hot tea or stodgy home-baked scones that made your teeth squeak could combat the frosty atmosphere of the place: so you ordered (apologetically), you consumed your food in self-conscious silence and you got out of there as soon as possible. Finally, at the age of seventy-three, Miss Danvers admitted defeat and retired to a sheltered housing scheme in the Cotswolds.
For several months the former café lay empty and lifeless in Stone Yardley’s High Street, a gaping wound in the bustling town centre, but then, at the end of October, the For Sale sign disappeared from the shop front and work began on its interior. Residents noticed lights ablaze inside and shadowy figures moving around late into the night. Three weeks later, a sign appeared on the door: ‘New Coffee Lounge opening soon.’
A week after that, Viv asked Harri if she’d like to go to the launch party of her son’s new venture.
‘You remember Alex, don’t you?’
Harri nodded politely, although what recollections she did possess were decidedly vague. ‘He’s in London, isn’t he?’
Viv pulled a face. ‘Well, he was, but the least said about that particular episode, the better. Anyway, the point is that he’s moved back to Stone Yardley and he’s starting his own business.’
‘What’s he doing?’ Harri asked.
Viv beamed the kind of proud smile that parents wear when watching their children performing in a nativity play (even if they’re awful). ‘He’s taken over the old Welcome Tea Rooms. It’s going to be quite different and I think he’s worried that nobody will turn up. Would you mind awfully?’
‘No, not at all. Rob’s away working this weekend so I have a free night on Friday.’
The moment Harri set foot inside Wātea, she felt at home. Alex had transformed the dark café into a relaxed, warm and welcoming coffee lounge. Large, comfy leather armchairs rested on a green slate floor, whilst a bar by the window – made from what looked like a large driftwood beam – offered a great view of the High Street outside. Travel books and magazines were stacked casually in wicker baskets by the sides of the chairs, and treasures from Alex’s travels adorned the walls: South American paintings, an African mask, Maori figures and Native American blankets.
But it was the photographs that caught Harri’s eye and made her heart skip. Beaches and rainforests, deserts and islands, snow-covered mountain peaks and azure ocean vistas. And the star of every picture, in various wildly dramatic poses – and always with a huge grin – was Alex.
While the other guests sampled coffee and ate tiny cocktail quesadillas, spicy chorizo and olive skewers, and shot glasses of intense gazpacho, Harri moved silently round the room, letting her fingers brush lightly against the richly woven textiles and ethnic sculptures as she gazed at the photos. She was looking intently at a picture of an Inca settlement when a deep voice close behind her made her jump.
‘Machu Picchu. I loved it there. The altitude is amazing, though – you have to move really slowly so you don’t get out of breath.’
Harri spun round. She came face to face with a wooden Maori-carved bead necklace and lifted her eyes till they met the huge-grinned star of the photos. Alex extended his hand quickly, suddenly self-conscious, running the other hand through his sandy-brown mop of hair. ‘Hi. Sorry to make you jump there. I’m Alex.’
Harri smiled and took his large warm hand in hers. ‘Hi, I’m Harri. This place is amazing . . .’
‘Ooooh, fantastic! You two have already met?’ Viv exclaimed, appearing suddenly between them, as if by magic. ‘Al, darling, you remember Harriet Langton, don’t you?’
Alex’s large brown eyes widened in surprise as he took a step back and looked Harri up and down, almost as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. ‘No way! Chubby Harri with the pigtails?’
‘Yes!’ Viv beamed. ‘Little Chubby Harriet!’
‘But . . . but the last time I saw her she was, ooh, this tall?’ Alex motioned to just above his waist.
‘I know!’ Viv agreed. ‘She’s a fair bit different now, though, eh?’
‘She certainly is,’ Alex replied, looking so intently at Harri that she could feel a blush creeping up the back of her neck.
Viv’s eyes misted. ‘Her mother would’ve been so proud of her. All grown up and standing in your new coffee lounge!’
Harri lifted a hand and waved weakly between them. ‘Hello? I’m actually here. And may I just remind you both that I was given that evil nickname when I was four years old?’
‘Aww,’ Viv gathered her up into a hearty embrace, which nearly expelled all the air from her lungs, ‘sorry, my darling. Harri works at the travel agent’s a few doors down from here, Al. She knows everything there is to know about, well, just about anywhere in the world. You should ask her over and show her all that strange stuff from your travels. Ooh, and your photos too! Wouldn’t that be lovely, Harri?’
It was Alex’s turn to be embarrassed. ‘Mum . . .’ he protested, rubbing the back of his neck and staring at the floor, ‘I’m sure she doesn’t want to see all that . . .’
‘No, no, I would. Really. It would be great,’ Harri said quickly.
Alex looked up at her, his expression a strange mix of amusement and genuine surprise. ‘Seriously? Nobody’s ever asked to see my stuff before – I usually just bore people to death with it whether they like it or not.’
Harri smiled. ‘Trust me, I would love to find out where you’ve been and what you’ve seen. My boyfriend says I’m an armchair-travel junkie, so you’ll be helping to fuel my addiction.’
Alex’s eyes twinkled and the broad grin from his photographs made another appearance. ‘Well, in that case I’d be happy to oblige. We’ll co-ordinate diaries and do it!’
Harri told Rob the following Monday evening about Alex and his invitation to dinner. Over the weekend, she had suddenly started to worry that perhaps Rob wouldn’t be pleased in this relative stranger’s interest in his girlfriend, but her fears soon proved unfounded.
‘I think it’s a great idea,’ Rob smiled over the top of Survival Monthly.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind that he’s invited me for a meal?’
‘Not at all.’ He shook his head, lowered the magazine and reached over to stroke her cheek. ‘You haven’t been worrying about that, have you?’
‘A little.’
‘Well, you don’t have to. An evening of travel gossip sounds right up your street and it will be good to chat to someone who shares your travel thing. Let’s face it – I’m not the best audience when it comes to that, am I?’ He smiled that deliciously crooked smile of his, which never failed to make her heart skip. ‘So you get a night of travel trivia and I get let off that duty for once. Everyone’s a winner.’
Encouraged by her boyfriend’s words, Harri began to look forward to the evening with Alex. But as the week progressed, a new concern began to root itself in her head: would they find enough to talk about for a whole evening? After all, she could barely remember Alex – for all she knew about him he might as well be a complete stranger. Added to this, how would she fare in the company of a bona fide traveller, when all of her knowledge was based on other people’s experiences? Would she feel a fraud by comparison?
It was still playing on her mind when she arrived at her aunt’s shop on Thursday lunchtime. Eadern Blooms had served as Stone Yardley’s florist for thirty-five years and, with the exception of a new sign over the door and an A-board for the street (which Harri had persuaded Auntie Rosemary to invest in the year before), the shop hadn’t changed. The sunny yellow tiles and white-painted walls were simple but perfect for making the flowers stand out – they were, after all, the stars of the show, as far as Rosemary was concerned. As she entered the shop, Harri said hello to Mrs Gilbert from the cake shop, who was leaving with a paper-wrapped bunch of deep purple lisianthus.
‘Hello, Harriet, how’s the world today?’ Mrs Gilbert smiled.
‘Quiet, as far as Stone Yardley’s concerned,’ Harri replied, holding the door open for her. ‘Having a good week?’
‘Manic! Dora’s introduced her new Irish Coffee Cheesecake this week and we’ve been run off our feet. Sugarbuds hasn’t been this busy since Christmas.’
Auntie Rosemary was in the workroom at the back of the shop when Harri approached the counter, so Harri tapped the hotel-style brass bell to summon her aunt’s attention. It was something she had done since she was little, relishing the thrill of ringing the bell when her parents had brought her into the shop. She called out, just like her dad had done, ‘Shop!’
Rosemary’s flustered face appeared in the hatchway, which opened to the workroom. ‘Hello, you. Let me just wrap this bouquet and I’ll be right with you.’
Harri absent-mindedly turned the rotating unit on the counter that held a selection of cards for inserting into floral arrangements. Most of them looked as old as the shop: faded painted pink and yellow roses, watercolour storks carrying blanketed babies, white arum lilies bending their heads in sympathy and linked horseshoes surrounded by fluttering confetti. Harri wondered if anyone actually chose to use one of these cards, or if they, like the brass bell and sunshine-yellow vinyl floor tiles, were simply irreplaceable elements of the shop’s heart.
Five minutes later, Auntie Rosemary bustled in, strands of silver-grey hair flying loose in all directions from the messy bun at the back of her head, and a roll of twine around her right hand like a post-modern bangle. ‘I’m here, I’m here,’ she exclaimed, placing her cool hands on Harri’s cheeks and kissing her forehead, ‘and so are you! So, the kettle’s on and I’ve got some sandwiches from Lavender’s – tell me all your news.’
They pulled up wooden chairs behind the counter and ate their crusty sandwiches from Stone Yardley’s bakery as Harri shared recent events with her aunt.
When she mentioned her concerns about dinner with Alex, Auntie Rosemary frowned and took a large gulp of tea.
‘I don’t think you need worry, Harriet, I’m sure you’ll have plenty to talk about.’
‘But he’s actually done the travelling thing. I’ve just read about it. I think I’m just worried that he’ll laugh at me.’
‘Don’t be so silly, sweetheart. From my scant experience of men, I can tell you that one thing they like is to be listened to. And if the person listening to them knows less about a subject than they do, then all the better. I would hazard a guess that Alex is no different. You’re a fantastic listener and you’ll be interested in all of his travel stories – what more could he want in a dinner guest?’
‘You’re probably right. I’m sorry, Auntie Ro. You know me, always thinking three steps ahead.’
Rosemary smiled and brushed crumbs off her fluffy grey cardigan. ‘In that respect you’re the spitting image of your mother. She was a born organiser – and so are you. Worrying ahead comes with the territory, I suppose.’
‘So you think I’ll be fine?’
Her aunt stood up and ruffled Harri’s hair. ‘I think you’ll have a fantastic time.’
In the end, it was Stella who – in classic Stella Smith fashion – allayed her fears by summing up the situation in one sentence.
‘He seems like a nice bloke, there’s free food and you get to overdose on travel stories. It’s a no-brainer: stop thinking too much and just go.’
So the next week Harri arrived at Wātea for dinner. Alex was just finishing for the day and looked shattered. She waited while he turned off lights and checked everything was ready for the morning.
‘Busy day?’ she asked, as he joined her by the counter.
Alex rubbed his forehead. ‘Yeah. It’s been crazy since we opened. I was worried people would stay away because we’re not like the old place.’
Harri laughed. ‘Did you ever visit the old place?’ Alex shook his head. ‘Then you don’t know what you’re missing! I mean, look around here: the place is far too welcoming. You should be putting the fear of God into anyone who dares set foot on the premises! And those sofas? Too comfy by far! What are you trying to do, make people want to stay here?’
‘Blimey, was it that bad?’
‘Yes, it was. Trust me, this place is just what Stone Yardley needs.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
They exchanged shy smiles.
Alex pushed his hands into his pockets self-consciously. ‘So – if you’d like to follow me, I’ll sort out some food.’
Up in his flat above the coffee lounge, Alex made Singapore Noodles while Harri walked around, gazing at the photos that covered the walls. After they’d eaten, she sat cross-legged on the floor, cradling a steaming mug of jasmine tea and trying to contain her excitement like a kid at Christmas, as Alex produced box after box of treasures. Postcards, fabrics, sculptures, seashells and countless photo albums emerged and were spread out over the floor, while Alex recalled his travels and Harri listened, wide-eyed, her mind brimming over with images almost too wonderful to bear.
‘This shell came from Philip Island, in Australia – you should see the penguins there, Harri. It’s just mad to be surrounded by them on a beach! . . . An old priest in Belarus gave me this icon – he said it would keep me safe on my journey. Then he prayed over the coach we were travelling in, except he had to use a prayer for blessing a horse and cart because it was the only one for a mode of transport in the prayer book.’
Harri picked up a picture of Alex standing next to a Maori man, easily half a foot taller and almost twice as wide, with an enormous white smile that dwarfed even Alex’s grin. The smiley Maori had his arm slung around Alex’s shoulders and they looked like they’d just heard the most hilarious joke.
‘Who’s this?’ she asked, turning the photo towards him.
‘Oh, wow, that’s Tem – he’s a great guy I met on South Island in New Zealand. He ran the local bar and he gave me a job for three weeks when my funds were running low. He taught me some Maori – that’s where Wātea comes from. It means “to be open” or “free”. He said I was a free spirit and I had to stay like that, wherever I went. I learned a lot from him.’
Harri looked at the collection of mementoes laid out before her and shook her head. ‘Al, this stuff is amazing. How come you don’t have it all out on display?’
Alex shrugged. ‘Because, honestly, nobody wanted to look at them – until I met you again, that is.’
‘That’s crazy. This stuff is . . .’ she struggled for a moment as all the superlatives that came to mind seemed suddenly inadequate. ‘I think this is wonderful, Alex. You have no idea how lucky you are to have all these memories.’
Alex smiled, his dark brown eyes catching the light from the group of tealight candles on the coffee table. ‘I think we’re going to be great friends, you and me,’ he said. ‘Soul mate travellers, that’s what we are.’
Harri wasn’t exactly sure what a ‘soul mate traveller’ was, but she was happy to be called one nevertheless. This, she was to learn, was one of the things that set Alex apart from the others in Stone Yardley: he had a vocabulary for his world that surpassed the horizons of anyone else. Looking through his eyes, Harri saw the world around her in a new, altogether more attractive light. Alex was the ultimate dreamer – hopelessly optimistic about everything he surveyed. Even the most mundane thing became a magical mystery tour when he was involved – like the time he turned mopping the floor into a game of curling, using two steel buckets as stones and mops like the brushes. And while his unrealistic view of life lay at the bottom of many of his romantic problems, often landing him with a broken heart, at least when Alex was around life was never dull.
Over the next year, their friendship grew with each Wednesday night meal. Alex cooked dishes he had collected during his ten years travelling the world and Harri listened to his stories as the scents of spices, meats, fish and fruit fragranced the flat above Wātea.
‘Pad Thai,’ he announced, one evening, as spicy cinnamon, chilli and allspice-infused steam filled Harri’s nostrils. ‘They cook this everywhere in Thailand – little street stalls serving this up on almost every street corner. I got the recipe from Kito, a Japanese lady who moved to Phuket twenty years before when she married a local man – she was the landlady in the hostel where I was staying. Her Thai mother-in-law had insisted that Kito master the dish before she gave her blessing to the marriage, “so I know my son won’t starve” – and Kito had cooked it ever since.’
Meeting Alex was as refreshing as Welsh mountain air; his sense of humour, wry view of the world around him and intense interest in other people made him irresistible company. And as the weeks stretched to months, Harri found herself increasingly opening up to him – more than she had to Stella, Viv or even Auntie Rosemary. In turn, Alex’s trust in Harri grew – leading, eventually, to the subject of his not-so-wonderful love life one Tuesday evening when Harri received a text as she was about to go to bed.