The Afternoon Tea Club

Chapter 6

Raymond’s son Simon was stirring their teas in the kitchen, whilst staring out of the window at his parents’ beautifully kept garden. The lawn was trimmed and weed free, blue-tinged lacecap hydrangeas graced the far hedge, pale pink clematis climbed the garage and brightly coloured perennials sat in a small circular raised bed, towards the bottom of the garden, surrounding the base of the elaborate bird bath.

Raymond had lied about his arthritis to Marjorie. It was getting into all his joints now. He’d argued with his doctor as to whether it was partly hereditary or not.

‘It’s unclear,’ Dr Hien told him. ‘But we think familial concurrence has some bearing, yes.’

Why did professionals always talk in riddles? But when Raymond told his doctor about symptoms he’d found online, pertaining to something he thought he might have, she’d told him she would check him over and assess for herself what may or may not be wrong with him, based on clear medical evidence – not Google say-so!

Raymond knew Dr Hien would argue blue was black if he let her. But the point was, on his recent visit to her she’d told him that his increasing pains were probably his arthritis getting worse. She’d given him some medication, a list of exercises and a squashy ball for his hands that he quite enjoyed using now.

‘You know, Dad,’ Simon said suddenly, snapping Raymond out of his reverie, ‘I think we should do something about these steps by the back door. Makes it awkward going down to the garden, when you’ve got something in your hand. You’ll be tripping over them next.’

‘Well, son, you’re right, of course. I’ve no idea why someone would build a bungalow and then have steps of any sort coming off it. It certainly makes carrying tea or a meal out into the garden most precarious.’

Raymond had made Dianne’s mug of tea exactly how his wife liked it – quite strong, with only a little milk and just half a teaspoon of sugar. And then he picked it up and carried it outside to where she was in their sunny garden. Simon followed behind with the other two mugs of tea, setting Raymond’s down beside him before retreating to the shade by the house, to read his sporting newspaper.

Raymond sipped his tea, enjoying the comforting feeling of the hot sun on his face.

It was stickily hot today after the thunderstorms yesterday. Should’ve cleared the air a bit but it hadn’t. There’d be no working in the garden today. Not that anything really needed doing. But Raymond did like to potter, liked to keep on top of things. Before Simon had rung and said he was coming round to see them today Raymond had thought it best to put his feet up and chat to Dianne in their favourite spot. Isn’t that what long hot summers were for? Relaxing? Yet he could have easily fallen asleep in the sun if it wasn’t for Simon calling round.

When Raymond gave up his carpentry business and Dianne retired from nursing, they’d decided to sell the family home and retire to this little one-bedroomed bungalow. They’d also given Simon and his wife, Jo, a cheque for £10,000 from the proceeds of the sale of their house, ‘to help with anything you need help with!’ and then they’d gone on the journey of a lifetime, visiting the famous blossoms in Japan, sightseeing in New York and finally staying with Dianne’s sister in California for three weeks, before hanging up their travelling hats to spend the rest of their days, enjoying being near to their family and grandchildren.

Dianne had loved their little garden when they first moved in. It wasn’t so big that they’d be constantly working on it. Neither of them had wanted that. It was just right. It was one of the reasons they’d bought the bungalow, six years ago.

‘We need to get something manageable now we’re retired,’ Raymond had told her in the garden centre, when they’d first moved in. ‘Slugs like all the little colourful perennials and annuals you like! And you know I don’t like killing slugs.’

She was the one for flowers but she’d relented.

‘Okay, but we’ll still have a little patch of my favourites as well as your shrubs,’ she’d laughed. ‘Or I can put them in a raised bed.’

‘Ah, but slugs can climb, my love!’

Yes, he was a shrub man, through and through, he’d told his son, which had made Simon laugh.

‘Sounds like you’ve got a beastly ailment when you say it like that, Dad; doesn’t it, Mum? Or you sound like a superhero! Not Superman but Shrub Man!’ Simon had grinned.

Simon was a postman and had married his childhood sweetheart, Jo, a hairdresser and they’d had twin girls.

‘You see? I get to have girls in the family, after all!’ Dianne had informed Raymond proudly, all those years ago, when Jo had let her hold them at the hospital, a few days after their birth. Their skin tone was a soft caramel, much like hers; their hair in dark wisps, too. She’d always wanted to present Raymond with a daughter but it hadn’t happened. Yet now she had two girls to mollycoddle. Oh, it had been joyous babysitting them, whilst the twins were growing up and then keeping up with their exploits when they went off to college, unsurprisingly, both wanting to be hairdressers and opening their own salon.

‘Confusing to your customers though,’ Dianne had said when the girls had told her what they wanted to do.

‘But we have to be together, Gran,’ Maya told her. ‘It’s what we’re about. We’ll make it work. I’ve told Esha I’m happy to dye my hair if there’s a problem.’

And she had, too. Aubergine purple! Dianne couldn’t imagine a worse colour but it actually suited her. Luckily her sister Esha never had to dye her wonderful dark curly locks, although in the course of their work she had experimented with lots of different ‘looks’. But Dianne and Raymond had been completely proud that their granddaughters’ business had been a roaring success. Both girls were married now, with tiny babies of their own.

Raymond loved to reminisce in the garden with his wife, especially on beautiful summer days like this. It was their thing. They always took their tea together, at the bottom of the garden where the hedge shaded them from their neighbours, near Raymond’s crimson azaleas, until they fell or his lacecap hydrangeas for which – they were both surprised – he’d won prizes several years ago!

‘We do have to make the most of life, though, don’t we, love.’ Raymond smiled but the air around him was warm and still, apart from a couple of sparrows squabbling in the bird bath.

‘Well, I went to the second afternoon tea party at the community centre yesterday as you know,’ Raymond told her. ‘And I took my suggestions, as Simon recommended I should. It’s so nice to have your say and be heard, sometimes, isn’t it, dear? Did I enjoy it, you ask. Well …’ He looked down at the grass between his toes. He liked the feel of his bare feet on the cool lawn, even though Simon had mentioned earlier that his father ought to have been wearing sandals, in case he trod on something unpleasant. ‘There was some trouble there, unfortunately. One of the ladies was very rude to a young girl who I can tell has problems of her own.’

Raymond finished his tea; his wife’s had gone cold when he picked up her mug.

‘I think I might just try it again next week, too, love. I’m starting to make some new friends there and I know you said you wanted me to do that sort of thing when you got ill. Wouldn’t have dreamt about going anywhere without you at first, though, would I? But I’m improving now because they’re an easy crowd to get on with, in general.’

He stood up with a bit of a wheeze as the deckchairs were quite low; perhaps he should buy some new ones, more upright, easier to get in and out of. But he and Dianne had had those deckchairs forever. So it was quite hard for him to think about giving them up. Just like it was hard to give up his darling wife to the dreadful accident she’d had last year.

‘We’ll leave you alone now, love; Simon’s taking me to go watch the footy again with him. That’s nice isn’t it? He looks after me now his Jo’s left him. That was a shock though, wasn’t it? Never saw that coming, did we? The girls are good about taking turns visiting them both, though. So he’s not too lonely. Truth be told, I’m still a bit lonely, love. But on the whole, life’s not too bad. Anyway, we’ll speak later.’

He kissed the top of the urn, sitting proudly in centre stage of the bird bath, at the bottom of the garden by the hedge, shaded from their neighbours, surrounded at its base with all the pansies, peonies and marigolds that Dianne used to love and enjoy when she was alive.

Chapter 7

‘For God’s sake, Dora! You’re like a flibbertigibbet. Go find something useful to do instead of moping around like some gangly teenager. It’s a shame your father treated you like a ruddy princess when he was alive because, as I constantly need to remind you, real life comes with hairy armpits. And will you leave your ruddy face alone? It’s how God intended,’ her mother, Yvonne, bellowed.

At forty-nine, Dora was fed up of life.

It hadn’t turned out the way she’d hoped because she’d never really known what she’d wanted to do in life. At school, the careers advisor had tried to encourage her with things like hairdressing, floristry or nursing. But none of those professions had appealed to her. And whereas her friend Jodie always knew she wanted to be a beautician, Dora never had aspirations in any particular direction. And because she knew her father would always be there for her, picking up the tab, no matter what happened, she’d drifted through life, cherry-picking, knowing she never really needed to have any career aspirations.

‘If I choose wisely, I can always be looked after by a wealthy husband,’ was her comeback, whenever her mother had asked what she intended to do in life.

‘Better get a move on then, love, because there’s a ruddy great long queue in front of you, all looking for the exact same thing!’

Her mother, ever sceptical, had never stood for what she used to call Dora’s ‘nonsense’ back then. Even now, at the ripe old age of eighty-nine, she was a still force to be reckoned with. When Dora had been a young girl she’d been spirited, too, and not quite as respectful of her mother as she had been of her father, when he’d been alive. She’d never questioned anything he’d said or done. Didn’t need to. His word had been king. Not that there was ever anything to judge him by or criticise him of. He’d been one of those exemplary people whom everyone looked up to: staff, customers, his children and wife. And he’d done very well for his family.

***

Her father, Martin, as her mother liked to tell everyone, came out of his mother’s womb, ‘knowing what was what from the get-go!’ A shrewd businessman, all his business deals turned to gold, which meant his family would never want for anything in life.

Even as a boy, he’d been at his happiest selling things like his brother’s old bike or an old chest of drawers from their garage while his parents were out shopping. And when he’d left school with few qualifications, Martin had worked in an auctioneer’s, doing what he’d always liked doing best – buying and selling. He’d beavered away, saving up all his commission and wages, with his heart set on buying cheap decrepit old buildings in the right location, and turning them into profitable themed accommodation, one by one.

By being in the industry he found out where all the best places, for the best prices, were. So by the time he’d got married to Yvonne and long before they’d started their family, he’d procured four properties and turned them into Hen & Stag Hotels, sited just outside London. They became incredibly popular and did a humongous trade because of Martin’s relaxed attitude to the clientele’s private enjoyment of the Jacuzzis and other raucous entertainment, setting the scene for riotous but very profitable behaviour.

And once they’d settled into their enviable lifestyle with a big house overlooking the sea, they’d had their kids. Stuart first, followed by Dora, possibly a little late in life. Then with Yvonne’s insistence Martin did an about-turn and purchased another property which, between them, they turned into their Arts & Crafts Hotel in the Cotswolds. They aimed for a different clientele, offering mid-week inclusive breaks for Painting and Drawing or Photography for Beginners, as well as weekend courses of Basket Weaving or Jewellery Making: Beads, Bracelets and Clasps.

It seemed Martin’s magic touch could do no wrong within the industry of themed entertainment. All his properties were highly profitable and constantly packed to the rafters. Martin’s dynamism had set his family up for life.

‘And the “B” plan – if it doesn’t work out, guys – is that we’ll become property developers and turn the ruddy lot into flats or houses and make our fortunes that way!’

But it had never come to that. Updating his properties whenever necessary meant they hadn’t fallen victim to changes of trend. So they all had jobs for life. Dora’s brother, Stuart, married but with no children, was the manager of the themed hotels; her father was overall sales and marketing director and her mother, even up until very recently, had headed up the bookkeeping and bookings team.

As a teenager, Dora had reluctantly done stints as a waitress and chambermaid in the hotels during the school holidays, at her mother’s insistence to gain a bit of what she called ‘real-life experience’ rather than swanning around spending the family’s fortune, as her father would’ve had her doing. Dora had certainly been a daddy’s girl, and her father had doted on his precious daughter. He certainly wouldn’t have had her paling at the sight of vomit in the Hen & Stag Hotel bathrooms that she’d had to clear up, her mother standing over her with a bucket of hot soapy water, when Dora first started working there. But he wouldn’t have sided with his daughter against his wife, either.

‘We have to teach her some responsibility and life skills, Martin. She has to learn that life isn’t always about spa days and holidays in Florida,’ her mother had pointed out, as Martin slipped his daughter a couple of crisp £20 notes for her troubles.

At odds with her mother, Dora finally left the family home; left a hated secretarial job and dumped her two-timing fiancé at age twenty-six, to travel Europe and America, refinancing her travels with bar work or nannying whenever she felt like it. She never settled anywhere or with anyone for too long; slumming it on Californian beaches with sun-bleached surfers or bedding down with arty types around the theatre scene in Paris and generally having the time of her life, whilst she tried to decide what she should be doing. It was a far cry from the constraints of family life in Hampshire, even though she didn’t have to want for much in her family’s luxurious surroundings.

Back then, however, even though Dora still didn’t know what she wanted out of life she realised she wanted to live her life on her own terms. Not her parents’ terms.

‘Secretarial and hotel work is simply not for me,’ she’d told her best friend Jodie, who’d repeatedly asked what Dora was going to do next in life, each time her current foreign boyfriend dumped her.

‘But don’t you want to come back and settle down at some point, hon? We could have so much fun again!’ Jodie pleaded.

‘But they want me to work in our hotels and it’s just not what I want. My mother won’t let up about it. She says it’s where I belong.’

So Dora continued to kick back at what her parents wanted for her by staying away and living as freely as she pleased. However, her father’s first stroke – which, fortunately, didn’t kill him – had seen her running back to the family fold. Dora had missed her father. She hugged him while their tears mingled as he held her tightly, forgiving everything, pleased she was finally home.

‘I’ve missed you so much,’ they both spluttered.

His health scare had, however, made him reassess his life and he’d called a family meeting to discuss the pressures of running their family businesses and the toll it was taking on everybody, not just himself.

‘I mean, aren’t we doing this so we can have a good life? We don’t want to be killed off too early because of it,’ said her father, convalescing, afterwards. ‘And I think I need to change my tune about you now, Dora. You’re what? Bloody hell! You’re thirty-two and still single? Your mother is right, princess, it’s high time you took on a bit more responsibility. You’ve enjoyed a carefree life for years. But we need some help, here. Your mum’s seventy-one, even though she doesn’t look it and even though she’s still got plenty of get up and go in her. But she should’ve retired by now. Heck! We both should’ve retired by now. I’m seventy-four.’

‘But, Dad!’ Dora had started to pout and then got a ‘quit whining’ look from her brother, Stuart.

‘Leave it out, sis,’ said Stuart. ‘You’ve had a cracker of a life so far. But back to reality. This is what’s real!’

‘Your brother’s right, Dora,’ her mother snapped. ‘So we’re getting the staff together and putting some new priorities in place. You’re not tied to anyone and you don’t have kids or a husband anywhere we should know about, do you? Don’t pull that face. You never tell us anything. That’s why I’m asking. No? Right, so therefore you’ve got no particular reason to go running back to wherever it is you hang out these days – Spain, did you say?’

Dora had stared sullenly at the patterned carpet and took hold of her father’s hand.

‘I don’t want you to die, Daddy.’

Stuart had scowled at her but her father had drawn her into a long hug.

‘I’m not dying today, sweetheart. But it’s going to happen some other day. And before that day comes we do need to sort some things out. So can I count on you to help towards that or at least help us make some decisions about things? Your mother will need all the help she can get whilst I start taking things a bit easier. That stroke has put my left hand out of kilter. And that’s my phone and writing hand, so things are going to be a bit difficult for us at the moment. I’ve already spoken to Stuart and he’s going to take over my role whilst I’m off sick with a view to taking it over permanently, even when I start to get better. He’s recruiting that Damian chap as the manager. He’s a reliable sort I believe. Been with us three years already, as bar manager, so he should do a good job. And your mother needs a certain someone to step up and help out, too. So do you think you can do that for us, Dora darling?’

Dora didn’t want to be stepping up anywhere. She was still searching for her life, the last time she looked.

‘I guess, Dad. But it’s not where my heart lies. I still don’t know where that is but I’m pretty sure it’s not in cleaning up after people or making their beds. I mean, there’s no way I could be a nurse, that’s for sure!’

‘Of course, darling.’ Her father had nodded soothingly. ‘But I think your mum could do with some help behind the scenes in the office, just until we sort things out on a more permanent basis.’

She’d pulled a narky face, despite her mother shaking her head. Inwardly, she’d have liked nothing more than to run away from that responsibility. She’d never liked the hotel life she’d been made to endure when she was younger. She’d have enjoyed working on the front desk as a receptionist in those days, but her mother had insisted she start at the muddy bottom and work her way up, which had put her off working in hotels for life!

‘Look, Dora, surely you realise you’ll be able to offer a better service to your customers as well as understanding the problems the staff face on a regular basis by doing this. And then, of course, the hope is that it’ll make you a better boss at the end of the day, when you and Stuart inherit the businesses,’ her father had said.

Inherit the businesses? So that’s what all this had been about? Dora had never wanted to inherit the sodding businesses. She’d always intended that to be Stuart’s baby when the time came for her mother and father to check out, as it were.

That type of commitment, whereby she’d have to cultivate and tout for business and then maintain that business, was too much for her. She wouldn’t be able to live a carefree life, that’s for sure. And though she’d never really known what she wanted to do in life, she’d certainly never envisaged taking on the family businesses.

All she’d ever loved doing was romping around interesting countries with equally interesting men in tow, even though she’d blown the last one, Pepe, out after she’d caught him stealing her money for his roll-ups and vodka. He wasn’t the love of her life, even though the sex had been terrific. So, at the time, her foray home because of her father’s ill health had coincided with her limited choices of what to do next. Their tiny airless studio flat in Alicante was still there awaiting her return if she decided that was her plan, though she’d told Pepe it was not.

On the other hand, it was marvellous to be back amongst the lavish trappings of her family’s home environment. She could sleep in her beautifully furnished bedroom when she wanted and eat what she wanted, when she wanted. She didn’t have to do things like go out with Pepe on his boat to catch flapping, gasping fish for their supper or spend hours scouring the markets for all the items she needed to make everything from scratch. Dora simply did not expect to have to do things like killing, skinning and gutting things in order to eat. That’s what supermarkets were for, to take the stress out of finding food on a daily basis. She found life so much more civil at home in the UK. She knew she would starve if she ever found herself stranded on a desert island.

So looking down on her father, on his sick bed that day, Dora had sighed deeply, just to let everyone know she wasn’t happy with the suggestion that she ‘pull her weight’. Yet whilst she didn’t like to admit it, she could see that it did made sense for her to stay and help her folks get things sorted and settled for a little while because she really had nowhere else to go. Plus a stint in the office would be infinitely better than cleaning up after their mainly boozy guests. So it just might be do-able.

Yeah, but then I’ll be gone, she’d told herself.

In fact, not only had Dora stayed to help out for a few months, but she’d stayed working in the family business for a good few years longer than she intended. And she did everything from bar work to, yes, cleaning toilets when the situation arose, as well as running the accounts team and sitting in on the monthly meetings and putting her points across in a professional manner. Remarkably, she found she quite enjoyed managing people and, surprise, surprise, her parents had been right – working from the bottom up had put her in a good place for dealing with problems the staff faced. Thus business and life in general, for Dora, was trotting along at a good pace and they’d just secured another small hotel in London with a view to turn it into a boutique spa hotel when her father suffered his second, fatal stroke.

And then – almost overnight – everything suddenly changed.

After the funeral, one of Martin’s business associates asked if he could buy the four Hen & Stag Hotels and Dora’s mother said ‘Yes,’ without flinching. Those hotels might have given them an enviable lifestyle but they’d never been places Yvonne had felt comfortable in, even though that’s where she made Dora do her first few years’ work experience.