Chapter 2
Bonnie was too shaken to go straight home, plus Stephen was on an afternoon off and would be no doubt playing Wagner at full blast in the lounge, which was not conducive to unwinding. She unlocked her car door, belted herself in and set off in her ancient Vauxhall. It had been a faithful old rust-bucket, but it was nearing the end of its days and she doubted very much it would get through its next MOT in August without a small fortune being spent on it. The thought of having to ask Stephen for things she needed always filled her with dread. He made it into such an ordeal, she felt like Bob Cratchit asking Scrooge for a day off at Christmas. The last time she’d needed a front tyre, she’d had to ‘apply’ for the money as if he were a bank. He had made her shop around for prices and list them and then, after all that, he’d taken the car to a garage and had a part-worn one fitted. It was Stephen who put the most money into their joint savings account, therefore he was in charge of it, he said.
Bonnie knew her dad would be spinning in his grave about her situation. He’d saved all his life hoping to leave her enough money to be comfortable, only for most of it to be spent on his nursing home costs. Bonnie could have found a cheaper home but her dad deserved the best and she made sure he had it. He’d been so strong, the illness which crippled his brain so quickly had taken years to kill his body. The little that hadn’t been absorbed, Stephen had taken care of for her, adding it to the joint savings that she wasn’t allowed to touch.
She drove away from town and found herself on the Penistone road where Spring Hill was situated. She hadn’t heard of it before and was pleasantly surprised to find a square of shops around a pretty central garden area. There was a florist, an old-fashioned toyshop, a gift shop and next to a quaint-looking teashop in the corner, an antiques shop. So the old lady had been right then. The Pot of Gold, it was called. It had a painted wooden sign hanging from elaborately scrolled metalwork. There was a rainbow arcing over the lettering and adjacent to the last ‘d’, a small golden pot complete with radiating lines of shimmer. Bonnie had nothing to lose and everything to gain by going in and asking if they had a job, but the way her luck had been going the last few years, she expected an instant rebuff.
As she passed by the window, she noticed there were a couple of customers in so she went into the teashop instead to wait until they had gone, plus it would calm her down having a breather and a coffee. Her nerves were pulled to the tautness of harp strings. She was forty-two and had never had to apply for a job in her life until now.
The teashop was pretty from the outside with its hanging baskets full of pink and cream scented flowers, but inside it was even lovelier. The pink and cream theme was repeated on the painted walls and there were standing cabinets full of gorgeous book-themed gifts: handbags, journals, scarves, quills. Behind the teashop counter was a slim, smiling lady in an apron and a reed-thin boy scratching his chin and hiding a grin. A tall, handsome man with a twinkle in his eye was standing cross-armed and teasing the lad about his stubble.
‘Ah, you don’t need a razor for that. You could wipe it off with a cloth.’ The man was laughing, his accent strong Northern Irish.
‘You take no notice of him, Ryan. He’s just jealous of your youthful charm . . . Hello,’ the lady with the apron called to Bonnie. ‘Please take a seat, I’ll be over in a minute.’
There was just one table empty, next to a wall covered in postcards from all over the world. Bonnie sat down on the heart-backed iron chair at the side of a large ginger cat in a basket which she thought was a stuffed toy, until it yawned and then settled its great head back down onto its paws. She picked up a menu. Charlotte Brontë Brandy Snap Basket, she noticed. That sounded lovely, maybe one day she’d come back and treat herself. But for now a coffee would suffice.
Bonnie let the calm air of the teashop work its magic on her frazzled nerves. She realised she’d left a cardigan and the book she read in her lunch hours back at Ken Grimshaw’s shop. Well, they’d have to stay put because she would never set foot in there again. She felt sick about not getting her wage, although the loss of the money was secondary to the prospect of the lecture she’d get from Stephen about it. She wished she didn’t have to go home today. Or ever. Her dad had told her many times that her mum said if you could imagine doing something in your head, you could do it in real life. She’d been wrong though. Bonnie had been picturing herself leaving Stephen and his house for years, yet she was still there.
She finished her coffee and waved a thank you at the lady with the apron and crossed her fingers that the antiques shop was empty now. It was. She tried to will some steel into her backbone by reciting a precis of her mother’s favourite saying. Come on, Bonnie. Wish. Think. Do. Her whole body felt as if it were shaking when she opened the door of the Pot of Gold.