The Little Teashop of Lost and Found by Ashley, Trisha (6)

6

Agent of Change

I woke up one morning in early June with the decision to stop taking the antidepressants already fixed in my mind.

I hoped that I wasn’t also cutting the invisible umbilical cord to my sanity, but actually, once the drug had worked its way through my system, I felt instead that the world had shifted fully back into focus, that was all. Everything was brighter, louder, clearer.

The breakdown seemed to have been cathartic, for though I still grieved for Dan and what might have been, I now felt strangely distanced, as if losing him had happened so long ago that I’d come to terms with it.

Perhaps, too, it was partly because I now had a new obsession. What Edie had said about my belonging in Yorkshire had sparked off the idea of moving to Haworth and now I was consumed by it. I had a right to live there. I’d buy a cottage and, if there was enough insurance money left, I’d be able to eke out a living from my e-book sales. I loved baking, but I really didn’t want to work in someone else’s kitchen all my life.

Once I was there, I’d try to trace my real mother. I even took the first step in that direction by ordering a copy of my birth registration document, though I had no idea what kind of information I’d find on it. I’d never bothered before, because since I’d been abandoned there wasn’t going to be any major clue as to who I actually was on it, was there? My parents must have had one, because I’d had a passport for school trips to France and Switzerland, but I’d never seen it.

When I had a rough idea of how much money the insurance would be I spent hours in Edie’s small back office, surfing the internet to see what kind of property I could afford in the Haworth area.

Lola looked too, when she had time, and sent me links to cottages she thought nice and also suggested we meet in Haworth for a couple of days to view anything suitable together.

But actually, you can virtually tour most properties on the internet and … well, something was still holding me back from going there. It was a sort of spell, an evil enchantment that I knew would be broken the moment I bought my stake in the village. No frog required.

The birth registration certificate was a brief and not very illuminating document, giving the parish where I was born, which wasn’t a surprise, and my birthday as 2 March, the day I’d been found. I discovered I’d been registered as Alice Oldstone, but although I’d always been Alice, I had no idea where the Oldstone came from, unless it was the name of the person who found me, or something like that. It wasn’t my social worker, because she signed the certificate as Janine Parker. I suppose someone had to.

Alice Oldstone … It sounded quite Cold Comfort Farm, unlike Alice Rose, which I’d always felt was a bit Victorian miss.

They say good things come in threes and following hard on the heels of the insurance money came number two: an offer from a large and well-established publisher for my next full-length novel, and they also wanted to do a deal for my self-published e-book novel and the two novellas.

After all those years of submitting adult horror fairy tales and being rejected, now they were actually asking me! I thought about it and felt it might work to my advantage. Also, I rather liked the idea of print books that I could hold in my hands.

But I really needed the guidance of an agent and I’d been firmly rejected by a few of those in the past, too. Then I remembered that I’d once actually met one.

I didn’t just read horror, supernatural and fairy stories; I liked a bit of historical romance, too, especially by my favourite author, Eleri Groves. Just before I moved up to Scotland I’d been lucky enough to win the prize of an afternoon tea with her at Framling’s Famous Tearoom in London, along with two other fans. I’d travelled up from Cornwall by train, feeling very nervous, but Eleri was a lovely, friendly and interesting person, and it had all been great fun.

I’d also looked forward to seeing the swish Framling’s Tearoom, and it had certainly been quite an experience. Everything had seemed to sparkle: the light bounced off the pristine white tablecloths, the rose-pink china and the silvery teapots. And the food was wonderful, especially the cakes, although I was a little critical of the Battenburg. It should have been soft squares of vanilla yellow and pale pink, wrapped in a good layer of marzipan, not a garish chequerboard of primrose and cerise, the squares stuck together with thick red jam and then the whole wrapped in marzipan so thin you couldn’t taste it. Mine was definitely better.

Also at the tea had been Eleri’s agent, Senga McWhirter – a name so odd that it had stuck in my head – so I thought I’d try her first, reminding her that we’d once met. The slight connection seemed like a good omen and I was always keen on signs and portents. She’d had a liltingly familiar Scottish accent that had made me feel relaxed in her company, but she struck me as a tough cookie under her soft baby-blue cashmere twinset, which I suspected was exactly what you needed in a literary agent.

I contacted her via her website and within hours she rang me and talked at length in that persuasive voice. She wanted me to go down and see her until I explained the circumstances … and then somehow it appeared that I’d agreed terms with her and she was to send me a contract to sign in the post.

In return, I was to email her all my published backlist e-books and my new novel as soon as I’d finished it.

‘What’s it about?’ she asked, obviously assuming I was in the middle of writing it.

‘About?’ I repeated blankly. ‘I … well, it’s about Sleeping Beauty – when she wakes up, her bower’s been transported to the middle of a run-down housing estate and she mistakes one of the locals for her prince,’ I gabbled.

Now, where the hell did that idea come from?

‘Wonderful,’ she enthused. ‘I’ll look forward to reading that very soon.’

I realized I’d sold my agent a fairy tale, so now I’d have to put my money where my mouth was and write it!

Once business matters had been settled to her satisfaction, we chatted a little about the time we met, and Eleri Groves’ amazing Brontë find: the previous year she’d discovered a formerly unknown mention of Charlotte Brontë in the diary of a school friend, revealing she’d frequently walked out on to the moors in the hope of seeing a certain farmer, who inspired her to create Mr Rochester. Eleri, when researching the novel she’d based on this, met and married a descendant of that farmer and settled there, near Haworth. It had been in all the papers around the time of the book launch, which was held at the farm’s teashop.

‘It’s quite a coincidence, because I’m hoping to move to Haworth myself soon,’ I told Senga.

‘Great idea! I sometimes travel up to see Eleri and I’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone,’ she enthused. ‘She’s holding the second Tea with Mr Rochester book launch at her husband’s farm in September and I’ll be there for that – perhaps you could get a ticket?’

‘I’m sure they sold out long ago – probably the moment they were released,’ I said.

‘Perhaps, but I’ll tell Eleri to squeeze you in.’

‘No – please don’t,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s only a couple of months away and I may not have moved by then. Perhaps next year, though.’

‘We’ll see,’ she said, then broke off to hum a little of ‘We’ll Keep a Welcome in the Hillside’, before saying she’d be in touch soon and ringing off.

Edie, when I told her about Senga, said I’d done a sensible thing and was predisposed to think that a Scot would naturally be the best kind of agent to have.

‘I hadn’t realized your books were doing so well, dear,’ she added.

‘I was surprised when they took off too, really,’ I admitted. ‘Lola always said they were a bit of a niche market, so I’m going to ring her and tell her the niche is about to get a lot bigger.’

I soon discovered that Fear of Agent overcomes creative inertia. Idea sparks flew around my mind until they coalesced and the glimmering of a story formed around the dark heart of the Sleeping Beauty.

I didn’t immediately tell Edie or Lola about the third lucky thing that happened soon after, but instead hugged it to myself.

For by another seemingly fortuitous stroke of good fortune, I’d stumbled across Mrs Muswell’s online advertisement for the Branwell Café, just off the main street in Haworth, and fallen in love with the place.

We chatted via email and exchanged Facebook messages, and then she sent me photographs of the café, which also had a flat over it … And I don’t know what came over me, because I bought it, sight unseen, despite the warnings of Mr Blackwell, when I asked him to act for me, and the disapproval of Edie, once the cat was out of the bag.

It seemed a great bargain, even though I hadn’t been looking for a business – but there was living accommodation too and, after all, I did know about cafés.

I can’t have been totally rational, even though at the time I thought I was, because I ignored everyone’s warnings and carried on with the purchase regardless, taking everything Mrs Muswell said at face value.

From her Facebook photo I could see she was a fat, jolly-looking woman with a glinting smile and even more glinting huge hooped gold earrings. She informed me that the café opened seasonally and, since she was based in Spain, was run when she was absent by a manageress. It had just closed early for the winter for updating and redecorating, after which she’d intended increasing the price, so I was getting a bargain by buying it now. Anyway, from the pictures I could see it looked fine, if a little old-fashioned.

The bare minimum of searches and surveys that my solicitor insisted I needed were soon done, showing nothing of any great moment. The café fronted a small dead-end alleyway, a little cobbled backwater off the main street, but there was parking behind the premises and the sale included all fixtures, fittings and catering equipment.

Mrs Muswell even promised to come across and meet me there once the sale was completed, to show me the books (though she said there was lots of potential to increase the profits), tell me about local suppliers and introduce me to her seasonal staff.

It all sounded almost too good to be true, much like my own fairy stories … and so it was.

All I can say is, never surf property for sale when you have a huge insurance cheque in your bank account.

The first cloud on the horizon was an email from Mrs Muswell as soon as the purchase had been completed, saying she couldn’t come over after all, due to family circumstances. However, the deeds, keys, accounts and any other useful paperwork would be at her solicitors in Keighley, waiting for me.

But then she suddenly vanished into the ether. I could no longer see her Facebook profile and all my emails bounced. I contacted her solicitor’s office, but they wouldn’t divulge any information or contact details for her, though they did confirm they had the keys and a folder of paperwork for me.

‘I did say perhaps you weren’t wise to buy a property sight unseen,’ Mr Blackwell said mildly, when I told him. ‘However, the café is now in your possession and you must let me know how you get on.’

Edie was more forthright. ‘I smell a rat and there must be something wrong with the place,’ she declared. ‘Buying a property that way was a silly idea, as I’d have told you if you hadn’t turned all secretive on me till the deed was done!’

‘I know – I wasn’t thinking straight and I expect I knew you’d stop me,’ I agreed.

I was worried, though I consoled myself that however odd Mrs Muswell’s behaviour was, the property did actually exist and was now mine – and I’d seen the photos so I knew there couldn’t be anything too awful to find out.

‘If it’s dreadful, mind – infested with vermin, or falling into one of those sink holes, say – then put it straight back on the market, cut your losses and return here,’ Edie said, still fretting. ‘There’s always a place for you at Lochside House.’

‘I know – and you’ve been so kind to me always,’ I said gratefully, and kissed her wrinkled cheek.

‘Och, away with you, you great daftie,’ she said, but affectionately, even though I was pretty sure that that was her exact opinion of me, now I’d bought a place I’d never seen.

There was no going back: I’d broken the spell and was now as eager to see my new home as I’d been reluctant to visit Haworth in the past.

Yet still, I’d recognized something that resonated with me in Emily Brontë and I’d reread Wuthering Heights so often that I knew passages of it by heart. This simply had to be the place where I could put down roots at last.