Tea and Cake

I shut my book, acknowledging a guilty pleasure in the astonishing pile-up of bodies in the final few chapters after an intriguing battle of wills between the amateur detective and the perpetrator. What a crazy ride!

It absolutely justifies my dislike of tea in all its guises – leaves, bags, strainers, and pots – all perilous items in the wrong hands. Who would have believed that a little old English lady could have poisoned so many of her nice neighbours, while providing copious cups of tea to each victim? And the motive? Pure genius. I understand that yearning for excitement, for the thrill of combat.

I glance at the author’s name again, a complete unknown to me until this book arrived by post, a runner-up prize in a crossroad competition in one of my women’s magazines. Initially, I was annoyed I didn’t win the first prize of a luxury hamper, including my favourite chocolates and a bottle of wine. However, after reading this book – a murder-mystery to beat even Agatha Christie at her game – I am fully content.

Giggling to myself, I vow never to trust any little old ladies in the neighbourhood again. Then I remember I am a little old lady myself –a completely boring and trustworthy one to outward eyes. I snort with rueful laughter and Baxter, my Jack Russell, twitches in his sleep.  I sigh. What I would give for a little excitement in life at this moment, something to stir the tea leaves of life into action.

That’s when I see the van backing slowly into the empty drive next door. I grab my stick and hurry over to the window to get a better look, almost tripping over the sleeping dog in my haste. He leaps up, instantly on the alert, and jumps up on the windowsill, yapping madly. It has been a while since anyone has lived next door, and we are both agitated and excited to see someone again, at last.

“Shush, Baxter!” I hiss, craning my neck to get an unobstructed view of my new neighbours. I want to spot them before they see me, but there is little chance of that with an excitable Jack Russell. The dog had been gifted to me by my nephew as a ‘companion and excellent guard dog.’ He was completely useless at subterfuge, always giving the game away.

I curse the height of the hedge between us, as it is difficult to get a proper look at my new neighbour, but it seems to be a woman climbing down from the driving seat, on the older side of seventy, around my own age in fact.  Stroking Baxter’s hackles down, I wondered if she is friendly. Hopefully, she will be an improvement on the noisy rabble who finally vacated the building last year, after a particularly nasty case of food poisoning, contracted at our street fair. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.

I wonder why this particular woman is moving house, especially at her age. An impish thought shoots through my head – perhaps she is a spy, or a criminal. Maybe she is on the run, a fugitive from the law, hiding out in a new neighbourhood after poisoning a whole town of people with a mix of Darjeeling, Earl Grey, and Cyanide, all brewed in her best bone China tea pot.

I laugh at myself, shaking my head at my vivid imagination running riot yet again. Maybe I should have been a novelist, I think. Baxter cocks an inquisitive ear, his mouth hanging open as if he understands the joke too.

“I’m sure she’s a perfectly lovely woman. Now, what do you think she’d like? Lasagna? No one can resist my lasagna.” I say, as Baxter pants a reply. A memory of old neighbours tucking into a whole bowl of my Lasagna Supreme dish floats across my mind.

Retreating to the kitchen, I hum happily as I select all the ingredients I need. I have barely made my special bechamel sauce when a knock on the door disturbs me.

I brush flour from my apron, flustered by this interference to my labours. Baxter is yapping so loudly, I think his tonsils or my head will explode at any minute.  I push him into the back room, grab my walking stick and head to the front door, trying to smooth down my unruly grey hair with one hand.

She is waiting for me, a slight smile twisting her reddened lips. It looks more like a smirk to me, and I blush as I wonder what image I present with my wild, wiry hair, stained apron, and aged pink slippers. My eyes take in her perfect form. Slight; small, with snow-white hair (dyed, surely) pulled back to reveal a perfectly symmetrical face refusing to give in to old age. Large grey eyes sweep over me, assessing me, finding me wanting. Instantly, I feel she regrets knocking. Instantly, I detest her.

“Hi,” she says, maintaining the niceties, a confident twang marking her as a Southerner. “I’m Pearl. Pearl Grey, your new neighbour.”

“Earl Grey?” I say, still mulling over tea leaf varieties, and mishearing her.

Her lips smack together, as if controlled by a tight elastic band. “Pearl Grey.” Her pronunciation of the words is slow and patronising, as if talking to the old and infirm.

My hand trembles on the walking stick and I grip tighter, trying to look poised.

“I’m Marjorie,” I reply. “I’m making a lasagna to welcome you to the neighbourhood, Pearl.”

“Oh please don’t bother,” she says, waving a perfectly manicured hand so close to the front of my face, I could bite her. “I can’t bear Italian food.”

How I don’t slam the door in her face, I’ll never know. Baxter barks angrily in the background, as if he too senses the deliberate insult.

“You have a dog,” Pearl said, and the way she says it makes my hackles rise too. “That is a shame. I can’t bear dogs, and neither can my cat, Perfecta.”

A devilish retort rises in my throat. I almost say that Baxter loves cats, especially for dinner, but I resist temptation. Instead, I reply, “Well, we’ll just have to keep them apart, I suppose.”

She nods, turns away, and walks to the gate. I watch her go, disappointment filling my throat with bile. I hoped for a kindred spirit and instead got Miss Ice-Queen.

Then, she turns round, her grey eyes cold as winter, as if hearing my thoughts. She marches back towards me; her slim legs supple as a youngster. I curse her then, feeling the stinging ache torturing my own knees and ankles. What pills or potions has she taken to undo the poison of time?

“Marjorie,” she simpers. “I’m sorry. I feel we’ve got off to a bad start. Would you care to come round for a cup of tea later? Clear the air? Begin again?” Of course, perfect teeth are revealed as soon as she smiles.

I am about to spit out a refusal, announce my hatred of all tea and tea-makers, yet curiosity and a strange sense of connection hold me back.

“What time?” I ask.

“Four ‘o’ clock?” she suggests. “I’ll have the kettle on ready for you.”

I nod, a thrill of excitement sending tingles through my smiling cheeks. “I’ll bring some cake round,” I say. “It will knock your socks off.”

She tips her head to one side for a moment, as if sensing an undertone, but then nods. “That would be lovely,” she says.

I tip the half-cooked lasagna in the bin, careful that none should be found by Baxter’s inquisitive nose. Then I pull the ingredients out for my special Devil’s food cake, a wonderfully rich cake that disguises all additional flavours and ingredients.

While it bakes in the oven, I flick through the novel again, idly stroking Baxter’s rough fur as he dozes beside me. The clues were there all along, I note, beneath the sweet old lady façade and within each new cup of tea and delicious slice of cake. Devilish writing indeed.

Time passes so slowly. I can’t wait until four ‘o’ clock, for the battle to commence.