The Little Teashop of Lost & Found
by
Trisha Astley
Blog Tour
I have an extract for you today for Trisha Ashley's new book The Little Teashop of Lost and Found. I love the cover and spring like colours of this book.
Extract
Once Upon a Fairy Tale
Alice
Autumn 1995
I grew up knowing I was adopted, so it was never a shocking revelation,
merely one of the things that defined me, like having curly
copper-bright hair, distinctive dark eyebrows, a fine silvery scar above
my upper lip and pale green eyes (like boiled gooseberries, according to
Mum, though Dad said they were mermaid’s eyes, the colour of
sea-washed green glass).
As a little girl I’d sit for hours painting with Dad in his garden studio,
while his deep, gentle voice wrapped me in a soft-spun fairy tale, in
which my desperate young birth mother had been forced to abandon
her poorly, premature little baby, hoping that someone like Mum and
Dad would come along and adopt her.
Or like Dad, at any rate, since eventually I came to see that Nessa
(she’d insisted I call her that rather than Mummy, practically the
moment I could string a sentence together) had had no maternal yearnings;
she’d just been paying lip-service to his longing for a family, smug
in the knowledge that she couldn’t physically carry a child even if she
had wanted to.
‘A bad fairy had put a spell on baby Alice, but when the nice doctors
had made her lip all better, everyone agreed she was the prettiest princess
in the whole of Yorkshire,’ he’d finish his story, smiling at me over
his canvas.
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‘And they put the wicked fairy in a metal cage and everyone threw
rotten tomatoes at her,’ I’d suggest – or even worse punishments, for
some old fairy-tale books given to me by my paternal grandmother,
including one strangely but wonderfully illustrated by Arthur Rackham,
had had a great influence on my imagination. We lived near
Granny Rose in Knaresborough until moving to a village just outside
Shrewsbury when I was eight, and I can still remember her reading to
me the long, long poem by Edith Sitwell about Sleeping Beauty, once
she’d tucked me up in bed. I’d slowly drift off on a sea of musical, beautiful
words about malevolent fairies and enchantments.
Other favourites of Granny’s included The Water-Babies and Alice’s
Adventures in Wonderland – the latter a favourite of mine, too, since the
heroine had the same name. I begged for her lovely old copies after she
died and Dad made sure I got them, even though Nessa was hellbent on
having a clearance firm empty the whole house. She was a minimalist
sort of person . . . except when it came to her own clothes, jewellery and
shoes.
Our house was a tale of two parts, with most of the creatively chaotic
clutter in Dad’s studio, which might have been stables once upon a
time – until he married a wicked witch disguised as a flamboyantly
beautiful ex- opera singer and she banished him there.
Anyway, you can see why I have a tendency to turn everything that
happens in my life into a dark-edged fairy tale – I can’t help it!
‘They threw stinky rotten eggs at the wicked fairy, too,’ I’d once
added firmly to the familiar story.
‘Well, perhaps, but only until she said she was sorry and then they let
her out,’ Dad had amended, kind-hearted as always.
Over the years we embroidered the story with increasingly ridiculous
flourishes at every retelling, but it had served its purpose, for I grew up
knowing that I’d been abandoned in the village of Haworth in Yorkshire
and adopted, and the filament-fine silvery scar was all that
remained to show I’d been born with a harelip.
Of course, later I realized Dad had had no way of knowing whether my
birth mother was young or not and also, once I became quite obsessed
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The Little Teashop of Lost and Found
with the Brontë family and Haworth, I knew that it was extremely
unlikely that she’d tiptoed up to the steps of the Parsonage in the middle
of the night and laid me there, in the expectation that he and Nessa
would shortly swing by and scoop me up. I mean, it was a museum by
then, so it would have been closed, and also, adoption didn’t quite work
like that. (I’m still surprised they let Nessa on to the register. I can only
think that her opera training kicked in and she hadn’t been able to resist
throwing herself into the role of eager prospective mother.)
But while Nessa might make extravagant expressions of affection
towards me only when her London friends were visiting (one of whom
once cattily let fall the information that she hadn’t had that brilliant a
voice even before the operation on her vocal cords that ended her career),
I’d known real love from Granny and Dad.
And I also had Lola, my best friend, and her lovely parents, who
owned a nearby smallholding, growing herbs commercially. There we
helped look after the hens and goats, ran wild in the fields and learned
to bake in the long, cool, quarry-tiled kitchen. All my life, baking –
even the scent of cinnamon and dried fruit – would have the power to
transport me back immediately to those happy days and transfuse me
with warmth and comfort.
So it was an idyllic childhood on the whole, though once the rebellious
teenage hormones kicked in I began to clash more and more with
Nessa.
Still, the finer details of my distant past didn’t seem to matter . . .
until Dad suddenly died from a massive heart attack when I was nearly
eighteen and my safe, secure world collapsed around me like a house of
cards.
In any ordinary family, his loss might have pulled Nessa and me
together, but she was not so much grief-stricken as filled with a volcanic
rage, mainly directed at me. And she became so obsessed with money
that immediately after the funeral she sold the entire contents of Dad’s
studio (he was quite a well-known artist) to an American collector
without a word to me beforehand, locking the door so I couldn’t even
go in there to find solace among the comforting, familiar smells of oil
paint and turpentine.
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That was bad enough. But then, with even more indecent haste, she
moved a new man into the house – and a horrible one, at that, who was
scarily over-friendly in an old-lech kind of way whenever she was out of
earshot – and I came to realize that now I was just an encumbrance and
she couldn’t wait for me to go off to university the following year.
The pain of Dad’s loss was still raw and I couldn’t bear to see another
man in his place, so I had the row to end all rows with Nessa, culminating
in my saying that I hated her and I was going to go and find my real
mother.
‘She has to be an improvement on you!’ I finished.
‘You’re a foundling, darling, so there’s no way you can find her,’ she
snapped cuttingly. ‘And bearing in mind that she dumped you out on
the moors on a freezing cold night, she’d be unlikely to welcome you
with open arms, even if you did.’
Stunned into silence, I stared at her while I took in the implications
of what she’d just told me. ‘She . . . didn’t leave me in Haworth village,
but up on the moors, where she didn’t think I’d be found?’ I asked
eventually.
Nessa looked at me, the fury dying down slightly into a sort of malicious,
slightly shame-faced pleasure that shook me: I knew she’d never
really loved me, but until recently I’d thought her as fond of me as her
self-absorbed nature would allow.
‘Your father never wanted me to tell you the truth, but I think that
was a mistake. And maybe she was batty and thought someone would
come across you,’ she suggested, possibly divining from my expression
that she’d gone too far.
‘No, if she left me at night out on the moors, then clearly she hoped
I’d die and never be found,’ I said numbly, for the spell of Dad’s fairy
tale was now well and truly shattered and there was no way it could be
glued together again. I felt empty, alone and lost . . . and unwanted –
totally unwanted – by anyone.
‘I hate you!’ I cried with sudden violence as hot tears rushed to my
eyes. ‘I wish you’d died instead of Dad – though you couldn’t have had
a heart attack, because you haven’t got a heart. You’ve never loved me
like Lola’s mum loves her.’
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The Little Teashop of Lost and Found
She shrugged. ‘I expect Dolly actually wanted children, which I never
did, even if I could have had them. Your father finally wore me down
into agreeing to adoption and he was over the moon when we were
offered a baby. But you’d only just had the surgery on your face and
what with that and the carroty hair, you weren’t exactly prepossessing,
darling.’
Now the floodgates of frankness were open, there seemed to be no
stopping the hurtful revelations, so I added one of my own: I told her
that the day before, when she was out, her creepy new lover had tried to
kiss me and made suggestive remarks.
‘You lying snake in the bosom!’ she hissed furiously, clutching those
generous appendages as though she’d just been bitten there by an asp.
And though of course she didn’t believe me (which was why I hadn’t
already told her), there was no going back after that.
Dawn found me on a coach heading to Cornwall, with the loan of Lola’s
birthday money in my bag, to tide me over. I took only one case with me,
leaving with her for safekeeping my most precious possessions, including
Granny’s books and a small portrait of me in oils, painted by Dad.
Of course Lola had wanted to tell her mum what had happened, but
I’d sworn her to secrecy until I’d found a job and somewhere to live.
‘I’ll stay in a bed and breakfast at first, and there are lots of hotels and
cafés there where I can get some casual work until I find my feet,’ I
assured her.
Inspired by some of Dad’s old stories of the Newlyn artists, and our
holidays in Cornwall, I had romantic ideas about joining an artists’ colony,
where my aspirations to become a writer and painter could be
nurtured, though later I realized this was not only unrealistic, but several
decades too late.
The stark reality was that my arrival, late in the evening and off-season,
when many places were shut up for the winter and no one was hiring,
left me without any option other than spending the first night huddled
in a shelter on the seafront . . . and all too soon my over-active imagination
was peopling the darkest corners with evilly muttering goblins and
foully hellish Hieronymus Bosch creatures.
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Trisha Ashley
When the cold breeze blew a discarded cardboard cup across the
prom I thought it was the clatter of running footsteps and even the soft,
constant susurration of the sea sounded like an unkind conversation
about me.
I’d begun to write my own contemporary mash-ups of fairy tales,
fables and folklore, spiced with an edge of horror, but when it came to
the crunch, this princess was no kick-ass kind of girl able to rescue herself,
but a frightened waif in urgent need of a handsome prince . . . or
even a kind, ugly one.
Hell, I’d have settled for a reasonably friendly frog.
Tears trickled down my face and I shivered as the cold wind picked
up and wound its way around my legs.
Then, all at once, I heard the staccato tap of high heels and the
excited yapping of a small dog. Before I could attempt to shrink even
further into my dark corner, it dashed in and discovered me.
A torch snapped on and I screwed up my eyes against the dazzling
beam, though not before I’d glimpsed the small and unthreatening
shape behind it, so that my heart rate steadied.
‘Well, what have we here, Ginny?’ said a surprised female voice with
the hint of a highland lilt. ‘A wee lassie?
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