10. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
N ate found Willow in a flurry of activity at the counter. She scrolled through the store’s social media accounts on an open laptop while listening to many answerphone messages. He caught snatches of the conversations before they were deleted or frantic notes taken. Gone was the confident woman who made his heart jump when she emerged from the waves. Instead, she shrank and grew white as another request for an interview or comment was heard. He didn’t know who Clara was, but he now understood why Amber had offered to hex her; she sounded like a bitch as the journalist explained the accusations against Willow. Nate was confident they were false, and Willow would never set out to destroy anyone’s reputation as the sexiest woman in the industry to boost another actress’s ratings. Amber might not like him, but he admired her protective nature. He’d do the same if it helped soothe Willow’s anxiety. If he wasn’t mistaken, she shimmered with adrenaline and her hand holding the phone trembled. Her wide eyes darting around reminded him of a feral cat he once saw cornered in a barn. It made no sense. After the dip, they were happy and joking about ways to keep warm after a hot shower when it changed in an instant. Once the old lady left, Willow fled down the alley and across the slushy snow in the courtyard, ignoring his calls.
‘What’s going on?’ He approached her with care, noting Vincent standing nearby, and recalling the feral cat exploding from its spot with hisses and claws. Would the gentle giant do the same to protect his owner from a perceived threat? Her attention remained focused on the screen.
‘Willow?’ She looked up, tears welling in her eyes. ‘What’s up?’
‘I should have checked when Amber mentioned it yesterday. I should have deleted it but I was distracted. I …’
Nate looked at the screen to see a photo of a surprised Willow standing near a cheerful younger woman holding a jar. He squinted to read the label. A lotion to attract lovers, so what? The number of shares rose at an alarming rate. He registered the name Clara on the account and took a sharp intake of breath. How many followers? No wonder it was going viral.
‘I don’t understand why you’re so upset. If you ignore the celebrity slanging match which has nothing to do with you, most want to buy your products. This is a good thing and will bring the business new customers from all over the world.’
‘I don’t want the Emporium to be famous nor be in the middle of two feuding celebrities and their fans. Some are accusing me of preying on the vulnerable but worse than that, my photo is out there, and journalists are snooping asking for my thoughts about the starlets’ feud and explosion of interest in the store.’
‘It’s a nice photo. Hey, you aren’t on the witness protection scheme, are you?’ he joked.
‘Of course not,’ she snapped. Beneath the frenetic energy, the ice queen he met before was back. ‘I just value my privacy.’
‘I noticed Vincent is the star of your newsfeed. People love him and they’ll soon forget about you and repost his photos again, but you will have new customers falling through your door with money to spend.’ He studied her closely and watched her gain control of her emotions and shrug off the vulnerability to come back fighting.
‘Fame and money are not what the Emporium is about. It’s for those who need it, not for those who want to make a statement of their wealth or celebrity status or because it’s the next new fad,’ she said.
‘Even celebrities and these unknown faces behind these endless notifications need help, Willow. The Enchanted Emporium is reaching out to them too. You can help more than those who stumble down Black Cat Alley. Most people never find it. I still get lost coming here and I know where it is. This place is excellent at hiding.’
Enveloping her into an embrace, he steered her away from the laptop. ‘Come on, you’re freezing. Time for that hot shower and this won’t be so bad after a cup of tea.’
***
‘Feeling better?’
A freshly showered Willow sank into the chair, cradling a mug of Yorkshire tea he offered her. She’d raised her eyebrows at his choice of vessel; mugs were on par with the teabags he’d used, but in this scenario, she welcomed the quantity and the thought. She nodded. The hot water washed away some initial fear and in her flat with flames roaring in the fireplace, Vincent draped on her knee and Nate watching her, she could believe her panic over the viral post was unfounded. Nearly. The truth still gnawed at the edges. How could she explain her anxieties were deeper than her hatred for social media without revealing her past? She couldn’t. It was too much to dump on any relationship, never mind one hours old.
‘This will help too. Thanks. I wasn’t expecting you to make tea.’
‘I needed the practice. I confess teabags were used but I did use the teapot and you’re right, the process is relaxing.’
‘Progress then. Next, you’ll be hoarding a stash of different tea blends for different moods. Loose leaf, of course.’ She grinned and sipped more tea for courage. ‘I’m sorry for earlier, I overreacted. Social media scares me—I regret succumbing to Amber’s pressure.’
‘It can be a good marketing plan, but I understand your reluctance. I hate it and have accounts I don’t use. Too much hassle and I’d rather talk in person, unlike my youngest brother, Jamie—he lives for it and turned his travel blog into a business. He’ll do anything to boost his likes and followers. It’s a fickle business and your post will soon be replaced by the next drama or big thing. It’s just a slow news day,’ he reassured her. Being with him, it was easy to believe his words and push her worries aside. The viral post would be good for business, like Sabrina’s visit was. The added footfall might even pay for new heating in the flat.
‘But if you don’t want fame and fortune—what do you really want?’
Willow considered the question and felt the familiar tug of desire. Not for Nate this time, though she knew if he touched her all her current thoughts would disperse. She unfurled from the chair and walked to the fridge and the montage of photos to select one.
‘I want this.’ She thrust the photograph to him before she changed her mind. Nate took the battered picture, faded and discoloured with age. She sat next to him on the sofa, studying him closely while pulling a loose thread on her jumper. She couldn’t confide in him about her fears, but she could tell him this. Something only Louise knew.
‘That is what I want,’ she whispered, pointing to the rambling, whitewashed low cottage with the classic roses around the door. The hazy summer sun shone on the heather-strewn wilderness of the Yorkshire Moors in the background. Two figures stood in front of the open door. The stooped elderly woman leant heavily on a tall staff and her white hair was scraped tight into a bun. The lens captured her intense scowl at the photographer but the young girl next to her looked up at her with adoration.
‘She looks terrifying,’ he commented.
‘She could be. She didn’t suffer fools gladly. My stepfather hated her. She typified everything you read about witches in fairy tales, except she never wore a black hat. She even had a wart on her nose. That is my Grandma Jax.’
‘And that’s you?’ Nate pointed to the child dressed in jeans and wellies with a mass of blonde ringlets. ‘Your hair was wild.’
Willow touched her short hair and nodded. ‘I think that pinprick of blue is the sea and that is the headland at Whitby. The house is the reason Lou and I visited Whitby in the first place. And then this shop became the reason I stayed, but the farm is where my heart is. It’s home.’
***
‘Again.’ Young Willow watched the tea she’d painstakingly made pour into a bucket by the door. They’d use it to water the garden later. If her grandmother didn’t appreciate her efforts, at least the flowers would.
‘Remember the steps and concentrate,’ the old woman said, giving her granddaughter the teapot back.
‘I did,’ Willow muttered under her breath, forgetting the sharp hearing Grandma Jax had.
‘Obviously not. Otherwise, I would be over there with my feet up, drinking a much-needed cup of tea, rather than standing here with you. If you cannot perfect the art of tea making, how can you expect to make the potions you have your eye on? Now let’s try again. From the beginning—warm this pot.’
Willow stood on a wooden handcrafted step, enabling her to reach the sink. From a young age, as soon as she was tall enough, it was her chore to wash up. Not that it was a chore; she enjoyed dipping her hands in the frothy water, sending bubbles in the air while cleaning the meagre amount of pots the pair created. She could watch the sheep grazing in the Moors through the window. At home, Willow wasn’t allowed to touch anything in case it broke, and the only view from their windows were the grey drab council flats opposite. She always knew if she did the washing-up well, she could progress to tea making, and today was the day. Earlier, while Willow ate a thick slice of toast dripping with melted butter and homemade raspberry jam for breakfast, Grandma Jax declared since she was starting school next term, she was old enough to learn to make tea. Her excitement faded when she discovered it wasn’t as easy as her grandmother made it look.
Tea was important at the cottage, and Grandma Jax took it seriously. She drank copious cups of all descriptions, many blended from the herbs she grew in the garden or foraged, and she never broke the ritual; she never poured boiling water over a teabag in a mug like Willow’s mum did. If there wasn’t time to brew the tea properly, there wasn’t enough time to savour the end product. Even at five, Willow could see the truth in this. Her mum left endless mugs of half-drunk cold tea on the side, distracted by her chores, while Grandma Jax set the large farmhouse table with selected cups and saucers ready for the teapot to arrive under its cosy. Willow loved sitting at the table, swinging her legs without being told to be still, sipping the warm drink and listening to tales of the Moors and her grandmother’s thoughts.
‘Your mum would get more done if she took the time to sit for a while. The mind needs to gather its thoughts during the day, and teatime is the perfect time to do it.’
Every morning, Willow woke when the cockerel did and would sneak down the rickety stairs to discover her clothes warming near the range and a cup of tea on the table waiting. Grandma Jax was nowhere to be seen. At first, Willow believed fairies from the garden visited to do this while they were both sleeping like the shoemaker’s elves in her favourite book, until one day she spied Grandma Jax’s silhouette in the garden. Still as a statue, she stretched with her arms up to the sky. When Willow asked why she did this, her grandmother explained it was to welcome the day, be grateful for yesterday, and gain strength for the day ahead. From then on, two scarecrows overlooked the Moors at sunrise.
The holidays were over. Her mum would arrive shortly, but the excitement of showcasing her new skill overwhelmed the usual emotional tug of war of missing her mum and never wanting to leave Speedwell Cottage. The standing clock ticked loudly in the corner. Grandma Jax told her it was a grandmother clock rather than a grandfather one, which pleased Willow. She had never known her grandfather nor her dad, but when her mum had married Stuart, she’d met her stepfather’s dad at the wedding and he wasn’t how she imagined her new grandfather to be. He wasn’t round and cuddly with a tickly moustache like in her stories, but tall and thin with cruel piercing eyes that watched her every move. She hid behind her mum’s long ivory dress to avoid him, much to Stuart’s annoyance, until her mum told her to be a good girl and go and play. Her mum resembled a queen that day, but she missed the mum from before, who always had time to play and laugh. Willow climbed onto a chair and traced the big hand and the little one on the clock face to figure out how long it would be until her mum arrived. She returned to her post at the window.
Willow had helped bake the chocolate cake and, to her delight, Grandma Jax wasn’t the perfectionist with baking that she was with tea. Weighing was more fun using the old brass scales and how the mixture looked and felt trumped accuracy. They murmured wishes and blessings with each stir and Willow added extra ones for her mum’s happiness. Did magic work in cakes like it did with tea? She would have asked, but the sweet mixture she licked from the spoon distracted her.
A tablecloth covered the small table near the fire and was set for afternoon tea, including a small jar of flowers they had picked from the garden. Sweet peas. She hoped Mummy liked them. Willow hopped from one foot to the other, watched by a black cat, Silas. He was Grandma Jax’s shadow, always close by, and even slept on her bed. He ignored Willow’s attempts to bribe him into her attic room. One day, she promised herself she’d have a cat of her own. She loved her bedroom, with its sloping ceiling and views across the Yorkshire Moors; the vibrant purple heather, trees, and glimpses of the sea on the horizon made up for the lack of toys and possessions lining the walls.
The crunch of the car tyres on the gravel alerted her to her mum’s arrival. She was alone, much to Willow’s relief. Stuart had only been to Speedwell Cottage once and Grandma Jax and he had not seen eye to eye. Willow felt an undertone of unease between the two self-assured figures; the darkness she always saw edging out of him was in full show under the old lady’s scrutiny. Willow was certain her grandmother could see it too, while her mum remained oblivious to the angry colours swirling around him, unlike the bright colours she saw around others. Her relief that someone else saw it was short-lived as she squirmed at the questions Grandma Jax asked after he had left. Willow knew what happened to telltales, so kept as quiet as a mouse just as she did when whispered conversations and muffled sobs drifted through the thin walls at home.
Delighted to see her mum, she ran to the kitchen, reciting the steps her grandmother taught her. Fill the kettle, place carefully on the Aga’s hot plate under the watchful gaze of Grandma Jax, then warm the teapot. Willow would make a perfect cup of tea.
It didn’t go to plan. Willow enjoyed her mum’s long, tight hug, soaking up her gentle smell she hadn’t realised she had missed. Her mum ran her fingers through Willow’s ringleted hair. ‘This is as wild as ever and it’s grown. And so have you. I’ve missed you sweetheart—so much.’
Willow sank further into the comfort of touch. Grandma Jax wasn’t one for showing any signs of affection. The persistent kettle’s whistle made her withdraw and guide her mum to the living room and prepared table.
‘You need to sit, Mummy. And wait.’
Willow left her mum gazing out of the window, lost in her thoughts until she heard the gentle clattering of a tray. Willow returned carrying the cake; her tongue poked out in concentration while Grandma Jax followed with a tray holding a small teapot and milk jug. She nodded a greeting and sat down. From that moment, Willow was in charge.
‘This cup’s yours, Mummy. I chose it—yellow flowers are for happiness because you need some and I get to see you.’ She noticed tears well up in her mum’s eyes and was surprised when her grandmother reached over to squeeze her mum’s hand, before she quickly withdrew.
‘Carry on, Willow,’ her grandmother urged her to continue and not get distracted. Willow whispered into the pot while stirring the seeping liquid, just like Grandma Jax taught her, before gingerly pouring some in each cup. She swirled milk in her mother’s and handed it to her, beaming.
‘I made it for you.’
‘Thank you, sweetheart.’ Tension eased from her mum’s strained face with every sip of the drink. Pride bubbled in her chest. She had done it. She had proved she was a big girl. Maybe next holidays she would learn how to make potions. ‘It’s lovely. Just what I needed.’
‘Now I know how I can make you tea at home. Grandma Jax taught me everything; I can make you tea every morning.’ She gave herself an imaginary celebratory high five for that idea. It would be her mum’s daily treat.
‘What do you mean, everything?’
‘Everything,’ Willow squeaked, unsure what the change of tone in her mum’s voice meant. She was supposed to be pleased, happy that Willow was being kind, but a thunderous look crossed her mum’s face as she glared at Grandma Jax.
‘Willow, why don’t you go upstairs and check you have packed all your things?’
‘I haven’t served the cake.’ The tension between the two women increased and Willow fled the table. Her mum didn’t want cake. Raised voices and snatches of the conversation followed her to the stairs where she sat, hidden from view to listen, clutching her toy rabbit to her chest. Mummy was not happy.
‘She is five! For God’s sake. Too young to be making bloody tea on her own.’
‘She is ready,’ insisted Jax. ‘She has proved herself more than once. You drank it. Tasted it. She makes a good cup of tea.’
‘That is beside the point. You let her use the kettle. On the Aga. Anything could have happened.’
‘Her father was the same age. It did him no harm.’
‘It’s dangerous. What else do you let her do while I’m not here?’ The women moved towards the kitchen and Willow strained to hear their muffled voices until she heard her mum say louder, ‘You can’t be trusted.’
A door slammed, and Willow pelted up the stairs. Mummy ran into the bedroom and, in a frenzy, snatched up her daughter’s belongings.
‘Let’s go.’
‘But we haven’t eaten the cake.’
‘I said let’s go,’ her mum snapped.
The car reversed, sending a flurry of stones and dust in the air. Grandma Jax stood at the cottage door when they drove past at speed. She stooped lower than before but worse, her usual bright colours dancing around her body faded, replaced with a sludgy brown. Willow screamed and kicked her feet. She needed to say goodbye. The ferocity of her daughter’s rage made her mum stop the car and allow her to run back.
Held in a rare hug, which Willow always remembered, she heard the rarer words, ‘I love you,’ before she was instructed to get back in the car. Her grandmother gave her a bundle and told her to remember the magic. When Willow unwrapped the patchwork quilt she usually had on her bed, she found her favourite cup and saucer. The first of her collection.
They sped down the motorway and the only reason Willow could think of to explain the event was Mummy preferred teabags.
Her mum’s anger grew, and Willow watched it fizz around her in spikes of red. She banned any tea making as well as mentioning that ‘bloody woman.’ Her mother proceeded to say the words Willow dreaded—she was never going back. It wasn’t safe. Her grandmother couldn’t be trusted. Strangely, it was Stuart who fought her corner, and the following year, Willow returned. Years followed and every summer they packed her off to the Moors. She loved every moment: learning the names of flowers while tending the garden, making remedies for ailments and blending different teas for every occasion, and walking with Grandma Jax across the Moors to tend to her livestock. Her mum never stayed. The days of Grandma Jax and her mum sharing a gossip over a cup of tea were gone forever.
Willow’s world shattered at eleven when they diagnosed her pale, gaunt mum with cancer. The visits to the Moors stopped; they needed Willow at home. Daily she made tea the way Grandma Jax taught her, stirring in words of healing; her mum was too ill to grumble about the appearance of teapots and for a while, Willow was convinced the magic was working where the traditional medicine was failing. Herbs grew in pots on every available window ledge, and the balcony became her apothecary. She only admitted defeat on the day her mother died four years later.
The call Willow never wanted rang through the flat in the winter she was fourteen. By a cruel twist of fate, Stuart answered, and he only revealed the significance of the call after her mum’s death when Willow said she was moving to Yorkshire. Grandma Jax was no more. Too late to attend her funeral, Willow said goodbye the only way she knew. Slipping outside on the balcony at midnight, she looked up to the stars the city lights hid from view and toasted her grandmother’s life with a cup of tea and vowed she would return to Speedwell Cottage and cherish it like the women of her bloodline had done before.