An Innocent Cup of Tea

By Ann Bailey

Emily Nielson is a young married woman who has just arrived in Singapore. Mrs. Chung, an elderly Chinese lady, invites her for a cup of tea and tells her a compelling love story; one Emily is unable to forget.

Nearly thirty years later, Mrs. Chung's story returns to haunt her and she becomes a victim of the intrigues and deceits of the past. She makes a disastrous decision and circumstances lead to sinister consequences.

www.annbailey.info

Readers will travel a grim and bleak emotional landscape with no points of light to guide the way. Once begun, however, this book is impossible to put down.
-- BlueInk Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Feb 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466914926

Book preview

1

She GLANCED OVER TO JACK and Rob who were standing by the lounge doors looking out across the garden. Jack gave Rob one of his friendly smiles and in return Rob gave him a pat on the shoulder, as he always did.

They had met out east at the start of their careers but had, inevitably, gone their own ways until some years ago. Now, middle aged, their chummy get-together’s were centred around the good old days, absent friends, Rob’s weekend cottage and Jack’s gardening.

‘Jack the Gardiner’, she muttered, sighing with relief as she fell back into a deep leather chair and focused on a group of his friends standing together in the middle of the room. She grinned as she compared them to a gang of gregarious apes for their arms were slung across each others’ shoulders, their sweaty bodies swayed slightly from too much drink, while they supported each others’ accounts of how to play the markets and, once in a while, dropped an ambiguous remark of how a secretary, or two, was willing to do overtime.

She felt sorry for their middle aged wives who stood in a group trying to ignore their husband’s rowdy behaviour by boasting about the amazing success of their children, or even their grandchildren. While those who were considered to be outsiders stared silently at the contents of their wine glasses, perhaps remembering their Elysian days before they married.

She sighed with relief as she kicked off her shoes and got down to the serious business of her life in general and Will in particular.

She liked him. It was not so much his looks, though she had to admit he was not entirely unattractive, but rather his brilliant smile and humorous eyes. She had met him some weeks before while walking Daisy across the heath. A donated park bench had become their meeting place, their rendezvous, a word she always associated with illicit affairs or shady clandestine meetings. She had not told Jack about Will though she was unsure why not. Perhaps he was her secret, a very small secret, which surprised her because normally she was far too open. She dismissed her thoughts for God only knew where Jack had pitched his tent on his many business trips, though there might well be someone who could tell her.

She decided she could cope with her twinge of guilt.

William Windsor, he had said, introducing himself enthusiastically when they had met for the first time on the heath. Call me Will.

Emily Nielson. Call me Emy. Windsor that sounds very prestigious.

Yeah, but what’s in a name.

You don’t have a dog?, she queried, feeling rather stupid asking such an inane question.

No, but I do have a pair of trainers. I jog. Well, I did until my ankle gave way. I have to rest it for a few weeks but I still like to get a breath of fresh air before I start the day.

And what is the start?.

At the moment nothing. I’m in between, if you know what I mean.

Between can be interesting.

Between two fires, that would be interesting.

Between the devil and the deep blue sea.

Same thing. All dangerous, he had chuckled softly, as though remembering some past incident. Well, I must be off, he said, standing up. Maybe I’ll soon be jogging past you.

I’m sure you will, she answered, hoping he might twist his ankle again so she could continue meeting him by the bench.

She had watched him walk back down the path and was acutely aware that the timing of their almost daily meetings was perhaps too coincidental. Normally, she would have investigated the reason but it did not suit her to do so. That might spoil her ridiculous crush on a man she barely knew.

She turned her attention back to the party and Rob’s wife, Helen, who was neatly slicing, with almost surgical precision, the cooked ham. Helen looked up as though aware she was being watched and gave a friendly grin as she walked over to her.

Nice party, Helen observed, as she sat carefully on the edge of a chair next to her and smoothed a large, heavy quality, paper napkin over her thin knees and began to neatly bayonet pieces of potato salad onto a fork.

Emy felt judgemental as she sized Helen up, her skirt just the wrong length, her top just too high above her sparse childlike breasts, her shoes just too sensible, her dark hair greying at the roots, her eyes pale and forlorn. She had once been considered pretty but now she felt that was debatable.

Thanks. I like your top she remarked, trying to make up for her thoughts. My feet are killing me, she added. I’ll never get my shoes back on.

Then we’ll walk bare foot in the park or rather on your lawn. Rob told me you and Jack are coming down to the cottage the week after next.

So I’ve heard.

Let me know if you are coming.

Okay, but at this moment I’m going to find myself another pair of shoes, she said, her voice reflecting her discomfort

Parties are hard work, observed Helen, staring at a pile of dirty plates and used glasses.

You can say that again, she agreed, studying Jack as he strolled towards the greenhouse with Rob

following closely behind him.

*

It was late when they eventually got to bed and Jack fell instantly asleep with more whisky in his veins than blood. She tossed and turned irritated by his snoring until eventually she concentrated on a statue of the Madonna. This symbol of Christianity had been given to Jack by an enthusiastic Chinese trader who had taken it for granted his colleague revered his Belief, as he did his. Jack had seemed embarrassed by the gift and she had miraculously intervened just in time to save her from the garbage collector. Now she stood in all her glory between the family photographs on her chest of drawers which, she guessed, irritated Jack.

She pulled the duvet high across her face as though to avoid being seen by the colourful lady and snuggled tightly against Jack’s back, knowing he would not react to her pressing body.

He snorted as he turned on his back, vaguely held her hand, and fell into a sleep which she considered was near enough to be called a coma.

Stupid man, she whispered. Drink doesn’t solve anything. And she wondered what it was he had to solve.

*

Jack was in the kitchen, totally absorbed in the newspaper, when she came downstairs next morning.

You’re early, he murmured.

Doing anything special today?, she asked, as she poured herself a much needed cup of coffee.

Not really.

I’m going to see Rosie this morning.

On a Monday morning?.

Well, there was supposed to be a meeting but it got cancelled. But I thought I would go anyway.

Okay, he answered not looking up at her. If you must, he added, resignedly, since he knew Rosie was some kind of a mystic, or a religious something or another, and those kind of people irritated him immeasurably.

I’ll take Daisy out now, she said, picking up the dog’s lead You can take her out if you want to.

No thanks, he answered, a little too quickly.

I’ll clean up when I get back, she promised him, grimacing at the messy remains of yesterday’s party. If you feel like emptying the dishwasher, there’s another lot waiting to be put in.

Jack remained silent, too involved with the news to react to any washing up.

She sighed at the unfairness of being a woman which seemed illogical since she was hoping to see Will again and he was, after all, yet another inadequate man.

They were your friends, she muttered under her breath, unsure whether she wanted Jack to hear her remark of not.

Have a nice walk, he grunted, glancing over

to the pile of plates and glasses.

*

She sat up in bed that night listening to Jack under the shower and later to the whine of his electric shaver which he pulled across his face a few times, followed by the vibration of his electric tooth brush, running water and a great deal of spitting in the wash basin. She knew his routine well and somehow it endeared him to her, at least when she allowed herself the luxury of such an emotion.

Eventually, he got into bed, smelling strongly of aftershave lotion, and settled down next to her. She lay against him but he did not react to her subtle interest, instead he turned his full attention to a magazine which gave advice on how to invest wisely, the Federal Bank and the European Union. She drew away and opened a book from the library pretending not to notice she came second to the world economy and wondered what it would take to divert his attention to her.

Saw Rosie this morning, she later informed

him.

Yes, you said.

She showed me around her house. It’s enormous. She’s terribly untidy.

Jack turned a page of his magazine too absorbed to be bothered with Rosie’s untidy house.

She laid the book on her lap and considered her visit.

Image364.JPG

The best thing about an old place is that it’s held together by decades of dirt. I think it would most probably collapse if I were to clean it. And, Rosie had added, my family has lived here for over a hundred years.

You’re almost a fixture, she grinned.

I’m going to leave here between six planks.

Not yet, I hope.

She warmed to this interestingly ruddy faced woman whose long cotton frock hung loosely over her slim body and with her hair tied up untidily as though she had just got out of bed. All in all, she liked her rather dishevelled appearance for it made her recall the time when she had also dressed the same way with rows of beads and, sometimes, even a bandana. She wondered why it was necessary to follow a new fashion just when the last one had become so comfortable. It was like having to change colour to please the emotions of the fashion designers, rather like an obedient chameleon. She thought Rosie had got it right by wearing what she liked best and she wondered why she didn’t do that.

She looked around the antique kitchen and smiled at the piles of books and magazines stacked on the floor and the cluttered tops of the cupboards. She could relate to Rosie’s untidy hoarding, valuing the valueless, for she had her own weakness.

Do we have to be posh or can I use the old mugs?.

Old mugs.

I work from home, mostly here in the kitchen, Rosie informed her, seeing how she gazed at the piles of books.

I’ve heard you paint.

I do a bit of illustrating, Rosie answered, modestly

It must be nice to be artistic.

"Children’s books mostly. I’ve also written a

few".

Oh, fantastic.

Okay as a hobby but it doesn’t bring home the bacon. Work is very spasmodic. I never know where I am from one month to another.

My first husband was an Account Manager for a Public Relations company.

Rosie caught her eye. They are a special breed. I try to avoid them. Are you in a hurry?, she suddenly added.

No, not at all.

Well, then, I’ll show you my crumbling house.

Rosie had led her through darkly furnished rooms where threadbare carpets covered creaking floors and old velvet or brocade curtains hung forlornly over unwashed windows, all culminating in an odour which she associated with stuffy cupboards where the contents had seldom seen the light of day.

I don’t know how you live here all alone, she muttered, as she climbed the stairs and glanced upwards at poorly painted portraits of the long dead. She shivered as she felt the past still lingered in the present.

Well, I’m not always alone, Rosie replied softly, not expecting her to hear.

Emy grinned at the thought of this socially

benevolent woman having a secret lover.

This is my bedroom, Rosie stated, closing the door a little too quickly. You can see really far from the tower, she informed her, as she climbed the last turn of a narrow staircase.

Oh, yes, she sighed, as she stared out across the countryside. It’s beautiful, I didn’t realise you could see so far.

I saw a fox this morning, I’m totally against hunting. Barbaric, Rosie added, angrily.

She had agreed enthusiastically as she stared in the distance.

You haven’t been here long, have you?, asked Rosie.

About eighteen months.

Well, then, you have a lot to learn.

What about?.

The history of this area, particularly the Crossing, Rosie had replied. People were very spiritual long ago, they lived at one with nature. Not like nowadays".

I can think of someone, she murmured.

Lights have been seen there at night, Rosie whispered, as though she was unsure whether she should divulge such a piece of information.

Really. What sort of lights?.

I suppose they’re ‘Will o’ the Wisp’ lights, what else can they be?, Rosie chuckled, as she started back down the stairs of the tower.

Have you seen any?.

Maybe, Rosie answered, vaguely. Let’s have another coffee.

Image373.JPG

And?, Jack was asking.

And what?.

Rosie. Still healing?.

I’ve already told you, she doesn’t heal. She just happens to have a small chapel attached to her house. She keeps the door unlocked several hours a day so that desperate people can go there to meditate. Although, I must say there is something special about Rosie. And the Chapel, she added, unsure why the place made her feel uneasy.

They must be pretty desperate, he smirked. And are there any miraculous interventions?.

Not that I know. But I could use a couple, she murmured.

And while I’m at it, he continued. I don’t like that statue thing staring at me every night.

He nodded his head towards the chest of drawers.

You mean my Madonna. Why should she bother you?.

She doesn’t.

Perhaps she makes you feel guilty about something, she insinuated.

For God’s sake.

He sighed and closed his eyes. He knew he was being unreasonable but the statue brought back memories he didn’t want, such as learning catechism in his free time. He and the priest had been at odds from the very beginning and he had done his best to work against him. He could clearly remember his visit in the summer of his last school year.

I kissed her, Father, and then I squeezed her breast.

He could hear a gasp from the other side of the Confessional and the squeaking of the floorboards as the now aged man stood up and ordered him out of his church.

He had given a sigh of relief as he was offered his freedom and walked quickly over the threshold, past the enormous doors which guarded God’s domain, leaving behind the smell of incense which mingled with the musk from the hassocks and the dark corners where footsteps echoed. The part of the church he had feared as a child. He had glanced back and noticed how the sun streamed through a coloured glass window onto the Cross and Christ and for one split second he had hesitated but the promise of Charlene waiting in the park was stronger than the call of God.

He smiled as he thought of her, how she had fallen in love with him and how he had fallen in love with what love brought. Charlene was his first and no one forgets their first.

He returned to the present. What are you reading?, he asked, dismissing the latest EU meeting in Brussels and hoping to make good his puerile opposition to the ‘holy one’.

Local history. Rosie has a tower above her bedroom, you can see the Crossing from there.

Oh, yes.

It was once a pagan offering place until the first monk built his church there.

He laughed dryly. That was not very Christian, pinching someone else’s land.

Well, I guess he must have done some P.R. work first, she agreed, trying not to smile because that might indicate forgiveness. Rosie said she has seen lights there at night.

Rosie looks too deep in her glass.

Like you, she muttered.

Jack picked up his magazine to indicate he had heard her remark.

Are you interested or not?, she snapped.

"Not really.