The Peacock Emporium(26)

“Right. Well, I’d better be—”

“What are the tables for? Are you going to serve food?”

“No.”

“People like a bit of food.”

“You need a license for that. I’m going to serve coffee. Like espresso.”

“Espresso?”

It was moments like this that made Suzanna’s renewed optimism falter. How could she sell coffee in a town whose inhabitants didn’t even know what espresso was? “It’s a type of coffee. Quite strong. Served in small cups.”

“Well, I suppose that’s a good way to keep your profits up. The tea house on Long Lane serves their tea in very small cups. I suppose it keeps their profits up too.”

“It’s meant to be in small cups.”

“I’m sure they’d say the same, dear.” She moved over to the window, muttering to herself as she fingered the objects on display. “What’s this meant to be, then?” She held up the abstract painting.

“I don’t believe it’s meant to be anything.” There was a hint of steel in Suzanna’s voice.

The woman peered closely at it. “Is it modern art?” She said the words as if she was speaking a foreign language.

“Yes.” Please don’t let her say, “A child could do that,” Suzanna thought.

“I could do that. If I did one like it, would you sell it for me?”

“I’m not really a gallery. You need to talk to a gallery.”

“But you’re selling that one.”

“It’s a one-off.”

“But if you sell it, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be able to sell another. I mean, it proves there’s a demand.”

Suzanna could feel herself losing patience. She had a short fuse at the best of times, and these were not the best of times.

“It’s been lovely talking to you, but I’m afraid I really must get on.” Suzanna held out an arm, as if to steer the woman toward the door.

But the woman had rooted herself to the center of the floor. “Grew up in this town, I did. I’m a seamstress by trade, but I moved away when I married. Lots of us did, then.”

Oh, God. She was going to want to talk history. Suzanna looked around desperately for an excuse to get rid of her.

“My husband died three years after we married. Tuberculosis. Spent almost six months in a Swiss clinic, and then he died anyway.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. He was rather a stupid man. I only realized it after I’d married him. We didn’t have children, you know. He preferred his mouth-organ.”

Suzanna let out a snort. “What?”

The woman brushed vaguely at her hair. “He didn’t know what to do, dear. I did, because my mother had told me. I told him on our wedding night, and he was so horrified that he said no, thank you, he’d rather play his mouth-organ. So that’s what we did every night, for two years. I read my book in bed, and he played his mouth-organ.”

Suzanna found herself laughing despite herself. “I’m sorry. Did you—did you find anyone else?”

“Oh, no. No one I wanted to marry. I had rather a lot of affairs, which were nice, but I didn’t want someone in my bed every night. They might have wanted to play some musical instrument too. Goodness knows what I might have ended up with.” The woman, apparently haunted by visions of bass drums and tubas, gave a tiny shake of her head. “Yes, it’s all changed. I’ve only been back here six months, and it’s all changed . . . Are you local?”

“I was born here, but we lived in London until last year.” She wasn’t sure why she had told the truth: she had a feeling that the less she told this woman, the better.

“So you’re a returnee too! How exciting. Well, we’ve each found a kindred spirit. I’m Johanna Creek. You can call me Mrs. Creek. What’s your name?”

“Peacock. Suzanna Peacock.”

“We had peacocks in the house where I grew up. It’s just outside the town, on the Ipswich road. Dreadful birds they are, make the most hideous noise. They used to do their business all over our windowsills.”

She turned and put a hand up to her hat, as if to check it was still there. “Well, Suzanna Peacock, I can’t stand around here chatting all day. I’m afraid I’ll have to get on. I’ve got to get a shepherd’s pie from the Women’s Institute market. I’ll come back when you open and have one of your small cups of coffee.”

“Oh, good,” said Suzanna, dryly.

Before she left, Mrs. Creek stared again at the abstract painting, as if memorizing it in preparation for her own version.



* * *



—

Suzanna arrived home at almost half past nine. Neil was sitting with his feet on the coffee table, an empty bowl and a plate littered with a few crumbs next to them. “I was about to send out a search party,” he said, turning his head away from the television.

“What’s for dinner?”

He looked mildly surprised. “I haven’t made anything. I thought you might be back in time to cook.”

She removed her coat, feeling suddenly cross and tired. “I’m opening in three days’ time, Neil. I’m run off my feet. I thought just this once you might cook for me.”