Storm In a Teacup Read online

  Postcards from a Seaside Village

  Storm In A Teacup

  Fabian Black

  Copyright © Fabian Black 2011

  Smashwords Edition

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  http://www.fabianblackromance.com

  Chastise Books

  Cover Art by Dare Empire

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Postcards from a Seaside Village

  Storm In A Teacup

  One

  Abandoning his demonstration on how to fold a paper napkin into the reputed shape of a bird of paradise, Jeff Tonkin leaned across the oak table towards David, putting what he imagined was a discreet hand across his mouth before speaking. “Is Mr Larkin all right?”

  His voice being what it was, loud enough to call ships to shore, the words flowed over and around the hand barrier with ease.

  “He looks proper constipated all of a sudden, wasn't summat I said was it? Does he not like birds of paradise? Ah can do a lily if he'd prefer, or a fan.”

  “He’s fine, Jeff, don't worry. It's this heat, it gets to him.” Draining the last dregs of tea from his mug David stood up. “Let me give you a hand carrying your stuff back to your van.”

  “Ta, appreciate that.” Jeff drained his own mug, which in his massive hands had the appearance of a china thimble. Rising to his feet he began stacking packs of paper napkins into a cardboard box. "Get them flowers you've bought in water as soon as you can, Mr Jordan, they need a good drink. Put a pinch of bicarb in when you vase them up, it helps keep 'em fresh longer and stops the water smelling."

  "Will do, Jeff."

  At a towering six foot three and with the build of several conjoined rugby players Jeff Tonkin didn’t look much like a flower seller and fancy napkin folder. In fact in the judging a book by its cover stakes, he looked more like a contract killer, an image accentuated by the combats and black calf length Doc Marten boots he paraded around in summer and winter alike. His meaty hands looked more suited to strangulation purposes than to tending flowers, but tend flowers they did with love on his large allotment.

  The flowers weren't grown just for personal gratification. He had built a nice little business from harvesting and selling them to a good many of the bed and breakfasts, cafes, restaurants and hotels punctuating the Yorkshire coastline.

  Jeff’s dealings weren’t confined solely to flowers. He also sold other things, tablemats, tablecloths, crockery, candles, linen napkins and paper napkins, anything that might be needed by establishments catering to the public. If he didn't have what you wanted, he'd soon get it. Rumour was that he did a bit of poaching on the side, farmed salmon and such and if fish wasn't your dish he could come by a nice bit of pheasant or venison when the season was right.

  After helping Jeff load up his van David raised a hand in farewell, watching as the battered little vehicle disappeared from view. He stood for a few moments feeling the heat from the road strike up through his shoes. Then, adopting a biblical stance he girded his loins took a deep breath and headed back into Sandstones.

  Much as he liked Jeff, if he’d had the slightest inkling about what he was going to say as he loomed at the kitchen table drinking tea he would have considered hiring a contract killer to take him out.

  Lin was still sitting at the table in the sun-flooded kitchen, his hands clasped around a mug of un-drunk tea.

  "Jeff's excelled himself with the flowers this week, especially the sunflowers. They're beautiful, don't you think?"

  Lin didn't reply, the glazed look in his eyes indicating his thoughts were dwelling far away from flowers of any description.

  David patted his shoulder, "unsubstantiated gossip, that's all it is, sweetheart. Put it out of your mind." He settled a kiss on the top of Lin's head and then picked up the plastic bucket containing their floral purchases, taking it across to the sink. “The sunflowers will look good in the hall and the stocks will be perfect for the dresser in The Venus.”

  He paused, hoping for feedback, but none was forthcoming. He pressed on with floral talk. “We can use the pinks and sweet William for the tables. I'll change the vases later if you like?”

  Silence continued it stranglehold on Lin's part of the conversation and David gave up. Turning on the kitchen tap he filled the bucket with water to keep the flowers fresh and then opened the cupboard beneath the sink, withdrawing a tall pale green glass vase, which he also filled with water. "Do we have any bicarbonate? I want to give Jeff's tip a try."

  Lin broke his silence, but not with speech. David turned around as an ominous drumming sounded from the vicinity of the kitchen table. The fingers of Lin's right hand were busy tapping out a message of discontent on the surface of the wood. He tried a distraction tactic, "do you want a fresh cup of tea, or better still some iced water or lemonade?"

  “So.” Lin added vocals to the beat of the drum. “I’m not good enough for the locals.”

  “Don’t start brewing up a storm in a teacup, Lin." Picking the bunch of sunflowers out of the bucket David cut the string holding them together and then used the scissors to cut an inch off the base of the stems.

  “They prefer to go to a common or garden outside caterer for their needs, instead of a top class chef who has worked in the finest establishments with some of the biggest names in the cookery world." Lin's eyes darkened as the blue specks in the hazel mix took precedence, a bad sign, like thunderclouds gathering. "We didn’t even get an invite to the wedding.” His fingers drummed harder.

  "Did you hear what I said, Lin, about storm brewing?" He might as well have saved his breath.

  “Oh no, every other Tom Dick and Harry was invited, but not this Tom and Dick, and you know why don't you, it's because we're a gay couple, it's sheer prejudice. If I was a Linda instead of a Linval and had tits instead of balls we'd have been invited no bother.”

  "That's rubbish and you know it." David rubbed his sweat-moistened forehead with the back of his hand. The heat was building as the day climbed on. "We've met no discrimination from the people around here all things considered." It was true. Newcomers to village communities often had a hard time fitting in no matter what their sexual orientation, but the Stanes folk had been remarkably accepting of them, perhaps recognising Lin’s claim on the place. There had been no overt mention of the relationship they shared. Once or twice David had heard them being referred to as, ‘yon queer fellas,’ but there was no malice in it, a slight puzzlement and some curiosity, but no real hostility.

  He spoke reasonably, while arranging the sunflowers, trying to maintain an air of calm. “The Crooks couldn’t ask you to cater for the wedding, seeing as you don’t do outside catering, so why you feel you have a right to grouse about it I don’t know. Jeff was invited because he’s a cousin of some kind and he supplied the flowers for the reception tables. They couldn’t invite everyone in the village. Weddings cost enough as it is, and they did send us some wedding cake."

  He placed the last sunflower in the vase, stepping back to admire the arrangement he'd created. “Better than Van Gough, even if I do say so myself, what do you think?�
�

  “I think it’s a disgrace we didn’t get an invite, that’s what I think. Boring fat Harry from The Golden Lion got one and he's not a relative I'm sure."

  "True, but he might as well be considering how much time the Crooks spend in his pub, and he was supplying wines and beers at a discount."

  "That hard faced trollop Sheila and her toss pot of a spouse from the gift shop got invited, and they're only open half the year, but not us.” Lin abruptly stood up. “When I think of the profit the Crooks have made from us, well,” he stalked across the floor to the wall mounted telephone, “not any more. I’ll get my crabs and shellfish elsewhere and there’s plenty of other fishermen in the harbour I can buy fresh fish from. If need be you can drive me to Whitersby to buy it. I’m cancelling my orders.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” said David quietly. Crossing over to Lin he took the phone from his hand. “You’re overreacting. You weren’t a bit bothered about not getting a wedding invitation until you heard what Jeff had to say this morning. You can’t hold the Crooks responsible for idle rumour, so stop looking for excuses to be angry with them and be at peace.”

  “I’m not buying from them again. I mean it, David.” Lin was getting further and further away from a state of peace. “Cash I’ve paid too, upfront every time. They’ve never had to wait for a payment from me. I’ve a good mind to phone the Inland Revenue and drop a few hints about certain folks and tax evasion.”

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” David set the bucket of remaining flowers on the kitchen floor, the mood for floral fiddling gone. They smelled glorious, the rich perfume of stocks, pinks and sweet William seductively intermingling. However, an altogether sourer note was in danger of overriding their scent.

  “It’s my civic duty.”

  “It’s an act of sheer vindictive spite. If you so much as consider making it anything more than a heated remark I'll punish you.”

  Collecting the used mugs from the table David put them next to the sink with the breakfast dishes and some dessert dishes left unwashed from the bistro’s dealings the night before. There were no guests staying at Sandstones. Lydia and Tom had left on Saturday and until this morning he and Lin had been relaxed and enjoying having a private home again.

  “I’m going out for a walk.” Lin slipped his feet into a pair of well-worn, rubber soled beach shoes. They were the only things that didn’t chafe the still tender skin of the healing crab cuts.

  “You are not going for a walk, Lin, because I know exactly where you’ll go. You’re wound up enough without skulking around a hypothetical rival’s business premises getting more wound up.”

  Lin hugged himself, his face tight. “I can’t cancel orders or contact the revenue people about tax crime, nor can I go for a walk. What the hell can I do?”

  The phone broke into the conversation sounding a shrill demand for attention. David picked it up, smiling as he recognised the voice. “Hello, Lydia, how are you…his feet are fine thanks. He peeled the steristrips off last night. Everything’s healed beautifully. Excuse me a moment.” Pressing the secrecy button, David held out the receiver to Lin. “Have a chat to Lydia, she's asking after you.”

  Lin shook his head. Gathering up the packs of new paper napkins he had bought from Jeff he walked out of the kitchen. David returned to the phone. “Sorry, Lydia, I was hoping to catch Lin before he went out, but I missed him. How was the journey home?”

  Storm In A Teacup

  Two

  In the hall Lin pulled open the drawer of the mahogany bow fronted sideboard, dropping in the luxury napkins whose colour he was now uncertain about. He should have stuck to cream and not let someone, he cast a resentful look in the direction of the kitchen, interfere and persuade him towards the soft lavender for a change. The colour would compliment the shades in the flowers they'd bought he'd said. Lin scowled. David thought he was an interior designer now. He'd be buying ethnic rugs and making scatter cushions next.

  He began fitfully picking at the vase of wilting larkspur standing on the sideboard. It was all very well for David to say he was overreacting. He wasn’t the one who had been betrayed and by folk he had grown to think of as almost akin to friends. It proved real friends were few and far between. All in all it was best not to trust people. He should at least have learned that lesson by now.

  Of course, Lin gazed thoughtfully at the panelled front door, he could just go out for a walk anyway. It wasn't like he had a curfew tag attached to his ankle, no alarms would sound, no police would pursue. David would be annoyed, but so what, he'd get over it. Walking to the door he reached for the large brass doorknob, but then drew back his hand before it could close around it. He might not be tagged around the ankle, but he was bound by consent.

  He turned the pages of the guest book on the sideboard top, looking to find solace in the compliments left by guests who had eaten at The Venus, but his mood was such that he found only another reason to be discontented. The last round of diners had been frugal in their comments. There was a single entry in the book and nice though it was Lin chose to be disgusted by those who had not bothered to sign it.

  The lazy ungrateful bastards! He'd worked his nuts off for them and they couldn't be bothered to spare a minute to comment. It was like casting pearls before swine. They probably couldn't tell the difference between a frozen ready meal and something lovingly prepared and cooked fresh to order from quality ingredients.

  He jumped as the letterbox juddered and a heavy pile of newspapers and magazines thudded onto the doormat. The sight cheered him a little and gathering them up he carried them into the restaurant, sitting down at his favourite table in the bay window.

  The cobbled street outside was deserted. As the day wore on it would bear the feet of many people, mainly day visitors making the most of the summer heat to wander around the pretty village. They'd drink beverages in the teashops and lunch in the quaint pubs or partake of fish and chips from the takeaways on the small seafront. Families with children would come later in the day to play and picnic on the beach and poke around the rock pools at the base of the cliffs.

  If Lin had his way The Venus would open for morning coffee, lunches and afternoon tea as well as evening dinner, but opening times were David's province and strictly adhered to. The bistro was open evenings only, Tuesday through to Saturday night. Sundays and Mondays were closed. Lin had won one concession, a Saturday morning slot to offer coffee and cakes, homemade ice cream and fragrant sorbets from nine-thirty to midday.

  After a cursory glance at the headlines, he set the newspapers aside, leaving them for David to read. He liked to keep an eye on the financial climate as well as keep abreast of what was happening in the wider world whereas Lin found too much of it to be upsetting, the permanent stratum of anxiety within him soaking up and expanding with all the unhappiness and disaster the press loved to dwell on.

  Fetching his glasses from the dresser he settled down to browse the glossy food magazines, frowning as he saw Kenny Steen hogging the front cover of Finest Food, boasting the start of some new television programme he was presenting: The World from an English Kitchen. Bloody silly title, he'd bet Kenny had a hand in thinking that one up, pretentious arsehole. The frown deepened as he turned to the index and scanned it. He began flicking rapidly through the pages.

  Storm In A Teacup

  Three

  “I'm so sorry, Lydia." David spoke hastily into the phone, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as a screech reverberated around Sandstones, making its ancient rafters tremble. "I'll have to go. Something has boiled over.” Putting the phone down he headed in the direction of the screech, speeding up as it was followed by a crash and a cacophony of cursing.

  Thrusting open the door of The Venus he strode into the room. "What are you playing at, Lin, what's all the shouting and swearing in aid of?"

  “They dropped it.” Lin, his face red with rage, shook the front cover of Finest Food magazine. The rest of the publication lay
scattered around the floor along with the other papers delivered that morning. The Financial Times lay amidst the ruins of a china candlestick, which had once stood on the stately mantelpiece. Its partner was now a widow.

  "Dropped what, the candlestick?" He glared at Lin.

  “I'm not on about candlesticks. Those treacherous bastards dumped my article about barbecuing fish to give more space to this posturing food pimp!” He ripped Kenny’s smiling face to confetti, hurling it into the air. "It was supposed to be in this issue, a special feature, only it doesn't fucking feature at all!"

  “Stop shouting and sit down.” David manoeuvred Lin onto a dining chair only to have him bounce back up like a jack in the box.

  “Twat! The backstabbing twat! I bet he’s right up the arse of the editor, whatsisname?” Lin dived for the remnants of the magazine, crawling about the floor, hurling pages hither and thither looking for the one revealing who was who on the staff. “You know who I mean. That poncy Gucci suit wearing creep from Cambridge with eyes like a killer shark. I always suspected him and Kenny of being shit stabbing bum chums.”

  “Stop the hysteria and the foul language. Sit down and listen to me.”

  “I need to find the name of the editor. I’m going to email and give him a piece of my mind for letting Kenny persuade him to dump me.” Sweat tickled down Lin’s back, making his t-shirt cling. “There it is.” He pounced on a page anchored under the heel of David’s shoe and tugged, giving a bellow of temper when it tore. "Now look what you made me do! It's fucking torn now."

  "Up, get up," leaning down David grasped Lin's arm, hauling him to his feet, giving him a little shake. "Stop screeching, stop swearing, be quiet and LISTEN. Marcus Hamilton is no longer editor of Finest Food. He moved on months ago. The latest editor is Sara Teal a happily married mother of four. I doubt she’d appreciate having you hurl accusations about her and Kenny Steen. I don’t think Kenny would be over thrilled either.”