“Sure,” she said, knowing Marta’s words held more good intentions than true promise. She picked up another box of history DVDs and weighty tomes borrowed from the library, glanced at Doreen, whose look fell away, and then lifted her chin and exited. Just an hour and a half to return these things to the school, to find and wish her—former—senior students well for the future, and she’d be free.
Ninety-five minutes later, she was pulling into a rare free parking spot outside The Silver Teapot. The tea shop sat squeezed between a hairdresser’s and an antique shop in a historic terrace row on Wattle Vale’s main street. The family business was her parents’ pride and joy, apart from their four daughters, or so they often said.
The tea shop door opened with a tinkling bell, and she nodded to the patrons, mostly mothers with small children celebrating the end of term like she’d hoped to, with delicate cups and fragrant teas, her mum’s scones and her dad’s fancy pastries.
“She’s here!” her youngest sister Katie called to the back. She offered Liv a wry smile as she wrestled a large tray filled with a tiered china plate of goodies and two filled teapots to a table wedged in the front corner.
With less than half an hour until closing, Liv could either throw herself a pity party and lick her wounds or put on an apron and help. She threaded her way through doily-laden tables to the door in the back labelled EMPLOYEESONLY, received hugs and commiserations from her mum and dad, dumped her handbag, threw on an apron, and helped serve customers until the sign on the door was turned to CLOSEDat four on the dot.
By this stage her mother had laid out a table of their own in the back corner, complete with several teapots holding their favourite brews, teacups, and a freshly baked yellow custard tart, which accompanied some of the non-seller sandwiches and cakes of the day. Afternoon tea had always been a ritual in the Bennett household, a legacy passed down from Veronica Hastings, their maternal grandmother always insisting that nothing beat a good cuppa and a slice of cake. Except—Liv eyed her plate holding the promise of golden sweetness—a good custard tart.
A rattle at the door saw Katie jump up and admit Elinor, who juggled part-time jobs doing graphic design and social media work with her art-major studies. She offered a small smile—hugs weren’t Elinor’s thing—and joined them at the table as Mum peppered her with questions about her day.
Okay, that was nice, but it wasn’t Elinor who’d been snubbed today. Liv eyed her sister over a cup of English breakfast and swallowed a mouthful of hot tea flavoured with the tiniest amount of disappointment.
Somehow the conversation turned to Gran and her upcoming hip surgery, and the day’s frustration melted away in renewed compassion for her grandmother. How hard it must be to be facing surgery all alone, half a world away. It was a good thing Mum’s cousin Harriet would be there to look after her when Gran left the hospital to recover at home.
Katie’s phone buzzed, and after a couple of taps and swipes the second-eldest Bennett daughter showed on the screen.
“Hey, you’re all there?” Emma-Jane worked at a start-up tech company in the city, and didn’t often make it home, despite being only ninety minutes away on the freeway.
“We’re all here,” Katie sang back.
“Here for what?” Liv asked, glancing between them. Something that looked an awful lot like guilt washed across five faces, and for the third time that day she noticed people not looking her in the eye. “What’s going on?”
“Look, we discussed this before, and now it seems you are the logical choice,” Emma-Jane—EJ to family and friends—said.
“When did you discuss what?” At the awkward looks sliding between her family members, Liv pulled out her phone. The WhatsApp family chat had blown up since she’d sent the message about losing her chance at a permanent job earlier.
Liv read the messages, as her mother murmured something about Gran and cousin Harriet. Her eyes widened. “Since when couldn’t Harriet care for Gran?”
“Since two hours ago,” Mum said. “She called me. Her colitis is playing up, and her doctor has recommended that she not leave York and travel all the way to Hartbury, and definitely not do anything like the lifting and such that caring for your grandmother will require.”
“Which is why we thought of you, hon,” Dad said, patting her hand.
“I can’t, not with the business taking off. And now you’ve just lost your job, it makes sense that you’re the one who should go,” EJ chirped from the phone.
Bless her. Her seemingly boundless energy might make EJ the sister Liv was most like, a sister whom she loved, but sometimes Liv found her hard to like. Her directness was just so … direct. Even through an iPhone screen.
“The girls can’t leave their studies and jobs,” her mother said, glancing at her youngest daughters. “And between our health challenges and the business worries, your father and I can’t leave for a trip to England, much as I’d love to see my mum again.”
Her mother’s voice held a wistful note that wrenched guilt within. Yes, Mum’s most recent bout of cancer meant spending a day’s travel in flights to care for her own mother wasn’t wise. And even if Dad didn’t have baking skills that demanded he remain to helm The Silver Teapot, Liv had long received the impression her grandmother had never quite forgiven John Bennett for taking her only child to live on the other side of the world.
“Wow. Um, I need a moment to think. It’s not that I don’t love Gran, it’s just unexpected.” And she’d come to the café anticipating custard, tea, and sympathy, not a trip to a tiny village in England to care for an elderly relative she’d only met in person twice.
“Please consider it, love,” her father said. “It wouldn’t be forever.”
“How long?” A stray shaft of wintry sunlight hit the café’s namesake, the silver teapot that had travelled from England three decades ago. Gran’s teapot. Liv’s eyes burned. How could she even question doing this? Family comes first, Mum always liked to say.
“It’s only for a few weeks, possibly a month or two,” her mother said. “Just until her hip is better and she’s able to walk again.”
At the age of seventy-nine, Gran’s recovery wasn’t likely to be speedy. “A few months?” What would that mean for finding another school? Jobs starting partway through semester were as rare as hen’s teeth.
“Until she’s better.” Her mother’s sigh wafted across the hum of cars beyond the café’s closed doors, traffic that signalled peak hour in their little town of Wattle Vale. “I thought you’d love the chance to return to England. You enjoyed your visits there before.”
Yes, she had. But there was a world of difference between a holiday visiting historic sites and as many of the places she’d read about in books as she could, and being the nursemaid for an elderly, at times cantankerous, woman. Even if she did love her.
“Just think, you might meet your Mr. Right,” romance-obsessed Katie said, with a glance at their mother. The apple hadn’t fallen far fromthattree.
