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Jacob

Pete Markham at the burger van looked as cheerful as ever, despite the blustery wind sending showers of late November leaves cascading across Sycamore Park’s south entrance, rattling his chalkboard menu against the side of the van. Nearby, a NO LITTERING sign had come loose from its hooks on the fence, and now bounced along one of the tarmac paths, doing the very thing it had previously warned against. A dog walker huddled against the side wall of the public toilets, a whimpering dachshund clutched against his chest, as the wind bent the branches of a nearby tree in an attempt to pat the terrified animal on the head. Only the ducks on the pond seemed unconcerned by the weather, making gentle circles even as the wind rippled the surface and dragged wet leaves into a mulchy ridge along the southern shoreline.

‘Top of the morning to you, lad. What can I get you?’

‘Good morning, Pete. Do you reckon whipped cream would survive this gale?’

Pete peered out from the relative shelter of his van and shrugged. ‘Doubt it.’ He grinned. ‘But that’s why I’ve got this new one on the go—homemade mocha clotted, I’m calling it. Coffee with a lump of Dairy Milk and a spoonful of clotted cream. How does that sound?’

Jacob laughed. ‘A heart attack in a cup. I’ll have a large.’

‘Coming right up. Bacon bap to go with it? Wholesaler had this great rindless smoked on special. Tastes great with butter and a bit of brown sauce.’

‘You’ve sold it to me.’

‘Good lad. Give me a minute.’

The wind kept up its barrage, but the rain kept itself to occasional threatening flurries, meaning that by the time Jacob had reached work a twenty-minute walk later, he was still mostly dry, his coffee still mostly warm. The bacon bap, however, had failed to survive the journey, most of it migrating south into his stomach, but a little of the bread had been thrown to some hungry ducks.

‘Good morning, dear,’ Marjorie called from the kitchen as Jacob went through the front door, then turned and made sure it was properly closed against the battering wind. Immediately the raging tempest outside was replaced by a pungent floral calm. Fresh flowers stood in a pot nearby, a purply mix of asters and Guernsey lilies from Marjorie’s garden, set against an autumn-themed display of plastic tree branches which Marjorie regularly sprayed with perfume to fool anyone not looking too closely into thinking they were authentic.

Inside, the nine tables of Aunt Marjorie’s Tea Room stood waiting for attention, chairs upturned, the neat pile of freshly washed tablecloths on the counter nearby, the little flower pots and ornate silver condiment trays in ordered lines waiting to be set out. The tiled floor, a mixture of browns and greens that was cleaned every night, gleamed. Jacob checked the door sign was still turned to CLOSED, and then slipped off his coat and hung it on an antique cast iron stand set into an alcove just behind the door.

‘Smells good,’ he called to Aunt Marjorie as he made his way across the tearoom floor to the serving counter and looked through a wood-panelled arch into the kitchen. His aunt stood over a glass bowl of salad, which she was dusting with fresh parmesan from a grinder.

‘I hope you’re hungry, Jacob, dear,’ she said, looking up. ‘I need a taste tester for this new masterpiece.’

Fifty-something until he had given up asking on each birthday, Aunt Marjorie was his mother’s older sister. Rotund and jovial, she wore frilled aprons that changed colour with the seasons. Now a chestnut brown, next week it would most likely change to white or an icy light blue in honour of the winter, to be swiftly replaced by something Christmassy over the holiday season.

‘What is it?’

She came forward, holding out the bowl. Chunks of crispy chicken lay on a bed of lettuce and salad. Jacob smelled something citrusy over the cheese.

‘I’m calling it Somerset Salad,’ Marjorie said with a proud smile. ‘Hot chunks of deep-fried chicken on top of a rucola salad with slices of avocado and asparagus.’

‘Looks great. What’s the connection to Somerset?’

‘I drizzled it with a bit of non-alcoholic cider,’ she said. ‘Plus, I bought this bowl in Minehead on holiday last year.’

Jacob grinned. ‘I think it’s a perfect name. I’d be delighted to taste-test it.’

‘Hang on, I’ll get you a fork.’

She handed him the bowl, perhaps to keep his hands occupied, and went back into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a fork. Jacob sat down at the counter while Marjorie poured two cups of filter coffee.

‘Before we set up for the day, I was going to suggest that we have a team meeting,’ she said, as Jacob tucked into the salad, feeling lightheaded at the subtle mix of flavours and textures. Aunt Marjorie put most television chefs to shame. Several well-respected food critics had labelled her tea room as the best in Devon; it was just a shame that Brentwell was an unfashionable town, and didn’t get the tourists that more illustrious places like Dartmouth and Kingsbridge did. Still, the regular local customers were keen to keep it a secret, even though it was likely it wouldn’t stay one for long once a Michelin critic happened to stop by.

‘I’ve run out of cinnamon sugar,’ Aunt Marjorie said. ‘Do you think you could run up the road to Daphne’s and grab me a refill? She offered to bring me one down but she broke her ankle last week and I couldn’t ask such a thing. I’d probably be able to scrape enough but Barbara Bakersfield said she was going to drop in this morning with a cousin from upcountry, and you know what a fiend for the cinnamon she is.’ She lifted up her glasses and arched an eyebrow. In what was probably supposed to be a posh London accent, she said, ‘Oh, come on, dear. Don’t be stingy. Pile up that spoon, won’t you?’

Jacob grinned. ‘Sure, of course I will. If you can manage to set up without me?’

‘I’ll have a latte waiting when you get back, a little circle in the middle ready for the cinnamon.’

He put down the bowl, the salad having gone the same way as the bacon bap, then slipped on his coat and went back out. The rain had stopped, but the wind was still up. Jacob hurried up the high street, sticking close to the shopfronts in an attempt to shelter from the strong gusts as they scattered leaves across the street.

Daphne’s Exotic Curiosities—a rather elaborate name for a shop that basically sold herbs and spices out of the kind of great big glass bottles that used to be seen in sweet shops when Jacob was a kid—was up around the corner just past Brentwell church. As Jacob went to cross the street, however, he saw a woman crouching on the ground, a pram lying on its side nearby.