Despite it being much quieter than it was when I lived in York, I don’t feel that bone-aching loneliness I felt there before I met Marcus, and again after he announced he was leaving. I know I’m happier here; I know I made the right decision last year, but I still have this strange feeling of something missing as though I’ve gone out without my phone. I don’t feel settled; I don’t feel grounded. I want to finally be able to call Sanderson Bay home and to feel as though I have found my place in the world.
Because I haven’t felt settled since I was thirteen years old.
I shake the thoughts away – Christmas always makes everything feel worse than it is. I probably just need to redecorate the flat and put my stamp on it to feel more at home, but I haven’t really had time thanks to the success of the café. I turn back to the social media accounts. A few queries to answer, a booking for a Christmas party but not much else. Even the “no coffee lol” crowd are quieter than usual as everyone gets so busy with the festive season that they don’t even have time to troll each other online.
The hardened Sanderson Bay coffee drinker can get their fix at The Black Horse. Terry and his wife Mo installed a barista machine a few years ago and now serve up every coffee imaginable, at least half of which I’m sure are made up. Terry and I aren’t in competition; we complement each other.
*
During the week I always try and open the café by 7.30am. In December it’s still dark at that time and I don’t get many customers other than Lisa popping in for a take-away cup of Assam and oat milk. I’ve always been an early riser since I was a child – I used to use the time to read but these days I take up my Olympus Pen camera and, at this time of year, my brightest lamps, to update the café’s Instagram account for the day.
Today I’ve known what I’m going to post about since the moment I woke up.
Ben. Or rather Russian caravan tea, the tea that Ben reminds me of, the tea that I’m sure I could get him to drink if he ever came back to the café.
Not that I want him to of course.
I set up the loose-leaf tea, teapot and cup for the photograph. I use the willow-patterned china to complement the Chinese tea, the silver tea strainer. Just as I’m about to take the photograph I hear somebody clearing their throat behind me. I jump, scattering tea leaves on to the floor.
When I turn around it’s Ben, smiling that reluctant smile that is somewhere between embarrassed and smug. Scratch that, it’s much closer to smug this morning than it was last night. Other than his grey eyes and his smile and his dark wool coat. I hadn’t taken in many details about him the previous evening. His dark hair is neatly cut, and he has the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow on his chin.
‘I was just thinking about you,’ I say, regretting the words as soon as they come out of my mouth. I watch his smile change from smug to embarrassed. Embarrassed for me probably.
‘I was wondering if I could get a coffee,’ he says, taking off his coat. Underneath he’s wearing jeans and a dark red V-neck jumper over a blue and white checked shirt. ‘But I have a feeling you’re not going to let me,’ he goes on as he folds his coat neatly over the back of one of the chairs.
‘No,’ I reply. ‘I’m not. At least not for the moment. There’s a reason I was thinking about you and I want you to try something. If you don’t like it, I’ll make you a whole pot of coffee.’
‘OK,’ he says slowly, doubtfully. ‘What is it?’
3
‘It tastes like smoke,’ Ben says as he puts the cup carefully back on the saucer. Everything he does is careful and meticulous.
‘Is that good or bad?’ I ask.
‘Good, I think,’ he replies. ‘I’ve never tasted anything like it.’
‘I bet you’ve never drunk tea that wasn’t made with a bag, have you?’
He shakes his head and picks up his cup again. I smile to myself – I knew he was Russian caravan. But I’m not sure that the willow pattern china was the right cup to serve it in. It worked for the photograph but I think it would taste better out of something else.
I stand up and get one of the Hornsea mugs off the shelf. Miranda had picked these up at a car boot sale a few years ago and then never used them, so I purloined them as a perfect addition to the café.
I pour Ben a fresh tea into the mug.
‘Try it in this one,’ I say as I pass it to him.
‘It tastes different in a mug?’
‘Sometimes. The teacup was for aesthetics really – I was setting up an Instagram photo. But if I was serving Russian caravan tea here in the café, I’d serve it in this.’
He takes a sip. ‘Much better,’ he says, but I can tell he’s only humouring me. ‘So only some teas work in mugs?’
‘Well you wouldn’t drink Earl Grey or an afternoon blend in a mug like that – they’re too delicate and need to be drunk from china.’
He raises an eyebrow at me. ‘So what else would you drink from a Hornsea pottery mug?’
He recognises the mug. Interesting.
‘English or Irish breakfast,’ I reply.
‘So why Russian caravan?’ he asks. ‘When I told you I only drink coffee?’ His words sound harsh but he smiles as he says them.
‘I think there’s a tea for everyone,’ I say. ‘Even people who say they don’t like tea.’
‘That doesn’t really answer my question,’ he says.
‘It’s a blend of oolong, keemun and lapsang souchong teas,’ I begin. ‘Which are all from the Chinese tea plant. Camel caravans used to transport the tea from the Mongolian Steppes all the way across into Russia.’
‘Hence Russian caravan.’
I nod. ‘It was a six-thousand-mile journey and took up to six months. Legend has it that the smoky flavour comes from all the campfires that the caravans stopped at along the way, but it’s actually just the lapsang souchong, which is smoke-dried.’ Clara isn’t the only one full of useless information.
‘And it’s my tea because?’
‘It’s dark and brooding,’ I say and I can immediately feel myself blushing.
‘So that’s why you were thinking of me?’ His smug smile is back.
‘Well I was thinking of the tea really,’ I reply hurriedly. ‘I was trying to take a photograph for Instagram when you arrived.’
‘Sorry about that,’ he says looking over at the spilt tea leaves on the floor.
‘Don’t worry, the light wasn’t quite right anyway.’ I stand up. ‘I should probably clean that up.’
‘And I should probably get going,’ he replies, standing up and picking up his coat from the back of the chair. ‘I had a look at your Instagram account last night actually.’
I prepare myself for a lecture about what I should be doing better to promote my business – I’ve never felt as though social media and marketing is my strong suit – so I’m surprised when he tells me it’s good.
‘You have a real eye for shape and light and colour,’ he says, pushing his arms into the sleeves of his coat.
‘I could do with some more followers.’