Sweet Treats Read online

  SWEET TREATS

  by

  Christine Miles

  Copyright © 2014 LeQuesneKnight Publications

  www.christinemiles.org

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 09922663514

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9922635-1-5

  Cover by indiedesignz.com

  Layout by Braden Miles

  Dedicated to my parents, Cliff & Ellen Mancer

  who have more pride in me than I deserve;

  and to my long-suffering husband, Derek

  who lets me escape to a fictional world

  and has become comfortable

  with cleaning the loo and ironing his own shirts;

  and to my children

  Braden & Nikki & Liam

  who, ever since they were young,

  have always encouraged me to keep going

  especially in those moments when a ceremonial burning

  of the manuscript appealed;

  and to God

  who gives all things,

  without whom I could do nothing.

  Chapter 1

  The cat wailed beneath Nina’s window the very first night.

  Nina was awake instantly. Tense and miserable, she lay listening. At least this was not little Greg come back to suffer more pain as he had in the last days of his short life. She stared through the uncurtained window at the glimmering stars and listened as the wailing continued. She wouldn’t sleep again, she knew.

  Through the wall she could hear the loud ticking of the grandmother clock. Sooner or later the clock would chime and she’d know how long ’til dawn. A streetlight cast its dull glow into the room, making immense shadows of the few items lining the walls: a tallboy of drawers with a small stack of books, a stubby pincushion stuffed full of pins and needles, a haphazard collection of very ugly china, and a more attractive collection of postcard-sized prints, all framed with plain wood.

  If Miss Clapham liked her enough to give her the job, she’d think about other accommodation but for now, for tonight, this narrow little room in the town’s only homestay with the odd Nellie Potts would have to do.

  Nina turned her face away. In her mind’s eye she could see the little grave on the hillside nearly five hours distant. It was the furthest she’d ever been from Greg, and she stifled the ever-ready wave of melancholy. Think about good things, she admonished herself firmly. Greg would be so excited about this move, if only he knew.

  Her thoughts turned to John Summerton. He was tall, far too skinny, with a shock of sandy hair. They had met while Greg was in hospital for one of his treatments. John, with his gentle humour, had sat with Greg and Nina and whiled away the hours as a hospital volunteer. There were long periods when John didn’t visit. He had fought haemophilia since he was a little boy, Nina discovered, which explained why he was so good with the sick children.

  The wailing stopped at the same moment that the clock chimed. One. Two. Three. Four. Nina sighed. Not long until dawn. Her life wasn’t a series of dark nights and interrupted sleep. It was also tinged with hope and happiness, even moments when she thought she’d got past the raw grief of loss. There was still life to be enjoyed.

  It was John who had sent her to this town far north of the city in which she’d lived for her entire life. Miss Marilla Clapham had written him, asking if he knew of anyone who would be suitable as an assistant in her Victorian sweet shop. He immediately called Nina. Nina had listened in open-mouthed silence. The opportunity was too good to be missed. If only Greg still lived – how he would have leapt and danced around the room.

  Miss Clapham, John said, did not have a telephone. She really was quite Victorian and preferred to correspond by post. Nina shrugged her shoulders. “No problem,” she’d said. “If you give me the letter, I’ll write back.”

  John Summerton had given Nina the letter reluctantly. Nina had wondered at his reticence. She already knew the contents; what was he hiding?

  Miss Clapham’s requirements were heavily scrawled on elegant paper. Thick underlining emphasised many words. Nina had turned the paper and rubbed her hand over the back. It was a wonder the paper had not torn. It seemed Miss Clapham could be formidable.

  The letter was now tucked inside a book in Nina’s bag but she knew exactly what it said. Miss Clapham had demanded the successful applicant:

  Should be of clean habit

  Should be strong and not inclined to sickness

  Should be a woman with neither husband nor child

  Shall be required to wear the costume of Victorian times, including undergarments

  Shall be required to make sweets by hand

  Shall be required to sell sweets to customers

  Should be honest and hardworking and of upright character

  Accommodation will be provided to the successful applicant.

  Nina closed her eyes. Perhaps she had been a fool to take the job without first meeting Miss Clapham. A memory of Greg, before he became ill, came to mind. He’d been six years old and they had loitered in the corner dairy, choosing sweets from the jars on the counter.

  “I’m going to have a sweet shop one day,” and his brow crinkled as he said the words. “But I’m not sure, Mum, if it will make enough money to live on. Perhaps I will be a dentist as well. Next door to the sweet shop.”

  Nina had laughed, and Greg had laughed too. It was so typical of him, she thought now. Even as a little boy, he’d been astute. Two years later when the doctors had wanted him to sit in the waiting room while they spoke to Nina, he had piped up. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear what you have to say. My mother will need me to look after her.”

  A tear slid down Nina’s cheek, then another and another, making her pillow soggy and causing her nose to run. The clock chimed again, just once. Four-thirty, she murmured. If I don’t stop crying, Miss Clapham will decide I’m unsuitable. Stop it. Stop!

  Chapter 2

  At six o’clock, Nina fell asleep and dreamed terrible dreams. At half past nine, she woke with a jolt, a dry mouth and the start of a headache. Miss Clapham had instructed her to be at the shop right on eleven o’clock. Nina knew without a doubt that to be tardy would be a black mark against her character. She resolved to walk by the shop first, peer in its windows as a casual observer, and have a frappe nearby. That way she wouldn’t be late, nor would she feel harassed.

  The sweet shop sat in the middle of the main street. The street itself left much to be desired. What had once been an active township looked at first glance like a ghost town – shop fronts were boarded up, dead foliage shrank inside hanging baskets, and tatty advertisements hung in shop windows. Nina stopped to read the notices in the window of the fish and chip shop. Every single one promoted an event long gone except for one notice which proclaimed the village fete to be on the last weekend of the month. On Greg’s birthday, no less. Nina blinked quickly. Forget you saw that, she willed herself. Forget, before you cry.

  Another notice, less browned and curled, clung to the shop door. “Closed until further notice.” She looked around her, and wondered vaguely what the owner did with his life now, while he waited to re-open.

  All was not doom and gloom. Produce from a general store overflowed down three steep steps and onto the path – screwdrivers, nails, teatowels, pegs, lettuce, cabbages and apples all tangled together. “Staceys” boomed the sign, painted in bold yellow on bright blue. Only near the beach would anyone use that colour scheme, Nina thought. Only near the beach far from efficient officials would nails and slug killer share the same shop space with boxes of cereal and fat tomatoes.

  Five coffee tables balanced on the edge of the path, pretty umbrellas providing shade and colour, crowding up against the tables of vegetables and fruit. Although it was early, the caf
é (which had no name except ‘café’ hand-painted onto its frontage) had several patrons. Parked along the road, a couple of cars loaded with sleeping bags and tents and bikes with shovels and buckets shoved in back windows proved the little township was a recognised stopping point en route to the beautiful beaches that squeezed between the sea and the native bush along the coastline.

  Across the road from Staceys, the sweet shop beckoned. Unlike its counterparts, the sweet shop did not shout its presence to all and sundry. It invited a closer look, simply by its understated Victorian elegance. Sweet Treats, the sign read. A thin trail of smoke wafted from its chimney.

  Through the fug which was her brain, Nina had a brief moment of clarity. Greg had never been to this place with her. For the first time in ten years she was doing something alone which Greg would have loved.

  ‘Something you’ll love too,’ she scolded herself, and shuddered as a wave of grief swamped her. One day she would drown in her grief. One day, but probably not today.

  She peered through the window of Sweet Treats. It was beautiful. A short wooden bench split the room in half. Jars filled with boiled lollies squatted on the bench along with a painted plate bearing glistening toffee apples, and sherbet wrapped in striped paper. A balancing scale with weights stacked neatly alongside invited the buyer to indulge his sweet tooth by the ounce and the pound. On the shelves behind the counter were tall jars – some full, some half-full, some nearly empty. Above the shelves, Queen Victoria gazed benignly upon the customers, perhaps also taking in the goings-on out on the street and across the way. Other pictures had been deliberately crowded beneath Her Majesty, enhancing the Victorian atmosphere. A tiny table with two ancient chairs filled a corner. Perhaps there would be time to sit at the table with a book between customers.

  The door which led out back darkened as a slight figure pressed through. It was not the enormous platter of fudge which caught Nina’s eye. It was Miss Clapham herself, dressed as a Victorian woman, complete with lacey shawl, white apron, and indoor bonnet. Miss Clapham glanced briefly at Nina, then bent out of sight behind the counter.

  Nina moved on. Was there anything else to see in this godforsaken village?

  A monument of the once-prominent Governor George Grey stood sentinel before the public amenities. She had heard about the toilet block but was entirely unprepared for the sight that greeted her.

  At first glance, the structure was brazen. Public toilets should be functional; they should blend unobtrusively into their environment. They shouldn’t stand proud with multi-coloured pillars, drawing the observer ever inwards as though they were an invited guest in King Solomon’s palace. There shouldn’t be a tree growing up through the middle of the building, just as there shouldn’t be bright mosaic tiling within and without.

  And the craftwork – copper handiwork, sculptures and cobblestone flooring – none of it belonged in a toilet. They belonged in a gallery. An art gallery.

  But it was strangely beautiful, Nina had to admit, and it surely beat looking at crude obscenities and misspelled graffiti.

  The street ended in a T and when Nina reached the junction her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. The sea lay before her, blue, green, with small white-tipped waves breaking near the shore. Far across the stretch of water, looking for all the world like a row of little dollhouses was a small township, built along the waterfront, instead of a straight street up from the water like the remains of this village which might well become her home.

  A grassy strip separated the sand from the road and on the grassy strip all alone was one solitary chair: a slatted recliner made from wood. Nina walked slowly around the seat. Could she sit on it? A shiny plaque caught the glint of the sun. Laud Mayor, Nina read. And that was all. Laud Mayor. A pompous name.

  Down further were more seats – park benches. Nina sat on the first bench. A plaque declared Overcome fear or it will overcome you. Across the road, a tall line of trees looked to be standing sentinel. She’d wander further another day, there was plenty of time to explore. Behind the row of shops lay the village green. Enormous great pohutukawa trees provided shade; wooden swings, see-saws, a flying fox, and tree house sat at one end. An empty paddling pool sulked at the other. Between lay a vast expanse of smooth green grass perfect for playing chase or kicking a ball. Greg would…

  “Stop it!” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Not today. Not now. You will not cry.” She took deep breaths – in, out, in, out. She glanced at her watch. Thirty minutes to go. She’d see if the café had frappes on the menu. It was quite possible they would only provide plain tea and instant coffee. It didn’t matter. She’d sit under an umbrella and watch the world go by.

  A gentle murmur of voices rose above the aroma of coffee. Nina found a small table outside, and fiddled with the number she had been given. Cars drove by, and a coach slid into the bus stop. Disheveled passengers clambered onto the footpath, stretched a little, then trailed toward the toilets, stopping to swap cameras and take photos.

  Outside the café, a businessman in suit and tie talked loudly on his cell phone, while stirring three sugars into a tiny espresso cup. He ended the phone call, drummed his fingers on the table, glanced at his watch, scraped his chair back and walked away. Nina watched without thought as he climbed into his car and drove away.

  She wished the little man at the table closest to hers would move on. She had felt his gaze on her ever since she’d sat down. He too seemed to be having a conversation with someone, or perhaps he was recording on a dictaphone. If only he’d look somewhere else.

  Nina pointedly moved her chair so she wasn’t directly facing him. She could feel his stare, but she found herself involved for a short time stirring thick shavings of ice in the icy frappe with a straw.

  The girl who brought her drink lingered. “You’re new here,” she said. She had a carrying sort of voice, the kind that suited people who didn’t mind if the world heard every word she had to say.

  “I am,” Nina said. She smiled to soften the shortness of her words, and hoped the woman – Maudie, her nametag said - would not take offense. She had heard about close-knit country communities, how gossip spread like goose feathers on the wind and newcomers took hundreds of years to become accepted by the old guard. “How did you know?”

  “I saw you get off the bus yesterday. Word got around that Mrs Potts had a guest. And Miss Clapham” – Maudie nodded across the road – “said she was getting help. Two and two together, you know.”

  Nina sucked the bottom end of the straw. There was a gossip in every village and Maudie, it seemed, was it. How long would this Maudie person hover? Nina wanted to enjoy her frappe in silence.

  Maudie looked like she had an important piece of information to convey. “Of course you know Oliver Cromwell and Colonel Pride started a table fight throwing wet suckers.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Oliver Cromwell,” Maudie said. “England. 1656.”

  “Colonel Pride?”

  Maudie’s brows furrowed together, with a twist of curious innocence creating a comic look. “Miss Clapham has expectations,” she said. “Miss Clapham will want you to know everything about sweets since the beginning of time. You’ll not be passing any tests with flying colours today. Obviously.”

  Maudie moved away, picking up dirty plates and cups and scrunched-up serviettes as she went. Nina vaguely heard Maudie address the little man who stared as His Honour. She did not look up, preferring to imagine that Maudie perhaps had an odd sense of humour, that perhaps she had not intended to offend. She took a sip of the frappe, accidently slurping, and looked once again at the sweet shop across the road.

  The bus was gone. The door was closed. A square of white paper hung, skewiff, on the dark green door.

  Nina glanced at her watch. Ten fifty-seven. She glanced at the shop again. Three minutes until her appointment and now the shop, which John had declared was never closed, was most definitely not open for business.

  Ch
apter 3

  Nina sat at the table a little longer, willing herself to remember a little trivia. There was that story about those girls who made a batch of caramel which turned out wrong but was still delicious. Fudge, they called it. Fudge. Victorian slang for foolishness.

  Nina sighed and picked up her bag. She walked slowly across the street, earning a sharp toot of the horn from an impatient driver. She stepped right up to the door, and took the note from it.

  “Nina. It’s all yours. I’ll be back,” she read.

  Impossible. She didn’t believe it; Miss Clapham must have some weird sense of humour just as Maudie did. She hoped it wasn’t catching.

  She knocked on the door. Perhaps Miss Clapham was inside waiting for her. But nobody answered. She peeped through the mail slot. There was no one to be seen. She knocked again, and became aware that people in the coffee shop were staring at her. She didn’t care. She’d come all this way, with the first shards of hope for a new life in her heart and she wasn’t going to miss out now because she’d been polite.

  Greg would try the door, she knew he would.