The Seafront Tea Rooms (10 page)

‘Then I’ll be back to looking for a permanent job.’ Kat wrinkled her nose.

‘Put off reality as long as you can,’ Séraphine said, smiling.

Letty reappeared, without the birdcage this time.

‘So, you two. Guess what Séraphine’s going to teach me to make?’ she said.

Kat turned to Séraphine. ‘Let me think… Not croissants – Letty can already make those. Something with fruit? A tart?’

‘That’s right,’ Séraphine confirmed. ‘This is Tarte Tatin 101. And Letty’s giving me a scone workshop. Why don’t you join us?’

‘I’d love to,’ Kat said. ‘A cup of tea wouldn’t hurt.’

‘I should get back, I’m afraid,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ve got a ton of emails that need my attention. Another time perhaps.’ She smiled and said goodbye.

‘Come through to the kitchen,’ Letty said. The women filed past the till and out to the back room.

‘I’ve been looking forward to this,’ Séraphine said. Even the lesson with Zoe had been manageable that day, due to the knowledge that she’d soon be enjoying a break, doing what she loved most in the world – baking. There was something about Letty’s calm, melodic voice that put Séraphine at ease.

She lifted a canvas shopping bag. ‘I picked up the ingredients on the way over.’

‘You’re a star,’ Letty said. ‘Now, empty that bag up here on the counter and let’s get started.’

Letty and Séraphine worked together in the kitchen, aprons on and sleeves rolled up, while Kat chatted to them from her seat.

‘You know how this dessert came to be?’ Séraphine said.

‘I don’t think so,’ Kat said. ‘What happened?’

‘The story goes that one of the Tatin sisters was making an apple tart, but she accidentally left it too long in the oven. In trying to salvage it, she turned it upside-down. Her guests loved it.’

‘How wonderful. Some of the best things come out of mistakes, don’t they?’ Letty said.

‘Yes. My brother and sister, for example,’ Séraphine replied, with a mischievous smile.

‘Is that so?’ Kat said.

‘I’m sure of it.’ Séraphine nodded emphatically. ‘There’s almost fifteen years between us – I don’t think anyone plans a gap like that! My parents would never admit it, but me and my brother Guillaume have always been pretty certain that Mathilde and Benjamin were a happy accident.’

‘I bet they wouldn’t change a thing now,’ Letty said.

‘Definitely not. They’re spoiled awfully by all of us,’ Séraphine said.

Kat took a sip of tea and watched as Séraphine worked on the fruit for the tart.

‘So, you peel the apples, then halve them this way —’ She held one up to show Letty. ‘Then scoop out the middle, the seeds and the core.’

Letty got to work, preparing the apples on a wooden board.

‘Heat up the pan, and this is where you’ll be making the caramel. I add a vanilla pod and the seeds, scraped out. When you add the apple, you get that lovely… how do you say… toffee thing as it softens.’

Making the tart, Séraphine realised she felt something she hadn’t since arriving in England – at home.

‘I always thought it was terribly complicated, this one. But you make it look easy.’ Letty smiled.

‘I grew up with it. It feels strange, talking you through it, because for so many years it’s been something my mum and I have done without a recipe – without even needing to talk about what we’re doing.’

‘How lovely. I must say, I adore French baking. As much as I’m proud of our English cakes – and I still think you can’t beat a good Victoria sponge – I’m glad that afternoon tea is such an international affair these days. Millefeuille, éclairs – we’ve had some good imports from over the Channel.’

Séraphine laughed. ‘I’ve only recently learned how to make those things myself. In the village next to mine, we have a fantastic pastry school. It’s world-renowned. For my last birthday, my father gave me the best present I could have wished for – a week staying there and studying.’

She smiled at the memory. Those had been some of the happiest days of her life. Covered in flour, and fretting over oven temperatures, yes – but in good company. She’d been paired with Carla, who had come over from Barcelona to take the course.

‘Was this something you always wanted to do?’ Séraphine asked, as she loaded the tart into the oven. ‘Run your own tea rooms?’

‘Oh no,’ Letty said. ‘Much as I love it, it was the family business. To be honest, it never crossed my mind to do anything else.’ She smiled. ‘Nowadays that must seem strange, I suppose.’

‘Not at all. I think it’s nice to have something that you share with your family. That continuity,’ Séraphine said. ‘Will you pass the place on to Euan?’

‘Oh, no.’ Kat smiled. ‘I mean, he wouldn’t be interested, would he, Letty?’

She shook her head. ‘He helps out from time to time, but he’d never run the Seafront, no. He put far too much effort into his architectural training for me to want to see him running the tea rooms.’ A wistful look came into her eyes. ‘I would have liked to pass the place on though, if things had been different…’ She paused for a moment, then picked up a bag of flour. ‘But things are as they are. Now, these scones won’t make themselves, will they? Are you ready to learn my secret recipe?’

An hour later, Kat had left, and Letty and Séraphine were sitting at a table in the tea rooms, tasting the scones and tart that they’d made.

‘The tarte tatin is delicious with crème fraiche. But I couldn’t find any so we’ll have to make do with some vanilla ice cream,’ Séraphine said. ‘It’s not a bad option, actually.’

‘And for the scones – strawberries and clotted cream,’ Letty said.

She watched as Séraphine helped herself to fruit and cream.

‘No. More than that,’ Letty insisted, stopping Séraphine as she raised a scone to her mouth. ‘You haven’t got nearly enough on there.’

Séraphine laughed. ‘More? I’ve already piled it high, Letty.’

‘Definitely more. And come on, there’s barely anything of you. You could do with some calories.’

‘I knew there was a reason I wanted to come to England.’ Séraphine smiled, adding an extra layer of cream and topping it with jam. The past days with Letty, Charlie and Kat had helped her to relax, and brought back some of her natural optimism. Instinctively, she felt she could be herself with them, without any fear of judgement. Her feeling that she’d made the wrong decision in coming to England was gradually being replaced by a certainty that she’d been right to be brave and step out on her own.

‘I’m rather proud of that tart,’ said Letty.

‘You should be,’ Séraphine said. ‘You did well turning it out. That’s quite tricky when the caramel is so hot.’

‘I think I’m going to add it to our menu,’ Letty said, holding up a slice and admiring it.

‘Are you serious? What an honour. My mother will be delighted.’

‘Good,’ Letty said, putting her fork down for a moment. ‘Now, tell me. How are things at Adam’s? Is Zoe still making your life a misery?’

‘It’s not much better,’ Séraphine said. ‘She simply does not want to learn.’

‘I wonder what the problem is. Zoe does know some French – I remember she used to speak it all the time with her mother.’

‘She did?’

‘Yes. I’m sure Adam will have told you that they lived in France when his wife Marianne was alive. They’d still come here for holidays though, to visit Adam’s parents, and to see Euan. During those trips, Marianne would always bring Zoe in here. They’d take that table in the corner and chatter away over slices of strawberry shortcake.’

‘I see.’

‘Then Marianne died, which was incredibly sad. She was so very young. Adam and Zoe moved back to Scarborough so that he could have the support of his parents. He still brings Zoe in from time to time, like you did the other day, but she’s a different girl now. Not surprising, given what she’s had to cope with.’

‘How did she die, Zoe’s mother?’

‘It was a horse-riding accident. In the countryside near their house. Her favourite horse startled, and she was thrown.’

‘That’s awful.’

Séraphine thought of Zoe – her hostility and coldness. Given what she’d heard, it wasn’t hard to understand why the girl would be resistant to having a stranger in her house, and why she might resent Séraphine’s attempts at friendship. Perhaps by trying to ignore, rather than acknowledge, the palpable absence in the house, Séraphine had been going about building a relationship with Zoe in the wrong way.

‘It was. Adam was very much in love with Marianne. I remember Euan said he thought he’d never get over it.’

‘And now?

‘Well, he still isn’t over it – I’m not sure you do get over something like that. But Euan seems to think he’s found a way to move on. Focusing on Zoe must help.’

‘So him wanting Zoe to speak French – it’s about more than education.’

‘Oh yes, far more. It’s about fulfilling a commitment to his wife: the one thing he can still do for her.’

On Saturday, Séraphine and Zoe walked back from the supermarket together. Séraphine asked questions, and Zoe gave monosyllabic answers, dragging her heels . But after her conversation with Letty, Séraphine realised she’d found the patience she’d been missing.

That evening they ate together, and when Zoe went off to read in her room, Séraphine stayed to clear up.

‘You don’t need to do that,’ Adam said.

‘It’s no problem,’ she said, putting the plates in the dishwasher. ‘I prefer to be busy.’

When it was full, she filled the sink to wash the pans she’d cooked dinner in. ‘I’ll wash, and you dry?’

‘Deal,’ Adam said, picking up a tea towel.

They joked with each other for a while, until Séraphine got up the courage to raise the issue that had been on her mind.

‘I get the impression Zoe understands quite a lot of French. More than I expected.’

Adam looked up, surprised. ‘She’s started talking to you?’

‘No.’ Zoe shook her head. ‘Unfortunately not. But I can tell she understands.’

‘Yes. She knows some. But it’s been a few years now since she spoke it, which is why I thought you might be better off starting from scratch.’

Séraphine rinsed a pan clean and stood it on the drying rack. ‘If she does understand, and she could speak it once, why do you suppose she doesn’t want to speak it with me?’

Adam rubbed a pan with his tea towel as if drying it were the most important task in the world. Séraphine let the silence sit between them, resisting the urge to fill it.

‘It was her mother she used to talk to,’ Adam said finally. ‘I sometimes wonder if it’s difficult for Zoe to go back to that time. I don’t find it easy myself. Maybe hearing the language her mother spoke brings everything too close.’

‘That’s possible,’ Séraphine said. ‘Do you talk to her about it?’

‘I used to, when she was younger. We’d remember together the times we shared with Marianne, the holidays we went on. Zoe used to enjoy doing that. But in the last couple of years she’s started to shut down.’ There was emotion in his voice, and Séraphine instinctively put her hand over his.

‘Thanks,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘It’s always there, I guess, just below the surface.’

‘Of course.’

‘Maybe it’s my fault that she’s being so difficult with you now.’

Séraphine shook her head. ‘It isn’t. And it’s not too late to change things. Do you have any photos of Marianne? Because I think perhaps I need to get to know her a little better myself.’

‘Let’s go into the living room,’ Adam said.

He went over to the bookshelves and took down some photo albums. ‘We haven’t looked at these much recently,’ he said, brushing the dust off them. ‘I don’t know why. When we first moved back here, when Zoe was seven, we used to look at them all the time. But now – there just never seems to be the right moment.’

‘Here —’ He sat down next to Séraphine. ‘This is Marianne when she was pregnant with Zoe.’

He pointed to a picture of a pretty woman in a yellow sundress with a large baby bump, her hand resting tenderly on top of it. Her long dark hair was loose, and her gaze was direct. Séraphine could imagine Adam taking the photo. There was an easy, relaxed smile on her face.

‘And here’s Zoe, when she was a newborn.’

‘She was beautiful.’

Séraphine turned the pages of the album, studying photos of Zoe cradled on her sleeping father’s chest, Zoe lying on a picnic rug in a yellow bonnet…

‘She used to love it when Marianne played guitar for her – even when she was tiny. And the two of them used to paint together.’

Séraphine leaned in to look at the photo of mother and daughter painting together on a low wooden table, brightly coloured splashes adorning Zoe’s arms and face.

‘They seem to be having fun.’

‘They were a real team. Oh, and look, here they are with the horses. Marianne used to lift Zoe up to stroke them. Zoe loved being around them.’

Adam turned the pages, and Zoe grew before Séraphine’s eyes, stumbling with a baby walker, riding a small red trike, her own bicycle.

‘A lovely family.’

‘We were happy,’ Adam said. ‘It went by so quickly. We didn’t have long enough.’

On Sunday, Zoe and Séraphine were in the living room. Séraphine had put her usual teaching materials to one side.

‘I thought we could do something different today,’ Séraphine said. She braced herself. This could either go well, or very, very badly.

She took out the photo album Adam had shown her, the one with pictures of Zoe as a toddler. ‘This is yours, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Those are photos of my family.’

She passed the album to Zoe. ‘Why don’t you tell me who is who?’

Zoe opened the album and stared at it for a while. Séraphine wondered if she was doing the right thing.

After a minute, Zoe pointed at a photo of her mother playing the guitar.

‘That’s my mum.’

She looked up at Séraphine. Her eyes were sad, but there was a proud smile on her lips.

‘
Très belle
,’ Séraphine said.

‘
Oui.
’

‘And she looks very kind,’ Séraphine continued, in French.

‘
Oui
. She was. She was the best.’

‘What was she like? Tell me more about her.’