Corduroy Mansions

20. Rare Tea

Even if there are many negative features to my job, thought Jenny, there is at least one that is unconditionally positive. Oedipus Snark might require of her that she be loyal to his highly dubious personal cause, but at least she was more or less left to her own devices every afternoon, when the oleaginous politician went to the House of Commons or enjoyed lengthy lunches with his friend, Barbara Ragg, at the Poule au Pot restaurant. He had made it clear to Jenny when he first employed her that if there was nothing still to be done in the afternoon, then she was free to go home.

‘I don’t know what you get up to in your spare time, darling,’ he drawled, ‘and I don’t care too much, frankly. No offence! So if there’s nothing doing here at headquarters, please toddle along and do whatever girly stuff you fancy.’

He smiled at her with the air of one conferring a favour, or even some sort of benediction.

‘You mean this is a flexi-time job?’

‘If you must use such terms, yes. Perk of the position. My own job, of course, is pretty much flexi-time, as you put it, although heaven knows how much I exert myself. See?’

Jenny bit her lip. Girly stuff! She was a graduate of the London School of Economics. She was currently reading a biography of Wittgenstein. She was . . . She felt herself getting warm with resentment.

‘Mr Snark, I feel that I must—’

He raised a hand to stop her. ‘Please! Oedipus. We don’t stand on formality here. Now then . . .’

And they had progressed to the next item of business, leaving Jenny secretly fuming and determined to correct his erroneous impression of her. But she never did; as the months wore on, she realised that she would never succeed in getting him to see her as an intellectual equal, to treat her without the condescension that he seemed to show in all his dealings with women. And the reason for that, she decided, was that Oedipus Snark was profoundly solipsistic. If he paid no attention to her feelings, it was because he did not see her. For one who was constantly adding ‘See?’ to his observations, he saw remarkably little.

That afternoon, as Caroline and James embarked on the baking of Nigella’s lemon gems, Jenny found herself just a few blocks away, standing outside Daylesford Organic, debating with herself whether to go inside and treat herself to a cup of coffee, or walk up to Hatchards bookshop on Piccadilly and consult Roger Katz about what to read. It had been her birthday several days earlier and her aunt in Norfolk had sent her a book token, as she had done every year since Jenny’s fifth birthday. The value of the book token had increased by two pounds each year, with the result that it was now sufficient to allow the purchase of several hardbacks.

The onset of rain decided the matter. Jenny looked up at the sky; heavy purple clouds had built up in the east and the first drops of rain were splattering on the canvas awning of Daylesford. Inside, all was light, warmth and tempting aromas.

Just inside the doorway as she went in, an elegant dark-haired woman was dispensing small cups of tea to arriving customers. Jenny took the proffered cup and sipped.

‘Jasmine,’ said the woman. ‘Can you smell it?’

Jenny nodded, glancing at the open silver packet of tea on the table. The Rare Tea Company.

‘White tea,’ said the woman, ‘scented with jasmine. And this is oolong. Would you care to try it? I’m Henrietta, by the way.’

Jenny sipped at the second cup. ‘Very delicate,’ she said.

‘Proper tea,’ said Henrietta. ‘When one thinks of what goes into the tea bags most people make do with . . .’

Jenny agreed, and was about to say so when she noticed that a man had entered the café and was standing beside her. He reached out for the cup of oolong being offered him and it was then that she recognised him.

‘Mr Wickramsinghe.’

The cup at his lips, he turned to face her. ‘Oh, Miss . . . Miss . . .’

‘Jenny. From upstairs at Corduroy Mansions.’

He lowered his cup. ‘Of course, please forgive me. Basil Wickramsinghe.’

‘Yes, I know. I’ve seen you, of course, and we did meet in William’s flat when he held that meeting about the hall carpet. Do you remember?’

Basil Wickramsinghe nodded. ‘That carpet. That most regrettable carpet. It’s still there - as are we.’

Jenny laughed. Something she had read last year in the biography of Wittgenstein came back to her. Wittgenstein, it seemed, had cleaned his floors by sprinkling tea leaves over them and then sweeping them up.

‘Wittgenstein,’ she said, ‘used damp tea leaves to clean carpets. Apparently tea soaks up the dirt.’

Henrietta looked disapprovingly at Jenny. ‘One would hardly use these rare teas for that.’

Basil Wickramsinghe nodded his agreement, and purchased a packet of white tea from Henrietta. He threw a shy glance at Jenny. ‘Are you walking back to Corduroy Mansions?’ he asked.

She explained that she had been planning to have a cup of coffee. ‘The rain,’ she said, looking out of the window over her shoulder.

‘But I have an umbrella,’ said Basil Wickramsinghe. ‘Perhaps you would care to walk under my umbrella with me, and then join me for a cup of white tea in the flat.’

Jenny hesitated. She knew nothing about Mr Wickramsinghe and one had to be careful in London. But one could not go through life being suspicious of one’s neighbours, and William had spoken of him with affection. She agreed; Hatchards could wait, and there was something appealing about this quiet man with his rather formal manner.

They said goodbye to Henrietta and made their way out into the street. The rain had set in now, it appeared, and puddles were forming on the edge of the road, their surfaces speckled with circles created by the raindrops. They made their way quickly down the road, sheltering under Basil Wickramsinghe’s generous umbrella. A wind had blown up to accompany the rain, and the branches of the trees in the small square were bending, the canopy of the umbrella straining at its moorings. By the time they reached the front door of Corduroy Mansions, both had wet ankles and Jenny felt a trickle of cold water running down her neck.

‘Most inclement,’ said Basil Wickramsinghe, shaking the water off his umbrella. He had a pedantic, rather old-fashioned way of speaking, as if he were following a script. Jenny had encountered this before in actors, and wondered whether acting was her neighbour’s profession. Had she seen him on the stage perhaps?

‘You aren’t an actor, are you, Mr Wickramsinghe?’ she asked as he fumbled with the key to his door.

He shook his head. ‘No more so than anybody else,’ he replied.