Melody Mitchell

Thompson A1
16 October 2014
The Tea Shop
The Tea Shop
(Part of a Larger Story Entitled Twelve)

In the end, not everyone is as strong as we would have liked them to be. In the end, some of us win and
some of us lose, and unfortunately, the latter was true for Scotland Ann Lisborne.
Though she may no longer physically be with us, she is undeniably here in spirit, always keeping watch
over the two men that faithfully visit her final resting place at 88 Aldersbrook Road, Greater London.
Unlike most stories, Duncan Ellis and Dante Leder have never quite gotten over the death of their loved
one, and- before they decided to finally part ways- they never could look each other in the eyes. The
blame was theirs to share, and they knew it.
Ultimately, Scotland Ann Lisborne's untimely death tore more people apart than it saved, but she
thought even one life spared was worth losing her own.
Duncan Ellis sobered up after that, ironically, but he never married. The media, who once drank in his
every moment, seemingly forgot his existence- whether out of pity or ignorance, we never may know. He
wanders the world aimlessly now, and those few who have encountered him remark that the light in his
eyes is no more. His mind never seems to be in the present, and some whisper that he may have lost it
all together on that fateful night, nearly a decade ago.
Dante Leder tried in vain to keep an adequate front up, but everything crumbled the night- she
specifically requested it be night- Scotland Ann Lisborne was laid to rest. He stood tall and hard, with no
trace emotion on his face, but when the casket made its dark thump in the ground, he collapsed.
Hysterical can be the only word to describe his thrashing actions, his echoing screams for the lost love of
his life. After that, Dante was admitted to Greater London Sanitorium and only sees the sun on his
allowed weekly visits to Miss Lisborne's grave.
It's all rather ironic, really. In the end, the pathetic, washed-up drunk became a sober recluse and the
strong, warm icon became an insane mess, all at the unwitting fingertips of one young girl who only
desperately wanted to help.
But we're getting ahead of ourselves, aren't we? Let's go back to where this morose tragedy began,
twelve years ago.
Part One
Do you ever just sit there as you drive and think, I wouldnt mind if I died right now. If this car burst into
flames, I wouldnt fight it.?
I do.

A lot, actually.
But today, as I turn off the gravelly street into a worn parking lot, I cant help thinking somethings
different. I still wouldnt stop the flames- at least there would be something to stir my mundane life- but I
feel like someones waiting for me. Its almost as if I have an appointment I just cant miss.
I slide the car into park and turn the keys in the ignition, sighing as the rumble slowly dies off. I lean my
head back against the worn leather seat and glance out the window to my right. The sky is chilly and very
solidly overcast, not quite grey, but not quite blue, and the few people out and about are hugging coats
close to their bodies, faces turned down to the pavement.
My keys jangle slightly as I open my car door and a rush of cold wind catches me in its claws like an icy
hug, sending my unusually straight hair into a frenzy around my head. My flatbottomed black boots loudly
crush and grind gravel as I make my way across the small parking lot, pulling my coat tighter against my
skin.
The parking area is broken and riddled with weeds, but I swear it only adds to the tea shops charm. I
smile softly at the faded maroon paint of the modest exterior as I step under the overhang and gently turn
the knob, pulling open the chipped and faded redwood door.
Scottie, the shops elderly owner, looks up and smiles at me as the bell rings and I step inside,
immediately unwinding my scarf and hanging it on the coat rack.
Morning, Miss Scotland. You alright? I nod and return his crinkly-eyed smile, feeling right at home. Will
it be the usual?
You know me well. I say with a wink. Scottie chuckles and carefully folds his newspaper before getting
to work. I set my keys on the counter and feebly attempt to shake the cold from my hair. Hows Mrs.
Scottie?
Well, I ought to know you; youve come in every week since you got here, My smile widens a bit as I
reach over to grab the newspaper, my eyes skimming briefly as the quiet whir of Scotties old tea machine
fills the shop, slightly overlapping the soft overhead music. And shes better, I suppose. Her knees still
crick, but shes happy as a pup. Couldnt ask for more.
I nod, letting our conversation drift peacefully off into the quiet, comforting background noises. The tea
machine silences and Scottie begins mixing the concoction together, an old showtune leaving his lips in
an absentminded hum. His thick Scottish accent (hence the nickname Scottie) is even more so
pronounced, and my lips twitch up as I take a moment to glance around the shop.
Everything is the same from last week, as it ought to be, and I lean my hip against the counters edge.
The curtains are pulled back a bit more, probably due to the overcast weather- something I almost
immediately learned Scottie and I both love dearly- and the old heater by the shoe rack glows bright
orange in a feeble attempt to keep things warm.

One Assam Black Tea in medium with two scoops sugar and one drop milk. I turn back towards Scottie
and smile, taking the warm cup. The sweet scent spirals into my nose and wakes up my mind. I take out a
few banknotes and push them towards him, but Scottie holds up his hands in protest. No, no, this ones
on the house.
I roll my eyes and set down my tea, stretching over the counter to stick the due money (plus a little extra)
in his apron pocket. No, get Mrs. Scottie a nice pair of slippers on me. He mimics my eye roll but smiles
fondly and pats my hand on the counter as a silent thank you.
I head over to my favourite seat amongst the mismatched, worn furniture as Scottie hobbles off to answer
the ringing shop phone. My tea- which he so thoughtfully put in my favourite of the shops mugs: a simple
white cup with a cats silhouette sketched onto the front- forms a steamy circle as I set it on the wooden
table in front of me. By the time I had settled and reached into my bag for my sketchbook, the circle had
evaporated.
Days like this are why Im glad for The Writing Shop, Scotties own claim to another forgotten business.
Even for the owners, the oddly placed little London cabin has a certain charm that constantly reigns a
person back in.
My mind wanders as I absently sketch away at the nearly deserted street to my left, the plate glass
window fogging every so often from my tea-heated breath. I dont know for how long I sat like that- I tend
to get lost in my own mind here- but the clearing of a voice startles me from my trance.
Is this seat taken?
I stare up at the man in front of me, my mouth slightly ajar from the shock. I dont remember hearing him
come in, but the steaming coffee in his hands says I was just oblivious. My eyes run from the bland cup in
his large hands, over his dark, leathery trench coat, past the deep blue tips of what I can only assume are
tattoos peeking from the top of his white button up, to his unexpectedly soft blue eyes.
My heart jolts as I take in how void and uninterested they are- almost lightless- but I dont linger for much
longer there. My gaze flickers to his wind-swept hair and its odd, quiffed up shape. Its long, curling at the
ends where it nearly touches his trench. I furrow my brow at how wet it is.
Had it started raining? I turn my head to face the window again, unconsciously chewing on my bottom lip,
to find thousands of droplets streaking down the glass. I suppose I really was lost in my thoughts.
The clearing of a throat pulls me back to reality and my cheeks flare with heat as I look back to the
stranger in front of me. One of his eyebrows is lifted slightly, but his lips are twisted into a friendly smirk as
his eyes trail back down the seat across from me, a silent ask for permission.
Its not taken. He nods and pulls back the chair as I sit up straighter and self-consciously smooth down
my top. I glance up at him and wish I had bothered to put on some degree of makeup today, or at least
brushed my hair properly, but he doesnt seem to notice as he arranges his trench around him. Suddenly,
it dawns on me- this is the unspoken appointment. Did he feel it too? Was this the universe inexplicably
pulling us together? Was I being paranoid and romanticizing the situation? Probably.

Unsure of what to say, I quietly tap my fingers on the wood beside my drink and continue openly staring
at him. His face isnt particularly happy, but its not altogether unhappy as he sets a book on the table and
begins silently reading.
I cant help but raise my eyebrows in surprise- didnt he want to talk? Why else would he have asked to sit
down? I sneak a glance around the shop to find it empty, but a quiet rattle and gentle humming from the
stockroom tells Scottie hasnt run out for supplies. If every other seat is empty here, why would he want to
sit by me?
I didnt want it to feel lonely. I jump slightly at his voice and snap my eyes to him, eyebrows furrowed,
but his eyes continue scanning down a page in the middle of his book. I doubt they ever left. A spooky
chill runs up my spin as I realize my thoughts had gone unspoken, but he still knew.
What do you mean? My voice is unnaturally quiet and I worry he may not have heard, but his eyes
flicker up to mine before he quietly shuts the book, sets it down, and folds his hands.
You looked confused after I sat down. His eyes never waver from mine, still as bored-looking but more
pleasant than before. Theres something about them that really almost screams dead, but theyve grown
brighter and more interested in the previous few minutes.
I am confused, a bit. I shrug in consent and he smiles briefly, smally. He relaxes and leans backwards in
the chair.
I came in about thirty minutes ago, but you were immersed in your art. He nods his head towards my
sketch pad, and my cheeks begin to heat up again, embarrassed over being so engulfed in the drawing.
So I chatted with the owner a bit and he suggested this. He points to the cold coffee in front of him and I
involuntarily sniff, trying to figure out just what Scottie recommended.
He pauses and waits for me to nod in understanding before continuing.
I was going to sit in a corner, but it felt too lonely. A warm shop like this is meant for company, so I
thought if you didnt have any, I could be yours. Even though there was nothing remotely romantic about
the way he said his words, my heart still skipped a beat. I mentally tick off a reminder to later scold myself
for acting like a such a lovesick little girl.
Well, that was very nice of you. I pause, but he doesnt respond, so I continue. Your accent isnt
familiar, are you from here? He fully smiles at me for the first time, pink lips pulling back to reveal
impressively bright white teeth.
No, Alderley Edge. Are you from hereabouts? His voice is deep, almost gravelly, and very inexplicably
unsettling to me. Brushing the momentary discomfort aside, I return his earlier smile and shake my head,
brushing a bit of fallen hair back behind my ear.
No, not here. I know my answer isnt really much of one at all, but its all Im willing to give. He nods and
raises his eyebrows- something he seems to do a lot- in amusement at my vague answer, but he doesnt
push it.

We lull into a comfortable silence as he picks his book back up and I begin sketching again. I dont mind
his company, after several minutes, and Im not sure how much time passes before he turns to the last
page of his book and closes it.
I glance up at him as he leans across the table and gently places it on the bookshelf behind my head. My
hand stills its sketching from the shock of both his proximity and his knowledge. Unless youre a
consistent patron, people very rarely know the shelf exists, let alone know its function.
I cock my head at him in fascination. Hes been quite the character in the brief time Ive known him, and
its obvious this is his first time in the shop. He takes in my surprised expression and grins.
Theres a sign above your head. I lean forward and turn back to look above me and sure enough,
theres a sign.
Books are love letters or apologies passed between us, adding a layer of conversation beyond our
spoken words, so pass on your love and apologies to carry on the conversation. I turn back to face him
and smile, nodding in approval. I never noticed that before.
He returns my smile before reaching his hand over the table. Sometimes it takes new eyes to see old
things. Im Duncan. My smile falters as my eyes slowly make their way down to his hand and the
inexplicable, uncomfortable feeling grows in my stomach once again.
Something deep inside me whispers not to take his hand, and my own twitches slightly from its folded
place on the table between us. I bring my eyes back to his own and push aside the apprehensive
feelings, my smile warmly appearing back on my face as I shake his hand.
We seem to smile an awful lot.
Scotland. I practically whisper. His eyes soften at my name and he releases my hand, pushes back from
the table, and softly pops up the collar of his trench.
Well, Scotland from not here, its been very nice meeting you. I have a feeling this wont be the last time
we cross paths. My smile turns tight and the previous ominous feeling explodes in my stomach as his
gaze turns hard, something completely unknown to me flickering across his features.
Its gone as quickly as it appears and he flashes me yet another smile before making his way to the door,
sparing me one last glance over his shoulder before pushing it open and emerging into the cold.
I let out a shaky breath and stand up to leave, feeling everything but warm. I pack away my sketchbook
and hoist my bag over my shoulder, intently watching as Duncan walks across the street perpendicular to
the plate glass window and fades from my sight.
I wave at Scottie as I pass the counter and he returns the favour, motioning with the rag he was
previously wiping down the counter. Good luck, sweetie.
I turn back toward him, hand on the doorknob and confusion on my face. What do you mean?

He lightly throws the rag over his shoulder and shrugs before walking back to the storeroom, his voice
amplified and deepened by the closely fit walls. Dont you know, dear? That was Duncan Ellis.
I nod slowly, still not understanding, but push the door open and make my way across the small parking
lot to my car.
I had no idea what I had gotten into at that moment, but I knew it wasnt good.