The Little B & B at Cove End

by Linda Mitchelmore

She looked at the wall opposite the window where once had hung two small but beautiful watercolours of woodland scenes – different styles but both wonderful in their own ways. Both had disappeared long before Mark had had his fatal crash. Cara could still see the little holes where the hooks had been and the darker patches where the pictures had hung and the paint had faded slightly around them. She glanced away from those tell-tale pinpricks in the paint, but not quickly enough because Tom’s gaze was still on them.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Something used to hang there,’ he said, pointing directly at the bare wall. ‘Something I think you liked and wish was still there.’

  ‘Well, you think wrong,’ Cara said, suddenly feeling very exposed – naked and vulnerable that Tom had guessed so quickly that the paintings had been very dear to her. But although Tom had homed in exactly on how she felt about those patches, she had no intention of telling him the intimate details of what had happened. She hardly knew him, or he her. Yes, she liked him, and she had a feeling he liked her, and she did feel safe with him. And, yes, he had asked if she was Mrs Howard and at a guess that was because he wanted to know if there was a Mr Howard about to put in an appearance and perhaps wonder what he was doing so early in the morning in her kitchen. And Cara had been quick to tell him she was a widow, not a single mother or a divorcée. They were laying their cards out, slowly, one by one, to one another, weren’t they? ‘Now, if you’d like to go through to the breakfast room, I’ll bring you some coffee and then cook your bacon and eggs.’

  Tom placed his hands together, prayer fashion. ‘I’ve overstepped the mark, haven’t I? Taken liberties. Forget what I said about seeing to myself during my stay. I’ll be the perfect guest from now on. Forgive?’

  ‘Nothing to forgive,’ Cara said, suddenly contrite that she might have come across as dismissive. ‘I’m a bit washed out after yesterday.’

  And very touchy about my missing paintings. But she certainly didn’t want Tom Gasson-Smith’s sympathy about them. One day she’d replace them. But not just yet – she was seriously beginning to realise that being a B&B landlady wasn’t going to earn her enough to do that, even with a long-stay guest as Tom had just hinted he would be.

  ‘You look fine to me,’ Tom said quietly as he made for the door.

  Cara gulped. There’d been truth and tenderness in his voice and she didn’t know she could trust herself to speak without welling up. She took a deep breath.

  ‘Thank you. For the compliment. And it’s fine by me if you want to overstep the mark, take liberties – to paraphrase – in my kitchen. Really. Which you won’t be, I might add.’ A grin was spreading across her face, threatening to crack it. She was doing her best to make a joke, and she hoped Tom would see it.

  Tom turned back to look at her, his grin mirroring her own.

  ‘I hoped you might say that,’ he said. Then he turned and made for the breakfast room, and it was with shaking hands and a heart that was dancing with delight and hope that Cara set about making his breakfast.

  ‘Has he gone?’ Mae asked when she came downstairs to the sitting room where her mum was sitting in the big chair by the window, reading. The the whole house was eerily quiet now – such a contrast to the night before when the police had brought her home and Rosie had been here and the new guest had arrived. Tom something. It was almost midday. She was still feeling a bit shaky from the events of the day before. She was glad it was a Sunday and she didn’t have to go to school, didn’t have to concentrate on anything. She wondered if any of her friends had heard about what had happened to her and Josh the day before.

  ‘Who? Tom?’

  ‘Yeah. If that’s his name,’ Mae said.

  ‘It is. And he’s gone out looking for venues to paint. He’s got a key so he’ll let himself in later. He’ll probably be here for a while now.’

  ‘Like how long?’ Mae said.

  ‘A month or so.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Mae had got a glimpse of Tom the night before but hadn’t met him properly yet. She didn’t know that she wanted to. Already her mum was looking different somehow. She’d heard her and Tom talking and laughing earlier. It wasn’t right. Her mum should be in mourning still, shouldn’t she?

  ‘How are you feeling?’ her mum asked.

  Her mother did that – changed the subject if the conversation was getting a bit difficult.

  ‘I dunno,’ Mae said. She’d told her mum a bit about what had happened but not everything – not the heavy petting session on the beach, which had made her and Josh forget the time. It was the policeman who’d told her mum that she’d been instrumental – his words – in saving Josh’s life. But she didn’t see it like that. It was what sailors did when they were in the same boat if things went wrong. Her dad had told her that. She’d been brought home in the wetsuit Josh had loaned her – she’d have to arrange to give it back, but she didn’t want to see him. ‘Sorry, you know, for the worry and that.’

  ‘I’m proud of you, Mae, for being so brave. Saving Josh.’ Her mum put down her book and stood up. ‘Come here,’ she said, and opened her arms wide. ‘I’m just so, so pleased you’re safe. That you both are.’

  Mae moved into the circle of her mother’s arms and slipped her arms behind her mum’s waist.

  ‘It’ll be all over the village, won’t it? What happened.’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘Josh’s version anyway.’

  ‘He’s okay,’ her mum told her. ‘I rang his father earlier. He’ll be home now.’

  Mae pulled away from her mother’s hug.

  ‘I’ll check my phone. See if he’s texted or anything. To see if I’m okay. Not that I’m going out with him ever again.’ She pulled her phone from the pocket of her frock. Her new one. Well, her new old one – the turquoise one with white polka dots. She might go out later. Or she might not. Just as she thought – no text and no voicemail from Josh.

  ‘Nothing?’ her mum asked.

  Mae shrugged. She was feeling a bit shaky now. Delayed reaction or something because she’d been quite calm the night before.

  ‘Nothing. He’s probably hungover. He had something in the bottles of coke he brought with him. He started off all nice and kind and considerate and everything and then he, like, just flipped.’

  ‘Oh Mae,’ her mum said. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to find out like that. It’s what drink does to people sometimes. Addictions are like that. All sorts of addiction, not just drink. People promise they’ll give up when they’re found out, but they rarely do.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mae said. ‘Fags and computer games, and burgers for every meal and stuff like that. Willow Tucker in my class has got a polo mint addiction, big time. She stinks!’ She tried to laugh, but a laugh wouldn’t come. ‘Is there anything to eat?’

  It would be good to get back to some sort of normality – just her and her mum having lunch on a Sunday. No Rosie today. The painter bloke out somewhere. She’d now told her mum as much as she wanted to about yesterday.

  ‘There is. Come on.’ Her mum linked her arm through Mae’s and together they walked towards the kitchen. ‘We’ll eat in the garden, shall we? I can rustle up some salmon and spinach pasta in no time and there’s a new tub of Hagen Das in the freezer – almond and caramel – for pudding.’

  ‘Great,’ Mae said.

  She’d been expecting to be read the riot act for being so stupid as to get herself almost drowned. But it hadn’t happened. Her mum had sounded more understanding of Josh and his problem, than cross.

  As Mae watched her mother gather the ingredients for lunch, she thought how almost perfect it was again – just her and her mum.

  Chapter Nineteen

  On the Monday morning after Mae’s sailing incident, Cara had registered with the Information Office, offering Cove End as a B&B venue, surprised to discover that people came down to Devon on holiday without booking accommodation – on spec as Kate and Andrew had. B
ut three weeks on in her venture, it had been to Cara’s advantage a few times now. She was hardly fully booked, but it was a better start than she could have hoped for. Now she had a computer she’d registered for internet shopping and once a week a Sainsbury’s orange van pulled up outside. She’d hit on the idea of providing Continental breakfasts as well as the full English and it was a 50/50 split what guests chose. Not Tom, though – he always went for something cooked: scrambled eggs or a sausage bap, if not the full English. And then he’d be off out somewhere, dressed in shorts or jeans, depending on how warm it was, a bag containing his sketching things slung across one shoulder. He was almost always back by mid-afternoon. Usually he came in and went straight up to his room, coming back down around eight o’clock to go to the pub for supper. But some days he’d search Cara out to say hello and ask how she was and how was Mae now after her ordeal before going upstairs to paint. Cara enjoyed those times, wished he’d stop to chat for longer really, but the last thing she wanted was to come across as needy. Besides, he was busy. The art festival was just over a fortnight away now. She had no idea how many paintings Tom would have on show or how long it took him to paint one, but there had been a couple of times when Cara had woken in the night and seen the light from his room shining out into the darkness, so presumably he’d been hard at work still.

  Ah, there he was now.

  Cara stepped out from the kitchen where she’d been making a quiche for her and Mae to eat later with some salad.

  ‘Off out?’ she asked.

  ‘As ever,’ Tom smiled. ‘Exhibitions don’t paint themselves, alas.’

  ‘No,’ Cara agreed. ‘Well, I’ll let you get on.’ And then on a whim she said, ‘If you’d like to join us for supper later, we’d love that.’ She didn’t think for a second Mae would love it because she seemed to have made an art form of not being in the same air space as Tom, but Cara would love it. So why shouldn’t she ask him? ‘Quiche Lorraine. With pancetta instead of streaky bacon. Although I know …’

  ‘… real men don’t eat quiche!’ Tom finished for her.

  Oh God, had she got it terribly wrong and he was a closet gay or something? She didn’t know what to say now.

  Tom filled the conversational gap.

  ‘Sorry, that’s an old joke. Sorry if it came across a bit rude. I love quiche actually. And I’d love to say I’ll join you, but I’m a bit behind schedule so …’

  ‘I could leave some on a plate for you in the fridge maybe? There’s some pain de campagne in the bread bin. Save you a bit of time if you don’t have to eat in one of the pubs. More time for your painting …’

  Cara’s train of thought trickled out. God but she was sounding needy with a capital N, wasn’t she?

  ‘Cara, I’d love that normally. Really I would. But not tonight. Tonight I’m meeting Louise for supper in the Beachcomber. Sorry. Look, can we talk about this later? Tomorrow if I don’t see you when I get back?’

  ‘Louise?’ was all Cara could find to say.

  ‘Yes. Louise. She’s my ex-wife.’

  ‘Mae!’

  Bailey Lucas was coming out of the paper shop down by the harbour. He ran across the road towards her.

  ‘I’m going to work,’ Mae said. Now school had broken up, from tomorrow onwards she’d have more hours at the ice-cream kiosk, and the village would be filling up with visitors.

  ‘Yeah, I guessed as much. Just wondered how you are.’ Bailey stuffed his hands down hard into the pockets of his jeans He looked, Mae thought, a bit anxious about something.

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ Mae said. ‘You?’

  ‘Trying to find a job of some sort for the holidays, but it’s not easy. Anyway, I was wondering, now Josh Maynard isn’t on your radar …’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Mae asked, then instantly realised she’d given herself away.

  ‘A bloke has ways of finding out,’ Bailey said.

  ‘Oh, shove off, Bailey. Like I said, I’ve got to get to work.’ Mae still had plenty of time before she had to be there, but Bailey didn’t need to know that. She went to skirt around him, but he dodged sideways and stepped in front of her. He reached out and gripped her wrist.

  ‘Hey!’ Mae said, trying to wriggle out of his grasp, but his hand was huge and his fingers wrapped easily around her small wrist.

  ‘Mae, I’ve got something to tell you I think you need to know.’

  ‘What?’ Mae said. Bailey was still holding her wrist but not tightly. Mae stood there and gave in to the inevitable – Bailey Lucas was going to say what he wanted to say, so she’d just tough it out. ‘Tell it, then.’

  ‘I think you need to know what’s being said around here. About your dad.’

  ‘What about him? He’s dead. Can’t everyone just let him rest in peace?’

  ‘Seems not. Been in any of the pubs around here lately?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ She’d been to live music gigs in the Boathouse but not since the sailing incident. ‘Anyway, what are you talking about? And could you let me go?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Bailey let go her wrist. ‘It won’t take long. Have you got time? You know, if you’ve got to be at work, I could meet you after.’

  ‘I’ve got time,’ Mae said. She had to know now. There was something in the way Bailey was looking at her that told her he wasn’t making trouble and he was concerned about something.

  ‘Great,’ Bailey said. ‘Shall we walk out along the breakwater – there’s hardly anyone about. It’ll be more private.’

  The breakwater wasn’t far – Mae would have time to walk there, listen to whatever it was Bailey had to tell her, and then walk back to the ice-cream kiosk and still be in time for her shift.

  ‘Okay. As long as you’re not just trying to trick me into something?’

  ‘No. Why would I? Trust me.’

  ‘Let’s get a move on then,’ Mae said, beginning to walk in the direction of the breakwater.

  They hurried along without saying much apart from general stuff like wasn’t it great school was out, and Bailey asked what subjects Mae was going to choose for A levels and she told him she hadn’t decided yet. Strangely, it felt comfortable to be walking along with Bailey – different from when he’d asked her out and their relationship back then hadn’t come to anything, just fizzled out.

  They were there in no time. They walked halfway along until they came to a bench and sat down. The tripper boat to Torquay was just leaving the quay, full to the brim with passengers. An old lady further along the breakwater was throwing bread to the gulls despite the fact there were notices all over the place telling people not to.

  ‘This place is in a time warp,’ Bailey said, grinning at Mae. ‘All those shops selling rock that rots your teeth, and leery postcards we had to walk past to get here. And parrots on sticks. I mean, who needs a parrot on a stick?’

  ‘Or a neon pink, Day-Glo, crocheted loo roll cover?’ Mae giggled. ‘And kiss-me-quick hats. Do you think they wear them to do the school run or whatever when they get back to Birmingham or Manchester or wherever it is they live?’

  ‘Not unless they want to get sectioned,’ Bailey said.

  ‘Probably not then,’ Mae laughed. She hadn’t realised Bailey could be so funny. But then she’d not given him a chance to show her he was, had she? ‘But we haven’t come here to talk about holidaymakers and their dubious choice of holiday gear, have we?’

  ‘No.’ Bailey stuffed his hands down into the pockets of his jeans again. ‘That was a preamble, to psych myself up. For what I want to say. The thing is, Mae, I’m not liking how Josh has behaved since the sailing incident. I know you saved his life because my Uncle Jack was lifeboat crew that night and he told my dad, who told me.’

  ‘This is all about Josh?’ Mae said.

  ‘Not all. A bit …’

  ‘Just tell me!’ Mae snapped. ‘You’re making me nervous now.’

  ‘Okay. I’m not trying to make trouble or anything but … did you know your dad gambled?’


  ‘Gambled? Like on the slot machines?’

  ‘Well, there’s that, I suppose, but I didn’t mean them. I meant on the horses and the dogs and other stuff. Online.’

  ‘Everyone does the lottery now and then, Bailey,’ Mae said defensively.

  ‘I didn’t mean that either,’ Bailey told her. ‘I meant things like betting on chess games and the other things I’ve just mentioned. Serious stuff that takes a lot of cash.’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’ Mae said. Cash was something she and her mum didn’t have much of any more, now her dad was dead and there was no pay coming in from the bank. Scales were starting to fall from Mae’s eyes – her dad had sold her dinghy and all her kit, all the paintings had vanished from the walls, and he’d taken the computer the night he’d been killed and … oh my God, had he done all that to fund a gambling habit? Could Bailey be telling the truth, as much as she didn’t want him to be?

  ‘I think you know, Mae, right? I can tell by your face. But the short version is your dad was forever in the pubs selling off stuff so he could gamble. My old man bought a bit of silver off him once ‘cos my mum loves silver stuff and your dad was selling it off cheap. He knew what horse was going to win the Derby so he said, except he got that wrong.’

  ‘Stop!’ Mae said. ‘I’m getting the drift.’

  Even though she didn’t like what she was hearing one little bit, she knew Bailey wasn’t lying. She felt sick.

  ‘You believe me?’ Bailey said.

  Mae nodded.

  ‘And Josh is spreading rumours?’

  ‘Yeah. Did your mum never say? About your dad’s gambling?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe she didn’t know,’ Bailey said. ‘That’s what my mum said. That the wife is often the last to know.’

  ‘That’s about their husbands having affairs,’ Mae said, knowing exactly how stupid that remark was. ‘So your mum knows about this as well?’

  ‘Only in our house,’ Bailey said. ‘She doesn’t blab, my mum. Nor me. It’s why I’m telling you now because my dad’s not the only one who goes down the pub and he’s probably not the only one your dad tried to sell stuff to.’