*
Zac sat slumped in the passenger seat as Olivia drove the car back to their house.
‘What’s that about a job?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ said Olivia, ‘it isn’t totally in the bag but I may be getting a full-time job at Woodford Priors.’
‘Cool.’
‘I’ll be starting on Monday, on a trial basis and, if they give me the post on a permanent contract, I’ll be starting for real the following week. But,’ she glanced across at Zac, ‘it’ll mean some changes.’
‘Oh, yeah.’
‘I’ll be working shifts so you and Dad will have to fend for yourselves some evenings.’
Zac stared at her. ‘You mean Dad’ll be cooking?’ He sounded incredulous.
‘And you might have to too.’
‘Me?’ His voice went up an octave.
‘Yes.’ Olivia turned the car into the drive.
‘But I can’t.’
‘Then you’d better think about learning. It’s not hard.’
‘But… but…’
Olivia hauled on the handbrake. ‘But nothing.’ She turned and faced him. ‘It’s up to you but if you don’t want to go hungry you and your dad are going to have to get a grip.’ She got out of the car.
It was all very well taking a firm line with Zac – Nigel might be a whole other issue. She felt there might have to be a lot of compromise if he wasn’t going to have a serious strop about having to do a load more around the house. And she didn’t think, knowing Nigel as she did, that reminding him if he hadn’t lost all that money none of this would be necessary would help matters either.
*
Olivia hadn’t been wrong about the need to compromise. Nigel had been adamant that he couldn’t be expected to leave for his office at six thirty in the morning, not get home till gone seven at the earliest and then be expected to cook his own dinner. Nor was he prepared to consider that Zac might be taught to produce anything edible. All he did agree to was to help with keeping their new place clean and tidy – which was something, Olivia supposed, gloomily.
The first week wouldn’t be too bad – she’d be working nine to five while she learnt the ropes – but if she got taken on permanently she would be working shifts; early morning to mid-afternoon, afternoon to late evening, or, very occasionally, overnight. Nigel’s argument had been that she had plenty of time to cook them supper if she just planned ahead and stockpiled the freezer with meals against the occasions when she wouldn’t be around in the evenings.
On her first morning Olivia could feel her heart hammering as she arrived at the hotel and she knew it wasn’t just from the exertion of the bike ride – she was excited and scared in almost equal measure. She put her problems about feeding the family and the impending move out of her head as she rode to the front door. She was about to dismount when she realised that she wasn’t a guest but an employee – she needed to find the staff entrance. She hitched herself back onto the saddle and pedalled around to the rear. A sign on a door said ‘Staff Only’ – that’d be it, she thought. And even if it wasn’t the staff entrance, logically the only people she’d meet on the other side of it would be employees and they could point her in the right direction.
She parked and locked her bike and pushed open the door. Unsurprisingly there were no sofas, no Persian rugs, no roaring fire but a stark white corridor with functional strip lighting and a lino floor – how different was this place when you went behind the scenes. Olivia smoothed her skirt down, took a comb out of her handbag and ran it through her hair. Without a mirror this was the best she could do before she met her employers. Feeling a little nervous she made her way along the length of the passage. She heard footsteps behind her and turned.
‘Can I help you?’ asked a young woman with a heavily accented voice. Polish?
‘Mr Jameson told me to report for duty.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Yes. I’m the new receptionist.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really,’ said Olivia firmly.
‘I’ll show you to his office.’
The woman led the way through a number of doors, taking several turnings until Olivia was sure she’d never be able to find her way back to her bike. She understood why Theseus had needed his ball of thread. At least she was only meeting Mr Jameson and not a minotaur…
The woman opened a last door and they were in the hotel proper. Instantly their footsteps became silent as they crossed onto luxurious carpet. Olivia’s guide led her up the main stairs to the first floor and then opened a door marked ‘Private’. She stood beside it as she let Olivia pass. Instead of a sumptuous bedroom Olivia found herself in a modern office with functional furniture, steel filing cabinets and a desktop computer, behind which sat a man wearing thick-framed glasses and a black business suit.
‘Mr Jameson, this is the new receptionist,’ said the woman. She shut the door.
‘Ah, Mrs Laithwaite.’
‘Olivia, please.’
Her new boss stared at her. ‘I wasn’t sure what to expect,’ he said after a pause.
Olivia was nonplussed.
‘But,’ he added, ‘if first impressions count for anything I don’t think you’ll be out of place behind our reception desk.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘Have you done this sort of work before?’
‘No, but I am good with people, bright and quick to learn. I am also punctual, tactful and reliable.’ No point in not blowing her own trumpet, she thought. There was no one else to do it for her.
‘As I think you said as much to Mrs Timms.’
Olivia nodded.
‘Right, we’ll get housekeeping to kit you out in the hotel blazer and then I’ll introduce you to today’s team at reception – our duty receptionist and the duty manager.’
Fifteen minutes later Olivia was in her uniform blazer with a lapel badge that announced she was a trainee and behind the desk in the hotel’s entrance hall.
‘I’ll leave you in Amanda’s capable hands,’ said Mr Jameson.
Olivia recognised Amanda as the young lady who’d been on duty the previous week when she’d demanded to see the duty manager. Today’s duty manager wasn’t Mrs Timms but a young lad with a degree in hospitality, a chippy attitude and who was called Simon. Olivia thought he looked more like a kid who was bunking off school than a manager.
‘Right,’ said Amanda. ‘I see you got the job.’
Olivia nodded. ‘It’s not definite yet. If I don’t measure up this week, I’ll be on my bike.’ Literally, she thought.
‘I suppose it all goes to show where being pushy will get you.’ Amanda sounded deeply disapproving.
‘I know what I did wasn’t British, but I wanted this job very much.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ And there was no way Olivia was going to elaborate.
Amanda sniffed. ‘OK – so let’s start with the basics. This is the computer terminal and this programme here…’ she moved the cursor over a tab on a spreadsheet and clicked the mouse, ‘is the list of all our current guests. Obviously, as new ones check in – which will begin after about two this afternoon – the list will grow. Now then…’ Amanda clicked on a guest’s name, ‘this shows what their bill is so far.’
Olivia felt herself boggle at the figure.
Amanda must have sensed Olivia’s reaction. ‘They’ve been here a week. They’re visiting from America.’
That was as may be – they were still racking up a bill that resembled the national debt. Olivia hoped they didn’t do a flit.
By the time lunchtime came around Olivia felt reasonably competent with the computer system, she could print off a bill and she could programme a key card. There was probably a lot more to learn but she could at least be trusted to book in a guest. At three Amanda handed over to Susan who was told that Olivia was ‘getting there’.
Damned with faint praise, thought Olivia. But then the last couple of hours of Olivi
a’s first day coincided with a rush of guests wanting to book in, which left her feeling that she’d rather earned her stripes as she coped, more than efficiently, with their registration.
When she finally clocked off she felt completely drained and her head was buzzing with everything she’d learnt. She was also grateful that her journey home was downhill and the wind was behind her.
Chapter 7
The next day, after Amy finished her shift at the post office, she popped into the pub.
She nodded to the old boys sitting in the window seat. ‘Hi, Bert, Harry,’ she said. Other than them the pub was empty.
‘Morning, Amy,’ they chorused back.
‘Is Belinda around?’
‘You’d better ask young Bex,’ said Harry. ‘She’ll know.’
Amy walked over to the bar, which was unmanned, and waited for Bex to appear. Where was she? Amy drummed her fingers on the counter. A few seconds later Bex appeared at the cellar door with a tray of fruit juices under her arm.
‘Hi, Amy, what can I get you?’
‘Not here to drink,’ said Amy. ‘When do I have time of a lunchtime to bunk off?’
‘So what can I do for you?’
‘Is Belinda around?’
‘Sure, she’s upstairs.’
‘Can you get her for me? I’d talk to you but you won’t be on duty this evening.’
‘OK.’ Intrigued, Bex went to fetch her boss and returned with her a minute or so later.
‘Hi, Amy, how can I help?’ said Belinda.
Amy leaned over the counter and lowered her voice. ‘The thing is…’
‘Yes?’ Belinda leaned forward too.
Bex began putting the fruit juices on the shelf, her ears straining to hear.
‘I’m meeting someone here tonight,’ muttered Amy.
‘So?’
‘It’s a date.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Yeah, but it may not be. This is someone I’ve met on the internet. We’ve emailed and we had a quick chat on the phone but for all I know he may be a real creep or a sleaze.’
‘Oh.’
‘So can I ask you to do something for me?’
‘If it’s in my power.’
‘If I rub my nose like this’ – Amy scratched the side of her nose vigorously – ‘can you tell me you’ve had a phone call from Ash and I need to get home?’
‘I suppose. But, I mean, why would Ash ring the pub? Wouldn’t he ring your mobile?’
‘I’ve thought of that… no signal,’ said Amy. ‘This is the country – stands to reason, don’t it? And this guy won’t know what our mobile reception is like, will he?’
‘Or you could pretend Ashley has texted you.’
‘I could, but if you pass a message it’ll look much more real. I mean anyone could pretend they’ve had a text.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Look, if you don’t want to do it, say so.’
Belinda shrugged. ‘No, it’s OK. So what do you know about the guy?’
‘Only what he’s told me. And if it’s anything like what I told him then it mightn’t be the truth.’
‘But, Amy,’ said Bex, butting in, ‘isn’t the whole point of the process to find a match? If you’re less than honest how will it work, how on earth will you find someone who is compatible? Someone like you?’
‘But I don’t want someone like me. I don’t want someone with a string of dead-end jobs and who lives in a council house.’
Bex and Belinda laughed. Amy was always so refreshingly honest.
‘And,’ she continued, ‘it’ll work because, if he’s not a complete tosser, he’ll buy me a drink and I’ll get a night out. If he is a complete tosser I’ll still get a drink and I never have to see him again.’
Belinda and Bex exchanged a glance.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Amy.
*
Later that day, Amy pushed open the door of the pub. She was early but she wanted to bag a table near the bar so she could be sure that Belinda would be able to see her if she needed to make the emergency signal.
‘Glass of tonic, please,’ she asked Belinda.
‘Ice and a slice?’
‘Please. I can pretend it’s the real McCoy then.’
Belinda put the glass under the gin optic and put in a shot of the spirit.
‘Oi, I can’t afford the gin.’
‘On the house. Dutch courage.’
‘You’re a lege, Belinda.’
Amy took her drink and found a suitable table and then looked around at the other customers. She was pretty certain she’d got here way ahead of her date – a feeling that was confirmed when she didn’t see any solitary men nursing a drink and looking apprehensive.
She took a nervous sip of her own drink and then pushed it away from her. She had to make this drink last until Dave… Dave-the-Date… turned up. She fiddled with her phone.
‘Hello?’
Amy glanced up. ‘Dave?’ Bloody hell, he was early.
‘You must be Amy.’ He glanced at her glass. ‘I see you’ve got a drink. I’ll get a pint and then join you.’
Well, that wasn’t in the plan… but he could buy her the next one.
Dave returned and sat down. ‘Nice to meet you, Amy. I expect you want to know a bit about me.’
‘A bit.’
‘Well, as you know from the site I am thirty-seven and single and, if I say so myself, I am a bit of a catch.’
Amy looked at him. Really? His shirt collar was frayed, there was a mark on his fleece and dandruff on his shoulders. Jeez – if this was a catch she didn’t want to contemplate the sort that got chucked back into the pond.
‘Now then, I am a rep for a company that makes heating supplies. The things I could tell you about boilers…’
Amy took a slug of her gin and waited for the ‘And what about yourself?’ cue. And waited. She had another slurp and then another as Dave-the-date droned on about his job. Oh lordy, now he was on about micro-bore pipes. That was rich coming from a mega-bore.
‘So, that’s enough about work. You know what they say, “all work and no play makes Dave a dull boy”.’ Dave laughed at his joke while Amy opened her mouth to tell him something about herself.
‘I know what you’re about to say,’ he said, nudging Amy so hard she nearly spilt what was left of her drink. ‘You’re about to ask me what I do in my spare time?’
Amy gazed at him in horror, but he completely failed to notice her expression as he launched into a monologue about the benefits of Nordic walking.
Amy began to lose the will to live. She drained her drink and looked at it pointedly. Dave knocked back his pint. ‘Excellent. Your round, as I bought the last one.’
What the actual fuck? Amy rubbed her nose vigorously but Belinda was busy with other customers. Bollocks.
Stuff the plan. ‘Actually, Dave, I don’t think this evening is working out. I’ve just remembered that I’ve got some paint drying that needs watching.’ She stood up.
‘But… but we were getting on so well.’
‘If that’s what you want to think.’ She grabbed her bag.
‘But I came all this way…’
‘Tough.’ Amy began to make her way towards the door.
Belinda called to Amy. ‘You off, hon?’
She went over to the bar. ‘Yeah – turns out I didn’t need that message from Ashley after all.’
Belinda glanced over at Dave. ‘That bad?’
‘Desperate.’
‘Better luck next time.’
‘If I can face a next time.’
*
Heather picked the letters off the doormat and began to sort them into the ones for her, the ones for Brian and the junk. The last she chucked straight in the recycling bin.
‘Anything in the post, dear?’ said Brian, emerging from his study.
Heather handed over a couple of envelopes and began to open the ones addressed to her. The electricity bill. She glanced at t
he figure. How much? Dear God – and they were careful to the point of frugality but at least their provider was assuring them that their direct debit would remain the same for the coming year. She sighed and opened her other letter which was the bank statement. She checked the balance and saw they were in credit… just. So their heads were staying above water; they had a roof, a living wage, food on the table and they could pay their bills. The basics were all OK. It would be nice, though, thought Heather, if, occasionally, she and Brian could have more than the basics. Once again the thought of taking on more paid work at the school flitted through her mind and once again she dismissed it, knowing that it would put more of a burden on Brian. All those little jobs that she did for the parish would fall on his shoulders and he had quite enough on his plate as it stood. And she was still cognisant that only six months previously he’d been unwell – she was still unsure about exactly what had gone on but he’d been deeply unhappy and troubled and she didn’t want to do anything that might cause a recurrence. No, they would cope with basics if that meant Brian’s sanity was secure.
Beside her she saw Brian rub his face and then run his hand through his hair.
‘Something the matter?’ she asked, recognising the body language as a sign of unhappiness.
‘It’s Graham’s initial report.’ He flapped the letter.
‘Graham?’
‘The bell man.’
‘Oh… and?’
‘It’s not good.’
‘And how bad is “not good”?’
Brian sighed. ‘I suppose it could be worse – the bell frame is dodgy. The joints are in a shocking condition. He’s going to come back and do a proper survey.’
‘So we’re definitely going to have to do some major fundraising.’
Brian nodded. ‘Yes, he thinks the bell frames need an enhanced level of support and strengthening.’
‘But it could have been a lot worse,’ said Heather.
‘I should give thanks for small mercies, I suppose.’
‘You should.’
‘It’s still going to be a shedload of money we’re going to have to raise.’
‘There may be grants or charities we can approach. I’ll have to have a look.’
Brian sighed again. ‘Maybe, but I’ll bet my bottom dollar the brunt of the costs will still have to be borne by the parish.’
The Bells of Little Woodford Page 6
