The list of things we need to hide from the reviewer is getting longer than those we want to show him.
This is pretty hopeless. ‘It might look fine,’ I say. ‘As long as we don’t let anyone take a shower, or sit in here or try using their mobile inside the house.’
I’m kidding myself. The reviewer isn’t going to judge the house on cosmetics alone. It’s got to meet all his needs. Surely, it’s not too much to expect to dine in a dining room.
I wish Aunt Kate were here. She’d know what to do.
‘We’re never going to pull this off,’ I tell Danny. ‘There’s too much wrong with the house.’
‘What would your aunt say?’
I laugh. ‘She’d say “Come on, girl, if at first you don’t succeed, then try, try again. Rome wasn’t built in a day” And she’d be right. It’s worse not to at least try.’
Come on, Lottie, I tell myself. You’re a programmer. You know there’s got to be an answer if you think logically.
‘Maybe if we think of everything that could be a problem and then find a way around those things, there’ll still be a chance,’ I tell Danny. ‘Starting with that flippin’ train. It’s nice in here when it’s not shaking down the plaster, so why can’t we serve a big lunch instead, and have sandwiches and tea in the parlour in the evening?’
We’ve just got to stop thinking about what we can’t do, and think about what we can.
‘And all the bathrooms have those gorgeous bathtubs,’ I point out. ‘The guests could use those instead of showering. Could you take the shower extensions off the taps, and maybe get the mounts off the walls? I think we’ve got enough extra toothpaste to fill the holes. Then at least if someone flushes, nobody will die.’
‘You could tell everyone that mobile phones are restricted to the conservatory,’ Danny suggests. ‘Make it sound like it’s in keeping with the ambience. I can make sure the fire is always lit in there so that it’s warm.’
‘This is all starting to sound like a Victorian house,’ I say. ‘We just need servants running up and down the back stairs tugging their forelocks and curtsying.’
‘That’s us,’ Danny reminds me.
‘Oh yeah.’
Wait a minute… ‘Why couldn’t we make this a Victorian Christmas? I mean officially. We’re practically there anyway.’
Then we brush the debris from the table and stay in the dining room until after midnight again, working through all the details.
Chapter Seven
Mabel comes downstairs on Christmas Eve morning wearing her favourite blue tutu. I’ve been up for hours already trying to find enough duvets that aren’t coated in Mingus hair. I did find extra candlesticks and candles to put some in each room. We’re going to stretch the Victorian theme as far as we possibly can. If I find any brass bed-warmers or stocking caps, I’m definitely laying them out for our guests.
‘You look beautiful, Mabel.’
‘Well, we have to look our best for our guests, don’t we?’
I stare down at myself. My jeans are covered with paint. Mould and lord-knows-what-else streak my once-white top. Even if I could get them clean, Mabel is right. I don’t look fit to be a twenty-first century B&B host, let alone a Victorian lady.
Unfortunately, when I’d shoved clothes into my bag at three a.m. to come here, I wasn’t thinking about impressing a B&B reviewer and his family.
‘Morning,’ she says to Danny, who’s on his knees in the hall rubbing the floorboards with tan shoe polish. There was no floor varnish amongst Aunt Kate’s paint pots, but for some reason she’s got a big box full of shoe polish. Danny is touching up the spots where we had to clean up his paint splatters with nail varnish remover.
For someone who claims to be a sculptor, his hand-eye coordination isn’t great.
‘Can we have scrambled eggs this morning?’ Mabel asks.
‘Sure we can, if we’ve got eggs.’ He looks at me for confirmation.
Oh god, I’ve forgotten all about the chickens!
‘I’ve just got to quickly check something outside, okay? Mabel, do you think Mingus is awake yet?’
While my daughter rushes off to find that poor cat, I scurry outside, praying I haven’t accidentally starved Aunt Kate’s flock.
The back garden is as wild and overgrown as the front was before we took the rakes to it. The hedges are growing willy-nilly and the uncut grass is flattened and streaked brown. It looks grim, but we don’t have time now for any more gardening.
Our guests are due at two pm.
My feet squelch in the wet undergrowth as I stomp to the crumbling garage, behind which I spot the chicken run. The hen house is at one end, but I don’t see any hens.
Creeping into the pen, and bracing myself for the worst, I peek into the hut’s doorway.
Two dozen beady eyes stare me down as the birds erupt into a chorus of clucks and squawks. I can’t really blame them. I’d be cross too if I’d been ignored for three days. Those are definitely angry birds.
I hurry back to the house.
‘Hey, Danny, I don’t suppose you know anything about chickens?’
‘I know how to eat them,’ he says.
‘It might come to that if our food doesn’t get delivered today. Cook said Don’t forget the chickens in her email. I assume that means they lay eggs and need feeding. Could you please go see if there are any eggs? They’re just out back behind the garage.’
‘If you were just out there the why didn’t you…?’
‘I had a quick look, but they seemed angry.’
‘You’re not frightened of chickens.’
‘Really angry. Watch your eyes. They go for the eyes.’
He shakes his head, mumbling, ‘Who’s afraid of chickens?’
He’s back ten minutes later, his eyes and entrails intact. ‘The chickens aren’t man-eaters, for the record. They’re fed, and look what we’ve got!’
I peer into his basket. ‘Are those supposed to be eggs?’
Some are round, some oblong, others as tiny as grapes.
‘Better not let the ladies hear you say that. They’re very proud of their efforts.’
I shouldn’t make fun. It’s not like I can lay any myself. They’ll have to do. The shops in the village will be closed for Christmas by now anyway.
Danny goes, whistling, to the kitchen to cook us an omelette.
The FedEx driver turns up just before noon, as grumpy as those in London always seem to be. But at least Posh Food Fast hasn’t let us down.
Danny looks over my shoulder while I unpack the bags. ‘Mmm, look at this!’ I say.
‘Tinned tuna?’
‘Psh, you need glasses. It’s caviar! I wasn’t sure if they’d be able to get it. It was out of stock on the website. Ooh, and look at this beef.’
There’s also a whole salmon and smoked salmon and kippers and Christmas pudding. My mouth is watering just thinking of the feast ahead. Not that we’ll be eating with the guests, being the hired help. But good food is good food even when it’s leftovers enjoyed in the kitchen. Mabel and I, and Danny too, of course, are going to have a very tasty Christmas.
‘We can offer oatmeal or cooked breakfast in the mornings, okay?’ I tell him. ‘I can write up a little menu to hand out. That’d be a nice touch. And I thought we could have the salmon for dinner today and the beef for tomorrow. Maybe you can make some kind of sauce to go with the salmon, and do something special with the carrots and potatoes. We’ve got lots of bread for sandwiches later. You’ll do them with the crusts cut off, right?’
‘Erm, all right, if you want. How do I cook the salmon?’
‘However you like. You’re the chef! I’m just going to check on Mabel and get out of these clothes before everyone arrives. I’ll let you make a start. We should probably eat around three.’
After making Mabel and Danny triple-promise and cross their hearts not to flush the loo, I have a quick shower. Then I survey my suitcase for the millionth time. But my choices haven’t impro
ved in the night. I’ve got only jeans, tee shirts and a few worse-for-wear jumpers.
Rupert Grey-Smythe and his family will just have to overlook my appearance. I can’t magic up an outfit out of thin air…
Although maybe there’s something in Aunt Kate’s closet. She’s bigger than me, but if she’s got a dress that won’t make me look like a sixty-year-old B&B owner, it’ll do.
My heart sinks when I fling open her closet doors. There are loads of wide legged trousers and long colourful tunics, but not a single dress.
Unless Mabel lets me borrow her tutu, I’ll have to make do with what’s in the closet. A belt will at least hold up the trousers. At worst, there’s clothesline downstairs.
The closet is bigger than just its double doors. It runs along the entire length of the wall.
I get my phone out and shine the light into its murky depths.
What greets me takes my breath away.
‘Danny! Mabel, come up here!’ I call to them from the top of the stairs.
I haul the tunics and trousers off the rails and fling them onto the bed.
Mabel’s got Mingus clasped to her chest as she runs in. Danny’s not far behind.
‘What do you think of these?’ I point my phone again into the dark closet.
Danny whistles. ‘I think your Aunt Kate is one interesting lady.’
Aunt Kate’s opera frocks, made of rich dark velvets and silks, are a bit wrinkled but unbelievably beautiful. There must be a dozen tucked into the back of her closet.
And it seems she wasn’t the only singer to be paid in clothes. Ivan’s knee breeches and embroidered waistcoat are big for Danny, but the clothesline will sort him out.
‘You look like a princess!’ cries Mabel as I do up the scarlet silk dress.
Yes, a princess in trainers. Aunt Kate wasn’t paid in shoes, it seems. The only alternatives to my Nikes are her sturdy orthopaedic walking shoes with Velcro fasteners.
I drape a deep purple embroidered shawl over Mabel’s small shoulders. ‘I’m sorry the dresses are all too big for you. Would you like to wear this?’
‘It’s okay, Mummy,’ she says, accepting the shawl. ‘This looks nice with my tutu.’
‘You both look good,’ Danny says. ‘Whereas I feel like a prat.’ He pulls at his billowing white ruffled sleeves. ‘And I’m not sure this is Victorian either.’
Maybe not, but his long wavy dark hair and the way the neck of his shirt is gathered closed with another ruffle beneath his stubbled chin makes him look very olden times. So what if we’re off by a century or so? ‘Oh, come now, you could be Caruso himself,’ I tease.
He doesn’t look too sure. ‘Except I can’t sing for toffee. I might pass for a very quiet extra at the back of the stage.’
The clock in the hall gongs two just as Mabel shouts ‘They’re here!’ from the parlour window where she’s been watching the driveway. ‘They’ve got a lot of bags.’
Danny and I go out to greet them.
‘Mr Grey-Smythe?’ I look between the two men taking luggage out of the boot. Mabel’s right. It’s a lot for just two days.
‘Yes, that’s me. Please call me Rupert.’ The taller man shakes my hand as he stares at the front of the house. ‘Are you Kate?’
‘Oh, no, I’m not. I’m her niece, Lottie Crisp. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Unfortunately, my aunt has been in an accident and she’s not able to be here.’
His brow creases with concern. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I hope she’s all right?’
‘Yes, she’ll be okay, thanks.’
‘Did I miss a memo somewhere?’ he asks, tearing his eyes away from the discoloured walls of our B&B to scan my dress.
‘Ah, yes, well. Welcome to your Victorian Christmas!’
I bob into a little curtsey like they do on Downton Abbey.
‘Sorry about the front of the house. The, erm, builders cancelled on my aunt. She’s furious about it, naturally. This is Danny, our chef.’
Danny just nods. ‘Can I help you with your bags?’ he asks.
‘Thank you, yes. Hugo, leave those,’ Rupert says to the other bloke. ‘The man will get them.’
Rupert strides toward the front door as I hurry to beat him to it.
His nose twitches as he enters the hall.
‘It smells of shoe polish,’ he says.
‘Erm, yes, it’s a complimentary service. You can leave your shoes outside your door in the evening and we’ll polish them. We’ll take care of everything for you here.’
I stick my hand out to the forty-something slender woman who comes up behind us. She hasn’t cracked a smile since she turned up. ‘Yes, well, as I said, welcome to your Victorian Christmas. I’m Lottie.’
She doesn’t bother making eye contact when she speaks. ‘Prunella, Rupert’s sister.’ She waves her hand at the others. ‘These are my twins, Oscar and Amanda, and my husband, Hugo.’
The children look around Mabel’s age. Both are pale and slim like their parents. In fact, Prunella and Hugo could be twins themselves, with their beaky noses, close-set watery blue eyes and very high foreheads. Rupert, on the other hand, though slender like his sister, is darker, with strong features that assemble into a pleasing, if austere, face.
Hugo scans me up and down as he offers me his soft damp hand.
‘Have you got Sky?’ Prunella asks.
‘No, I’m sorry, there’s no television.’
‘Mother!’ says Oscar, glaring at me. ‘How are we supposed to watch Bad Santa without a TV?’
‘Never mind, darling, we’ll watch it on the computer. You do have fast broadband, right?’
Her look dares me to disappoint her again.
‘Yes, in the conservatory.’
‘Rupert,’ she whines, ‘I told you this would be the middle of nowhere.’
‘I suppose it’s meant to be rustically charming, Pru.’
It’s not the start I’d hoped for. ‘It will be charming,’ I tell them, ‘but I promise you it won’t be rustic.’
‘We’ll make the best of it, Pru,’ says Hugo.
‘Oh, do shut up, Hugo, you always say that. I want a bath now. We’ve been travelling all day to get here. Where’s my room? Have him bring my luggage.’
Danny is just struggling in with all the bags.
‘I’ll show you upstairs then,’ I tell them. ‘Your rooms are all together on the first floor. You’re going to love our bathtubs. As part of the service, we’ll run your baths for you, so that all you’ll have to do is step into the soothing water when you’re ready. After all, ladies and gentlemen didn’t prepare their own baths in Victorian days. There’s a button in each of your rooms by the door that rings a bell in the kitchen. Just press that whenever you want anything and someone will be right up.’
These aren’t the people I’d choose for Mabel and I to share our Christmas with but, I have to remind myself, we’re doing all this for Aunt Kate.
‘Whew,’ I say when I get back to the kitchen after drawing Prunella’s bath. Danny is pulling food from the fridge and larder. ‘This is going to be hard work. Is everything under control here?’
‘Controlled chaos, thanks.’ He wipes his brow. Pots are boiling away on the hob and the work surfaces are strewn with a mass vegetable suicide.
‘Okay, if you’re sure.’
The bell for Hugo and Prunella’s room tinkles.
‘I’m so sorry I told them about those service buttons. I’ll go see what they want.’
Upstairs I knock on the closed door.
‘Come in,’ I hear Hugo call.
‘Hi, did you want something?’
He’s lying on the bed in his bathrobe.
‘Oh, excuse me,’ I say, stopping in my tracks.
‘Ah, Lottie, yes. I wondered if I could have a brandy? I’d like to relax while Prunella is in the bath. She’ll be ages in there.’
‘I’ll check downstairs. Dinner will be in about an hour. You can go down to the dining room whenever you’d like. Is that all
right?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. Oh, and please don’t think my wife is ungrateful. Today is just a bad day. We’re very much looking forward to our stay, and I do appreciate your costumes. Very much. Yes,’ he says, his eyes flickering to my chest. ‘Very much.’
‘I’ll see if I can find that brandy.’
And maybe some pepper spray.
Talk about creepy. I hate to think what he’ll be like after a few drinks…
Drinks. Oh no. I haven’t. Have I? I have.
I can’t believe I forgot to put wine on Danny’s shopping list. Or brandy or anything stronger than the elderflower cordial we had last night.
I hurry back down to the kitchen. ‘Danny, you haven’t run across a stash of wine, have you? Or spirits? Anything?’
‘No, why?’
‘Because I completely forgot to get any alcohol.’
Of course they’ll want to drink. It’s Christmas. They’ll need alcohol just to put up with each other.
‘How could you forget alcohol?’ He brushes a lock of his unruly hair out of his eyes.
‘Because I don’t drink.’
The thought of taking even a sip, after that drunk driver turned my world upside down, makes me feel queasy.
‘Hugo has already asked for brandy. They’re going to expect wine, at the very least. The shops are closed now, aren’t they?’
I know the answer.
‘Well,’ he says. ‘I do have something at home, but you may not like it.’
‘It doesn’t really matter if I like it, as long as we’ve got booze for the guests.’
‘Then I can run home and get a few bottles. You’ve still got lots of that cordial, right? We’ll use that to cut the— as mixers. Can you please keep an eye on the potatoes, and take them off the heat when they’re ready?’
‘Sure thing. Thanks, Danny.’
At least you can’t overcook potatoes.
Chapter Eight
‘You’ve overcooked the potatoes,’ Danny says half an hour later, poking the mush with a fork. ‘Did you check the carrots?’
Christmas at the Falling-Down Guesthouse Page 5
