by Gil McNeil
“Sure. But it’ll cost you. How about one pound every time he uses it? I can take it from your pocket money. Unless you want to be the person who answers it every time he rings?”
“That’s so not fair.”
“No, and neither is me becoming a housemaid racing round answering bloody bells. It’s bad enough with that stupid parrot. So think about it.”
The bell rings again.
“That’ll be your brother—shall I go, or will you?”
“I hate this house.”
“No you don’t. And tomorrow we can talk about how you want your room done. We can choose some paint if you like, and get you a proper desk.”
“And I can have my own computer, in my room?”
“Yup.”
I’ve been pretty strict about TVs and computers in bedrooms, but he’ll need a computer for his homework and I want to be encouraging.
“You can have a laptop, but it needs to be back downstairs on the kitchen table by ten thirty every night.”
“Ten thirty?”
“That’s the deal Dan, otherwise you’ll be up all night watching God knows what, keeping us all awake.”
“I can wear earphones.”
“That’s not my point, and you know it. Ten thirty or no laptop. And I’ll be checking. Take it or leave it.”
“And the others can’t touch it. It’s just mine?”
“Yes, love.”
He hesitates.
“Okay. Thanks Mum.”
The bell rings again.
“You better go love, or you won’t get a tip.”
“Don’t worry Mum, I’ll be giving him a tip of my own.”
“Yes, but don’t frighten him Dan. Remember, he’s a lot littler than you.”
He grins.
“And then we can get your laptop, tomorrow maybe.”
He gives me a hug.
“I’ll be up in a minute. Night, love.”
“Night Mum. I think it might be alright here, you know.”
“That’s good. So do I.”
I finally get to bed at two a.m., after making the mistake of opening just one more box and unpacking clothes. I’m so tired I walk into the bathroom door, and now it feels like I’ve broken my toe. It’s cold, and hearing the sea is oddly familiar, like when I was little and we were in the staff flat at the hotel, so I’m half expecting Mum to come in and ask me why my light is on, or to make me a milky drink. Actually a hot drink might be a good idea, but I can’t face hobbling down to the kitchen and I’m a bit nervous of that bloody AGA cooker. I know they’re very fashionable now, but I’m bound to lift the wrong lid and then it will be stone-cold by morning and I know they’re a total bugger to turn back on. We had one years ago before Mum got her new kitchen, and after watching her spend a fair bit of time crouching down peering into it, twiddling dials to get the stupid thing hot enough to actually cook things, I’m pretty keen to avoid Ivy coming in tomorrow morning to find me doing the same.
And it’s not just the stupid AGA. God knows what I was thinking moving us down here. I’m never going to be able to pull this off. At least in London I had a job, and a grown-up life, of sorts. Now I seem to have turned myself into a glorified housekeeper, and not a very good one if I can’t even face making a milky drink, and seeing Pete earlier didn’t help either.
I’m sure he wasn’t such a total arse when I married him, but maybe he was and I just couldn’t see it. Or I was so keen to get away from here, I ignored it. And now I’ve come back to where I started, with three boys and no money to speak of, and I know you’re not meant to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it’s hard remembering to be grateful when the horse arrives at full gallop and tramples you into the mud, and I’ve got a feeling our new country life is going to involve a fair bit of mud. And I’m running a B&B, and catering to the great British public, who everyone knows are completely bonkers. I’ll spend years dealing with people whining on about how they want their bacon and why can’t I stop it raining, in between trying to stop Bertie causing a major coast-guard incident by firing his cannon at the wrong moment, and simultaneously fending off a mad parrot who keeps telling me to bugger off.
Christ, what have I done? If my toe didn’t hurt so much, I’d run away, right now, in my PJs. There must be somewhere a woman on the edge can go until she can pull herself together. Or there bloody well should be. They have rescue homes for cats and dogs who’ve got a bit frayed round the edges; there must be something for women who’ve Had Enough. Actually maybe that could be my theme for the B&B, I can still go for the nautical stripes and pale seaside tones I was imagining, but I can specialise in providing an escape for women in urgent need of a break. No husbands, partners, or kids. Just a few days peace and quiet, with nobody asking you a single question apart from what would you like for breakfast. It wouldn’t need to be fancy, just warm and quiet like one of those convalescent homes they set up in grand country houses during the Second World War, where people who’d survived the Blitz could sit in a wicker chair and try to stop shaking. Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile. I’m humming to myself now, which is helping, a bit. So that’s a start. But still. Bloody hell.
“Mum?”
“Yes Alfie?”
“I can’t get to sleep, and my duvet’s gone all faffled.”
“I know just how it feels.”
“Yes, but can I be in your bed, just for tonight. Please Mum.”
“Just for tonight.”
He wriggles about a bit, and I keep a firm grip on the duvet, or he’ll roll himself up in it like a sausage roll, and I’ll end up frozen stiff.
“Mum?”
“No.”
“I didn’t even get to say my thing.”
“It’s very late Alfie. Either go to sleep or go back to your own bed. You can save any questions for morning, that’s the deal. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Night love.”
“Night Mum. But if I get my own parrot, it can sleep in my room with me, can’t it Mum?”
Bloody hell, another parrot? I don’t bloody think so.
“Nobody is getting a parrot Alfie. Betty wouldn’t like it, and neither would I. Now go to sleep, or go back to your own bed. I’m counting to ten.”
“I’m asleep now, nearly. Count slowly.”
Alfie is up at the crack of dawn the next morning, as usual, and I briefly surface, but he seems quite happy pottering about unpacking boxes of toys, so I treat myself to a lie-in, and then wake up at eight, to silence. The boys must be downstairs already, and I’m dithering about whether to get dressed before I go down. It feels wrong to be going downstairs in my dressing gown, a bit like that dream where you’re doing an assembly with the whole school and it’s all going fine until you look down and realise you’re not wearing any trousers. But we live here now, and I’ve got to get over the idea that Helena will wander in from the garden at any moment and give me one of her Looks. I just wish I had smarter PJs on though. I think I may need to invest in what I think the fashion police call leisure wear: velour tracksuits in pastel shades, that kind of thing, so I can get dressed quickly in the mornings, although if we ever get any bookings for the B&B, my wearing a velour tracksuit will probably be the least of my worries.
Ivy’s serving breakfast to the boys in the kitchen when I get downstairs, wearing a floral apron and humming to herself. Damn. I’ll have to make sure I get up earlier from now on. Not that it isn’t lovely of course, but I don’t want them thinking everything has changed, and apart from that they’ll be ordering light snacks and running her off her feet.
“Thanks, Ivy, we usually just have cereal, so this is a real treat.”
“Shall I put some more toast on?”
“Please. And then Dan, when you’ve finished, you clear the table. And Ben, we’ll go up and make the beds. Alfie, you come too. And then we’ll get more of the unpacking done.”
“I can manage, Miss Molly. You just go ahead.”
&n
bsp; Damn, she’s back to her “Miss Molly” routine. I thought we’d had a breakthrough on that front yesterday.
“I know you can, but you really don’t have to, Ivy, because Dan is going to help you. Aren’t you, Dan?”
He nods, thank God. This would not be a good time for one of his “Why do I have to do it?” routines.
“I thought we’d head into Ilfracombe later for some Christmas shopping, or maybe Barnstaple? Come with us if you’d like to, Ivy?”
“Ooh, that would be lovely, only could it be this afternoon? I thought I’d make a chicken pie for lunch and I’ve still got the veg to do. There’ll be more than enough to go round, so there’s no need to worry about lunch, dear.”
Good, we’re back to “dear.” Maybe we’re just going to have one “Miss Molly” each day. I can probably live with that.
“Perfect, and Ben’s great at peeling veg, aren’t you, Ben?”
He nods, whilst trying to shoot me dagger looks at the same time.
“That’ll be champion then. Nice to have a bit of help. After your breakfast you can nip out and see what Dennis has got in the garden, there’s a good boy, only don’t let him tread mud across my scullery floor—he’s a devil for keeping his boots on when he brings the veg in. Do you like turnips? Mr. Bertie is quite partial to mashed turnip with a bit of white pepper.”
Ben is clearly surprised to find himself talking about vegetables quite so early in the morning, but he rallies and soon they’re discussing cabbage and sprouts, which Dan seems to be finding highly amusing as he starts to clear the table.
“Do you like turnips too, Daniel? I like to see boys eating up their veg.”
“Er, kind of.”
She pats his hand.
Bless.
My Christmas shopping list gets longer over the next few days, but at least we finally unpack all the boxes and I’m starting to feel like we actually live here now. The boys aren’t spending all their time glued to the television, partly because the satellite still isn’t sorted, but also because they’ve taken to roaming around with Bertie, patrolling the cove and exploring the old stables and generally becoming much more pink-cheeked and tired in the evenings than they used to in London, which is brilliant, and just what I was hoping for. Even if there is far more mud involved than I ever thought possible.
Tess has been a huge hit too, and seems delighted with the three new family members who will throw things for her. She’s taken to leaving a pile of sticks by the back door, ready for action. And Betty hasn’t taken a nip out of anyone yet, so we’re doing pretty well on the animal front—apart from the stupid chickens, who go into a major squawking and flapping meltdown whenever I open the door to the henhouse to feed them. In fact they go all beady-eyed and psychotic-looking whenever any of us even approaches the vicinity of the bloody henhouse. I’m seriously hoping they’re going to calm down soon and get over it, or I might rethink the poultry thing and go in for something more relaxing. Like buying our eggs at the farmers’ market and letting someone else handle the squawking and flapping.
I’m in the garden with Dennis. He loves the roses, but the beautiful old walled kitchen garden has always been his exclusive domain, and he’s very proud of it. Lots of the beds are empty at this time of year, but there are carrots and Brussels sprouts, and kale and cabbage, and he’s just shown me the leeks and celery and something called winter spinach, which looks exactly the same as ordinary spinach to me, but with thicker leaves.
“What are these pots for Dennis?”
“They’re forcing-pots, for the rhubarb. Cost you a fortune nowadays. These ones are antiques, been here as long as I can remember, but they do the trick. You put a layer of straw over the crowns, and then the pots bring them on a few weeks early. Mr. Bertie is partial to a bit of rhubarb.”
“Right.”
Ivy comes out to find us with a coat on over her apron.
“Are you two ready yet, because I’ve got ever such a lot to do you know?”
“Sorry Ivy, we’re just coming.”
Ivy’s decided we should tour the house, with Dennis showing me all the jobs that need doing so I can write things down, which in theory is an excellent idea, but I’d much rather stay outside and look at the veg—it’s so much more peaceful. My To Do list is already more of a booklet than a list. Actually, maybe we should take some brandy; I think that’s meant to be the thing for shock.
As we walk through the dining room, Dennis points out where the radiator burst a couple of years ago.
“Should replace them all by rights, and those shutters need taking down and oiling, but they do keep the heat in, I’ll say that for them Miss.”
“Okay, Mister.”
He smiles.
“What did you call Helena?”
“ ‘Lady H’?”
“You did not.”
“Sometimes I did, or ‘Madam.’ Sometimes a few other things, behind her back.” He smiles. “She could be difficult, you know, when she didn’t get her own way.”
Ivy smiles.
“We will try Miss Molly—oh, I’ve done it again. It’s hard though, after all these years.”
“I know Ivy. It’s mainly in front of the boys. You can call me whatever you like when they’re not around.”
“They’re lovely boys, all three of them. Your Alfie’s a bright spark and no mistake, and that bird has taken to him, never seen anything like it.”
“I know. He’s on about wanting a parrot of his own now, but I really don’t think we want two.”
Dennis smiles.
“Don’t you worry. I can always get my air rifle down from our loft.”
Ivy tuts.
“You’re not to let those boys see that Dennis, I’ve told you.”
“Yes Dennis, I have enough trouble getting them into bed as it is. I wouldn’t stand a chance if they knew where you kept a rifle.”
“It only fires pellets, just give you a sting. But point taken.”
We’re all smiling as we walk upstairs.
“Thought we’d start up in the attics and work our way down?”
“Good idea.”
“Watch yourself Miss. There’s dust everywhere.”
I think my Just Call Me Molly campaign is going to take a while. I don’t want to make them uncomfortable, but what with the bloody parrot “Hello Dollying” me all the time, I’m starting to feel like I’m in a weird episode of Upstairs Downstairs and I’m the famous Music Hall act who’s visiting for the weekend. Good Golly, Miss Molly, with a song for every occasion.
“She would never let me clean up here, so it needs a good tidy-up.”
“I’m putting it on the list Ivy.”
“Cobwebs as big as your hat. And those trunks need a good clear-out too.”
Dennis is clearly not impressed.
“Never mind about a bit of dust, woman, it’s the roof she wants to worry about, not you and your dusting.”
We start at the end of the corridor, going into a series of small bedrooms with tiny windows under the eaves of the roof, with old latches firmly stuck shut, and old bed frames stacked up against the walls, including the brass one I’ve got my eye on for my room, if we ever make it that far down my list. There’s plaster coming off the walls in places, and a smell of damp.
“That guttering needs sorting, but that’s easily fixed, and we’ll need a few new tiles for the roof.”
“I’m writing it down.”
“I’m not too sure about the wiring up here, what with the rain getting in.”
We all look at the assortment of old bowls and a tin bath in one corner of the room, and the old brown Bakelite light switches.
“I bring a torch up here when the weather’s bad, just in case. Those switches are ancient, and you don’t want to touch any live wires by mistake, do you?”
“Not really, no. Do you know a good electrician, just so we can make sure it’s not dangerous while I work out a proper plan of what I can afford to do first?”
“I can ring old Ted. He won’t charge you a fortune. He’s a good man.”
“Thanks Dennis.”
“He could have a look at the gatehouse too, if you’d like?”
“That would be great. How long has it been empty now?”
“A good few years. Old Mr. Parsons used to be Head Gardener in the old days—different world back then. He’d gone by the time we arrived here, and that was over twenty years ago now. I came out of the navy at the same time as Mr. Bertie, and he offered us the job here, and we’ve never regretted it, have we Ivy?”
“No, we haven’t. Although there’s always more things that need doing than there are hours in the day.”
Dennis nods.
“These big old houses need a small army of help, indoors and out. Mr. Parsons had a team of three Under Gardeners, and a lad. There are old ledgers in the library, and you can see all the names of the staff. Beautiful handwriting they had back then. Mind you, it must have been hard. He lived in the gatehouse with his family—four children I think they had—and there’s no bathroom to speak of, just the old back boiler so you had to keep the fire on if you wanted hot water. I’ve kept an eye on it over the years: the roof wants sorting out soon, or it will be beyond saving. There were plans drawn up to renovate it a few years back, but it was too expensive.”
“It would make a great holiday let, if I can afford to do it up.”
Ivy nods.
“It’s poor Mrs. Parsons I feel sorry for, having to do all her washing in that old copper boiler and lugging that old tin bath around. Still, it was all different years ago—you just got on with it, you had no choice. When I think of the prices they charge now, for renting out old cottages, they’re asking nearly five hundred pounds a week for a poky flat overlooking the harbour in the summer. With people wandering about right outside your window eating their fish and chips. They want their heads examined.”
Dennis nods.
“I’ll ask Mr. Stebbings to come and have a proper look for you, shall I? We’d like the see the old place fixed up, wouldn’t we Ivy?”
“We would, only would they want their breakfasts cooked, do you think, Molly?”
