by Gil McNeil
“Okay Mum, and thanks.”
She kisses me on the cheek as she goes out.
Crikey. It looks like Harrington may be working its magic on Mum too.
It’s still chilly in the afternoons, so I light the fire in the drawing room for tea with Sally, and Bea and Vicky. We’ve had a quick tour round the gatehouse and the stables, and now we’re back in the house, and the kids are playing upstairs, and I’m hoping they stay up there. Bea and Vicky’s daughter, Daisy, is in the same class as Alfie and Tom, so she’s heard about the cannon, and asked to see it. But luckily Bertie is out for the afternoon with Dennis at some navy gathering, so they settled for playing with the Lego castle.
“When you rent out the gatehouse, and the stables when they’re done, will the guests have the run of the house and gardens?”
“I don’t think so Sal. I thought we’d say guests can use the meadow and the path down to the cove, but keep the rest private?”
“Good idea, you don’t want them in and out all the time. B-and-B is one thing, but if you’re renting by the week, they could drive you mad thinking you’re at their beck and call all day.”
“That’s what I thought, I had enough of that when we were growing up, having to be polite to the hotel guests all the time. And I don’t want Bertie or the boys to feel like this isn’t their home.”
Vicky pours herself some more tea.
“So who’s your ideal guest? It might help to work backwards from that.”
“Anyone who’s got a bit frayed round the edges and wants a bit of peace.”
Bea smiles.
“A few days by yourself, to regroup—there’s a huge market for that. We’ve got lots of friends in London who’d love it.”
“I want everything to be simple, warm, but nothing fancy, no taps you have to wave at, but not pretend-Victorian either, all fake pine and twiddly bits.”
Vicky nods.
“So no boys’ toys, cupboards with no handles and tiny bins hidden inside so you have to empty them every five minutes, shiny surfaces that you have to polish with a special cloth or they show every fingerprint, that kind of thing?”
“Exactly, nothing that makes you feel like you’re on display. No mirrors where you catch yourself getting out of the bath and end up depressed before you’ve even had your breakfast.”
“Got it. One of my clients has just had us fit a new bathroom with floor-to-ceiling mirror tiles—on the ceiling too actually.”
“Crikey, how does it look?”
“Hideous. His wife hates it.”
“I bet she does. Well once I’m up and running with my ‘Escape Your Tragic Life’ holidays you can give her a brochure.”
“Actually I can think of quite a few potential clients for you already. I’m working on a farmhouse renovation at the moment for a city type—weekend place—and he wants stainless steel everywhere, and marble. The kitchen will be freezing-cold in winter, although the wife is only twenty-three, so she probably doesn’t do that much cooking. But she’s the second wife, so it serves her right.”
I’m liking Bea more and more.
“I should probably mention I’m under strict instructions from the boss to make sure you know there’s potential for a much bigger scheme—and he’s right, there is, loads of potential.”
“I know Bea, but this is our home. Everything needs to start from that.”
“I just felt I should mention it. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re right. This is a special place, and it would be a shame to overdevelop it. But please don’t quote me on that.”
“Of course not.”
She smiles, and Vicky pours her some more tea.
“You could always look at ‘glamping.’ ”
“What, that new ‘glamorous camping’ thing they do at Glastonbury?”
“Yes, you could get a couple of yurts or those posh tents in the field behind the stables, and that way you’d get some income this summer. Lots of people are giving it a go, and they charge way above usual rates. I’ll get you some details, and I can drop them round when I bring you those brochures. It might be worth looking at.”
Vicky’s promised to help me with ideas for the gatehouse, and she’s launching a holiday-rentals website alongside her interior design business, so she’s a great source of local information. Bea is her partner in the new rentals agency, along with a friend of theirs from London, and they seem very clued up about everything.
“Thanks Vicky, that would be great.”
“We’re setting up the new website now. We’re going for a personal word-of-mouth feel, and we’d love to sign you up. No pressure of course, but we’ll be charging far less commission than the big agencies. Belinda Pargeter will be furious if you sign with us, she likes to think she gets all the choice properties round here. I bet she’ll be round any minute.”
“She’s already been. She thought I was the painter.”
I tell them about my encounter with Mrs. Pargeter and we have to bang Sally on the back because she chokes on a piece of cake.
“Afternoon everyone, sounds like you’re having fun.”
Great. Bertie is home early. And he’s brought Betty to say hello.
“Would you like a cup of tea Uncle Bertie?”
“No thank you, never been that keen on tea.”
Betty is whistling like an old-fashioned kettle now.
“Ignore her, stupid bird. Just showing off.”
“This is Bea, and Vicky, and I think you know Sally, Uncle Bertie. Bea’s an architect, and I’m hoping she’ll help me with the stables if I can get everything lined up.”
“Excellent. About time they were put to good use. Did think of building an aviary at one point.”
Christ, not more parrots.
“Helena wasn’t keen, soon put a stop to that. Shame, but there you are, no point trying to argue with her. Now then, who’s for a proper drink? Anyone for a sherry—filthy stuff, never drink it myself—or I could make us all a cocktail?”
I’m not sure a round of Bertie’s killer cocktails at half past four on a school day are such a good idea.
“Thanks Uncle Bertie, but we’re fine.”
“Right you are. Lovely to have met you all.”
He gives Bea his best twinkle.
“Bugger off.”
“Stupid bird. Be quiet.”
Bea is trying not laugh.
“Does she like walnuts?”
“Adores them.”
“My aunt had a parrot and she loved them too. Would you mind?”
“Not at all.”
She takes one of the walnuts from the top of the cake and holds out her hand to Betty, who climbs onto the back of the chair and hops along before eating the nut.
“Well I never. Usually takes her ages before she’ll do that. You’re clearly made of the right stuff my dear. Sure you don’t want a proper drink?”
A parrot-proof architect. This just gets better and better.
“Mum?”
“Yes Alfie?”
“Can we do the cannon, now that Uncle Bertie is back?”
Bugger.
I’m awake at half past five due to a combination of worrying about Mr. and Mrs. Denton arriving and the sodding birds kicking off their dawn chorus. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they were all massed outside my bedroom window on purpose, chirruping and chattering and making as much racket as possible. There’s no way I’ll get back to sleep, so I make a pot of tea and wander round checking everything. I rearrange the towels in the guest bathrooms one more time, along with the handmade soaps I bought at the farmers’ market; I got the lavender, and rose, and the lemon balm for guests who’d rather not be too floral. Ivy isn’t convinced about putting nice things in the bathrooms; someone helped themselves to the plug from the bath a couple of years ago and she’s still not over it. In an ideal world she’d like one of those scanners they have at airports where you can see everyone in their underwear, and check what they’ve got in their bags. But even
though I know from my days working at the hotel just how readily some members of the Great British Public abandon all decorum the minute they’re paying for their room, and help themselves to anything which isn’t nailed down, I’m hoping most of our guests will appreciate the nice soaps and old bottles in pretty blue glass on the newly painted windowsills. Either that, or we can look into getting Ivy that scanner.
It rained last night, but the weather is definitely getting warmer; I’d forgotten how much earlier everything arrives down here. The Lenten roses have been out for ages, in pretty combinations of purples and pinks and creams. Celia says they’re called hellebores, which is a rubbish name for something so lovely. And we’ve had masses of snowdrops and crocuses too, alongside early narcissus and daffodils dotted about in chirpy clumps. The winter honeysuckle has been blooming since the start of the year, and the magnolia branches I’ve put in a big jug in the hall look great with their delicate white stars and gorgeous scent. The rhododendrons and azaleas in the lane are pretty stunning too—the yellow ones smell particularly lovely. And there are buds on the incense rose by the back door now, and Dennis says it blooms early, so hopefully we’ll have roses round the door soon. That’s one of the things I’ve noticed most about living here—all the wonderful smells: log fires and beeswax, dried lavender and salt in the air from the sea. If you could bottle it, you’d make a fortune.
Lola rings at half past seven, to wish me good luck.
“All set darling?”
“I think so. You’re up early?”
“I’m off to Frankfurt, for a meeting. I’ll swap if you like.”
“No thanks, I’m sure it will be fine, I’m still worried about the breakfasts though. All the posh B-and-Bs do things like kippers, but Ivy’s not keen on preparing smoked fish every morning.”
“That’s fine by me, I hate kippers.”
“Yes, but I’ve only just managed to persuade her to stop making people order their breakfasts when they arrive.”
“Like when you’re in hospital and the person in your bed after you leave ends up getting what you ordered for lunch?”
“Exactly, so we’re not doing that now. And we’ve got that organic bacon from Sally’s husband, Patrick, and homemade bread, but it’s not what you’d call five stars.”
“Are you going for five stars then? I thought Helena refused to have the inspectors round for all the guidebooks?”
“She did, and I’m not going to either. Half of them charge you to put you in their guides, and the more you pay, the more stars you get—it’s a complete con. As long as we never have more than six guests at the same time, we don’t have to register with anything official, or go in for any environmental health stuff. But I’d like to get a good reputation, and have people say nice things about us.”
“I’ll say nice things darling, and I’ll bring Tre down with me next time, and he can say nice things too.”
“ ‘Tray’? As in ‘tea tray’?”
“No, As in ‘très bonne.’ He teaches yoga. He’s very flexible.”
“He’d have to be, with a name like that.”
“He’s a vegan.”
“Bloody hell. I better buy more cereal. Good luck explaining that to Ivy.”
“I thought I’d leave that one to you.”
“Thanks.”
Mr. and Mrs. Denton arrive at half past four, in an ancient but highly polished Mini. It’s Ivy’s afternoon off, so I don’t have an audience for my first arrival, although I’m half expecting her to pop in at some point to check up on me. I show them the guest sitting room and they sign the new register, and we go up to their room. They’re impressed with all the changes, and I offer to make a pot of tea, even though Ivy doesn’t hold with making tea for B&B guests. She’s adamant “bed-and-breakfast” doesn’t include afternoon tea, or morning coffee, or lunch or dinner, and I know she’s right. I’ve got enough to do without turning myself into a full-time waitress. But for our first guests I don’t think a pot of tea will open any catering floodgates.
“Thank you dear, just what I need after the journey.”
“I’ll bring it into the sitting room downstairs, in about ten minutes?”
I lit the fire earlier to make it more inviting, but when they arrived I noticed they both walked round the edges of the newly decorated room, as if they were on a visit to a stately home and there was an invisible rope line protecting the carpet, so I’m hoping the tea might help them relax.
When I bring the tea tray in, Mr. Denton has nipped back outside to give the car a quick once-over and wipe things with a rag.
“Just ignore him, love. He spends hours fussing with that silly car—he’s had it since it was new. It’s his pride and joy. He’d spent all day on it if I let him. You’ve certainly made some changes here haven’t you? It was always comfy of course, but it’s much smarter now.”
“Thank you, but we just moved things around a bit, and got new covers for the sofa and armchairs.”
“Well it all looks champion. We’ll be off in a minute, to our daughter’s, but we’ll be back by ten, so we won’t keep you up late.”
“If there’s anything else you need, just let me know.”
“I will dear, and thanks for the tea. You can’t beat a nice cup of tea after a journey.”
“Mum?”
“Yes Alfie?”
“When are we having our supper, because I’m starving, I really am.”
“Not until Dan gets home.”
“I can’t wait that long, I really can’t.”
Mrs. Denton smiles.
“You can have one of these biscuits if you like love. If it’s alright with your mum?”
Before I can stop him, he’s bounded across the room to retrieve a biscuit, and she asks him what school he goes to, and he’s telling her all about the song his class is doing at the Spring Fair. The poor woman will be getting a solo performance if she’s not careful.
“Alfie, let’s leave Mrs. Denton in peace to drink her tea, shall we?”
I give him one of my Let’s Do It Right Now looks, which he ignores.
“I think your cartoons will be finished soon Alfie.”
He gallops back across the room, but hesitates by the door and thanks Mrs. Denton for his biscuit before heading back to the telly.
“Sorry about that. I should probably warn you, I’ve got three boys. The other two are a bit older though, so they won’t be helping themselves to your biscuits. Well, probably not.”
She smiles.
“It’s nice to see youngsters here. Always thought this would be a lovely house for youngsters—we often used to say that, me and Harry did. Must make quite a change for you, were you living locally before?”
“No, in London, but I grew up round here.”
“My sister lived in London for a few years, but she didn’t take to it—so many people and all of them too busy. And the traffic, you’ve never seen anything like it. There you are Harry. Come and have your tea, and then we should be off. We need to get those presents from upstairs. They’re in the blue bag.”
“Right you are. I’ll just wash my hands.”
“Yes and don’t you go dirtying the sink when she’s got everything so nice. Make sure you give it a proper rinse. She won’t want an oily ring left. Sorry, dear, but you’ve got to tell them, haven’t you?”
“I think I can be trusted to leave a clean sink behind me, I’ve had years of training. I’ll use the downstairs cloakroom if that’s alright? Across the hall, isn’t it?”
“Yes, just past the stairs.”
I’m glad I remembered to put some of the new soap in there too, and fresh towels.
“You can always come and inspect after me, Mary, make sure I’ve left everything as you’d like to find it.”
“Get away with you, daft as brush you are, and your tea’s getting cold, so get a shift on.”
“I just brought that dish back Miss Molly. I’ve put it in the kitchen. Lovely to see you again Mrs. Denton. How
was the journey?”
As predicted, Ivy has found an excuse to nip in and check on progress.
“Not too bad this time. Much better traffic than in the summer. Isn’t the old place looking grand? You’ve all been working hard—anyone can see that. There’s more tea in the pot if you’ve got a minute, be nice to catch up?”
Ivy hesitates, clearly disapproving of the tea tray, but I know she won’t want to miss out on a chat, so I leave them talking about curtains, and check on Alfie, who’s watching cartoons but still complaining he’s hungry.
“Not much longer now. Dan will be home soon.”
“Can we have roast and Yorkshires, and gravy, because that’s my best meal?”
“What about pasta, with lots of cheese?”
He tuts.
I’m awake again at half past five the next morning worrying about poaching eggs for my first official B&B breakfast. Ivy’s been teaching me how to make them using the special wide pan on a slow simmer, but mine don’t always look as neat as hers. Thankfully neither of them asks for anything poached, and despite a minor drama with the bacon because the bloody oven is so slow, I manage to produce toast, scrambled eggs, mushrooms, bacon, and sausages which look fairly respectable, and the boys take the opportunity to put their orders in. Dan even announces he is now all for the B&B if it means there will be proper breakfasts every day, but he’s less keen when I volunteer him as my new kitchen assistant and send him upstairs with Bertie’s breakfast on a tray.
Investing in a new toaster was definitely one of my better ideas. Our old one stopped popping up toast ages ago, and retrieving toast with a fork whilst making breakfast for people who are paying for it is bad enough without giving yourself a new electric-shock-induced hairstyle, particularly if you’re simultaneously trying to poach things.
“We’ll be off now love, and thank you—we’ve had a lovely time, and that breakfast was top-notch. We were just saying, weren’t we, Harry? You’ll be putting the prices up soon, I shouldn’t wonder, and you’d pay twice as much in a hotel and it wouldn’t be half as nice.”
