Coffee, Tea, The Gypsy & Me...

by Caroline James

  Coffee, Tea, The Gypsy & Me…

  By

  Caroline James

  Jo’s romance with the gypsy began with his first kiss. She never forgot it…

  New Years Eve 1987

  Jo stood at the door of the hotel and gazed out at the inky, snow laden sky. In the distance, the band struck up Auld Lang Syn and she imagined the revellers joining hands as they sung their hearts out and promised eternal friendship tonight and evermore.

  The beginning of 1987 had been life-changing and now, as it rolled over into a new year, Jo made another monumental decision.

  It was freezing. She should have put a jacket over her gown but Jo was unaware of the cold as she watched the snow begin to fall. She wondered where her gypsy was – what night sky would he be watching?

  The snow came down in a sudden flurry. Jo held her face up to the heavens and closed her eyes and as the giant flakes caressed her skin she remembered the most tumultuous year of her life…

  CHAPTER ONE

  January 1987

  Jo sat by the window of her rented house and stared out at the view. An icy wind whipped a squall of sleet against the windows. It ricocheted like bullets.

  The television in the corner of the room was tuned to a game show and as the opening music for Strike It Lucky ended, Jo heard the host call out to the audience “Awight!”

  She stared at the hostile stone walls of Butterly Castle, an imposing building in the valley below the window. Built in 1092 when William II reigned over the county of Westmarland, it had resolutely deterred marauding Scots. The walls were covered in creeper and its bony branches clawed destructively at the masonry. Jo clutched her throat and shuddered.

  There were hardly any holiday makers in January but a few brave souls undaunted by the bitter winds, entered the Norman Keep and climbed the steep stone steps. They emerged at the top to admire the magnificent view.

  Jo hated this house. A recent build, in a cul-de-sac called Castle Close it formed part of a modern housing estate. She sat with her chin on her knuckles and contemplated her life. She knew she looked terrible, face puffy and hair a mess, but she didn’t give a damn. Greg, her husband of eight years had left her. He’d run off with their sixteen year old Spanish nanny and the hurt and scandal was too much to bear.

  The house was still. Baby Thomas slumbered in his cot, the pale blue quilt rose with his gentle breaths. Jo glanced at her son and felt a wave of sadness, tears trickled down her cheeks. The River Bevan thundered by below and as Jo watched the deep muddy water she wondered what the hell she was going to do with her life.

  The phone rang and the shrill bell startled her. Jo spun round to turn the television off and knocked a Cabbage Patch Doll off the table. It fell to the floor. She kicked the ugly toy to one side and grabbed the receiver, fearful that Thomas would wake. The doll was a gift to Thomas from Greg and Jo felt like stamping on its face.

  “Yes?”

  “Is that you Jo?” A man said. “It’s Robert Mann here, how are you?”

  “Oh you know, busy.” Jo lied. What did Robert from Mann & Co Estate Agents want? The last call had been to invite her to lunch, to celebrate the sale of the pub she’d owned with Greg.

  “We’ve a property in the area that might be of interest to you.” He said.

  Jo held the heavy black melamine phone to her ear and wiped her eyes. She tried to concentrate.

  “It’s about six miles north of Butterly, in a lovely village with the River Bevan at the back and fells to the front. Have to say it’s a bit neglected. Been a guest house in its time and the chap had plans to turn it into a nursing home, but it seems all these new regulations and safety laws are putting him off.” Robert droned on and Jo wondered what he was banging on about?

  “What’s it called?” She asked.

  “Well, it’s quite a large place and the owner seems to think he could get a good price if a hotel chain bought it. Thinks it’s perfect for a country house hotel - that sort of thing, it doesn’t need planning permission.”

  “What’s it called?” Jo repeated. The image of a familiar building began to take shape.

  “Of course he knows bugger all about catering. Bit of a shark if you ask me, wants to make a quick buck.”

  “What’s the name of the place?” Jo chewed the skin round her thumb nail.

  “I think it’ll haemorrhage his money if he doesn’t move it on soon. It’s a biggish place and needs a lot of work.”

  “Robert! What the hell is it called?” Jo shouted, no longer able to contain herself.

  “Kirkton House, in the village of Kirkton Sowerby.”

  Jo dropped the phone. It bounced off her knee to the floor and she stared at it in disbelief. She scrambled to pick it up. Her heart hammered… she felt excited for the first time in ages! She took a deep breath.

  “Jo, are you there?”

  “I’ll have it.” Jo heard herself say.

  “What Jo? I can’t hear you, what did you say?”

  “I said I’LL HAVE IT!’”

  “What! You don’t even know the price. Are you mad?” Robert shouted back.

  “I know the place and I know you’ll do the best possible deal.” Jo smiled - her tears forgotten. “Arrange a viewing and we’ll finalise everything as soon as possible.”

  Jo slammed the phone down and jumped up. She punched the air and spun around, tripping over the Cabbage Patch Doll and unable to stop herself, stumbled and fell to the floor. Eye to eye with the creature, it stared soullessly at her. Jo leapt to her feet and with a determined kick sent the vile object spinning across the room.

  “Stuff you Greg!” She shouted as she watched the doll hit the window, momentarily splayed out under a hail of icy bullets before it dropped to the floor. Thomas woke and began to cry and Jo reached into the cot. She tucked the quilt around his body, cradled him in her arms and rocked him.

  “I’ll show your Daddy how to run a business.” She whispered as she kissed the baby’s soft downy head. “Only this time all on my own!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jo swung her car through the gates of Kirkton House and skidded to a halt by the front door. Robert Mann jumped back. Gravel flew from under the tyres and threatened to pebble-dash his gleaming black Volvo estate. He scowled at her and rubbed the body work with his sleeve.

  “Morning Robert.” Jo sprang out of her car. It was a cold and frosty day and she knotted a scarf round her throat, then reached for Thomas and tugged a bright yellow bonnet over his ears.

  “You look like a banana.” Jo smiled at her son, encased in a custard coloured fleece suit.

  “Go to Uncle Robert for a moment while I inspect our new home.” Jo thrust the baby into Robert’s arms.

  “I say Jo, um … what do I do?” Robert was horrified. He held the wriggling fleece at arms length - well away from his pristine Harris Tweed overcoat.

  Jo ignored him and walked across the drive, then stood by the gates and stared at Kirkton House. The familiarity of the lovely old building wrapped itself around her like a warm hug. She remembered the house from a viewing some time ago with her husband Greg. Greg had disapproved of her scheme. He didn’t think a hotel would work in the area and the house was too run down. Jo tingled with excitement. Today she would make plans for the building that was to become both her business and home.

  Jo gazed at the dark, deserted property. Tall, gracious pillars rose protectively around the Georgian porch and windows either side reflected branches of a huge oak tree that had stood there for centuries.

  “Let’s get cracking.” Jo sprinted across the gravel and took Thomas. Robert sighed with relief as he reached for a clipboard.

  “At least it’s a good dista
nce from Butterly and you won’t have the Fair to contend with.” Robert said. He reached into his pocket and selected a solid brass key from a large bunch, then unlocked the front door. “The gypsies would wreck havoc with this place.”

  On the second Thursday of June, Butterly hosted an annual Gypsy Horse Fair, an event which attracted up to ten thousand gypsies and travellers. They camped on a hill outside the town, appropriately named Fair Hill and thousands of visitors poured into the area for the week-long occasion.

  “We didn’t have much trouble with gypsies at the pub.” Jo said. She remembered the vast amounts of cash that Greg had banked after the Fair each year. He’d always got on well with the travelling community and was happy to serve them. The horse fair was a tradition dating back over 300 years, protected in a charter granted by Thomas II. The local population loathed it and wanted it banned. Few businesses stayed open, but those that did made a fortune. Vast amounts of alcohol were consumed which always led to trouble, generally amongst the inebriated visitors. The Gypsies had their own way of dealing with discord and the police left them to it, much to the disdain of the very perplexed and frustrated locals, who hated having their civilized country lives disturbed.

  “I suggest you close in Fair Week.” Robert shut the door. “Better to be on the safe side.” Jo ignored him. Her only concern at that moment was to ensure that the sale went through.

  “Is Mr Sullivan joining us?” She climbed a wide staircase that curved round onto a gallery. A chintz covered seat beneath a tall sash window, overlooked the oak tree. Robert shook his head. He’d suggested a price to the owner and with very little bargaining, it’d been accepted. Mr Sullivan’s debts were mounting and he was keen to move on. Jo stepped into the hall as Robert opened a heavy oak door.

  “As long as your finances are in place and the survey’s ok, things should go through quickly.”

  Jo was confident that she’d get support from the Westmarland Trust bank in Butterly. Mr Knight, the manager had enjoyed overseeing a flourishing account when the pub traded.

  Robert followed Jo into a large room, it smelt dank and dusty. Jo walked over to the bay window where a white sheet covered sparse furniture. She yanked it to one side and dust caught in a shaft of sunlight flew up, creating a sparkling fog that floated through the room.

  “I’ve always dreamt of having my own hotel.” She said. “When Greg and I came to view this place, I knew it was the property I’d always dreamt about. But we’d got the pub and Greg said this was too posh - it was impossible to have both.”

  Robert watched Jo. He smelt her heady perfume - Beautiful by Estee Lauder and his gaze travelled to the copper hair that fell to her shoulders. Tall and slightly heavy, but with soft round curves, Jo had sea-green eyes that sparkled as she spoke. Dressed in country clothes, she wore a sensible pleated skirt and pumps with a ruffle-collar blouse in the style of Princess Diana. Her confidence captivated Robert despite his wife Miriam’s acidic comments.

  “How can a young girl run a business and have a child?” Miriam argued. Robert had been angry. What the hell did Miriam know? She’d never run anything more serious than a coffee morning. They’d often had a bar meal at the pub with local solicitor Peter Gavmin and Greg flirted outrageously with Miriam. Charmed, Miriam convinced herself that Jo had driven Greg away. Robert sighed and put thoughts of his wife out of his mind. After twenty years in a monotonous marriage with the stick-thin Miriam, he allowed himself day dreams and Jo was his fantasy. Robert let his imagination run wild. He replaced Miriam’s bony body, encased in flannelette, beside him at night, with visions of Jo. Voluptuous in silk, her full milky white breasts poured out of a lacy negligee, she enticed him to pleasurable delights way beyond the daily grind of Robert Mann & Co, Estate Agent for Country Living…

  “Wake up.” Jo nudged Robert and walked across the hall to another musty room. “We’ll soon have this old place rocking!” She declared.

  * * *

  Robert trailed behind Jo for the next two hours. He held and pacified Thomas while Jo climbed stairs and opened doors and cupboards. From the cellar to the attics she worked her way through the building and planned the layout.

  In a low-ceilinged room, she ran her fingers over solid dark beams.

  “This will make a great cocktail bar!”

  She stepped into an adjacent room with wood panel surrounds and knelt in front of a cast iron fireplace.

  “It’ll be perfect for log fires, on cool days.” Jo stroked the grate.

  The next room overlooked the garden.

  “This could be a restaurant - we can use it for private functions and parties.” French doors stood either side of an Adam style fireplace. Jo turned a key in the lock and tugged the frame. The sharp movement disturbed a bird’s nest and the ancient shell crumbled onto an outside terrace. A long conservatory ran along the back of the house, covered in moss and weeds, the windows streaked with mildew. They gazed up the garden where the sky, as blue as a Robin’s egg, peeped between slow-moving clouds, the frost-covered lawn glittered. High stone walls circled the whole garden and dense herbaceous borders lay beneath. Foliage trailed over paths.

  They climbed steps alongside a frozen fountain and traced a gravel path that weaved between unkempt lawns. At a set of rusted wrought iron gates, they paused.

  “It’s more beautiful than I remember.” Jo said.

  She walked through an overgrown meadow and looked out to the Westmarland Fells where the River Bevan meandered.

  “Tourists will love it. Imagine waking to this every day Robert.”

  “You’re taking an awful lot on.”

  Robert was daunted by the amount of work to be done. He stared at Great Gun Fell, part of the Pennine Way. It was a magnificent backdrop and he suddenly caught his breath… Bathed in a pinkish and mauve light, the house stood proudly under the wintry blue sky and he realised, she was right - it was magnificent!

  Jo walked ahead and picked her way amongst the decay of a greenhouse. Panes of broken glass mingled with dozens of old clay pots and gardening debris. She stepped over lead pipes, which indicated a Victorian heating system and opened a door, hidden in the wall. It led to a pebbled courtyard surrounding a stone cottage.

  “More bedrooms” Jo smiled.

  Robert made notes. Jo’s enthusiasm was infectious and with his agent’s mind he began to form a sales guide of the property five years on…

  Formerly the principal residence of the village, Kirkton House dates back to the 17th and early 18th centuries with an elegant front wing added in the 19th century. The resident owner has carefully renovated the property and created an award winning, stylish country house hotel. The property has en-suite rooms and a fine dining restaurant.

  He calculated his potential commission and grinned.

  “Robert.” Jo called. “Let’s have a look at the kitchen.” They entered through a side door and Thomas woke up. Jo sat on the kitchen table and fumbled about in her bag for a bottle of juice.

  “Look at that.” She pointed to an arched recess where the date 1720 was carved into the sandstone lintel. “When I viewed before, I did some research.” She propped Thomas on her lap and pushed the bottle into his eager mouth. “The family who lived here were yeoman farmers. They owned the house and a lot of land in the valley and made mega bucks from the local tanning industry.” Thomas guzzled happily.

  “In the early 1800’s they had sugar plantations in the West Indies and traded through the port of Whitehaven.” Jo paused and looked at Robert. “Do you know what they traded?”

  “Slaves.” Robert said. He knew his local history.

  “Can you believe it? It was perfectly normal and respectable. They shipped the poor blighters, kidnapped in Africa and sent them to make rum on plantations in the Caribbean.”

  Jo put Thomas on her shoulder and jumped off the table. She rinsed the bottle under a tap.

  “Will you talk to Mr Sullivan and get a completion date? I’m off to the bank to sort out a loan wi
th Mr Knight and then I’m going to instruct Peter Gavmin.” She walked out of the kitchen. Robert reached for his set of keys and locked the back door then followed Jo into the hallway.

  “It’s been a good day today Robert.” Jo turned. “Thank you.” She stood on her toes and pecked him on the cheek. Robert watched her walk away. With the baby balanced on one hip, her bottom swayed suggestively in perfect motion with the pleats of her skirt. He touched his cheek.

  “But get a move on!” Jo called over one shoulder as she disappeared.

  Robert fumbled for the large brass key. He was peeved. A move on indeed! He locked the front door and climbed into his car then engaged reverse gear and drove towards the gates. He looked back at the house. The weak sun had fallen beyond the fells and a cold chill emanated from the darkening sky, leaving the house once again empty and in shadow. He remembered Jo’s enthusiasm. She’ll bring this place to life! He thought and thrust his car into gear. Robert was going to enjoy the reincarnation and grinned as he drove off along the main road.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Five o’clock. By heck I’m late.” Hattie mumbled. “I’m off Mam!”

  Her mother sat in the living room in a smoky haze. She had a child on each knee and watched The Magic Roundabout on television. Hattie looked at her two young sons who gazed in awe at the characters.

  “For goodness sake, your fag ash is falling on the kids!” Hattie screamed.

  A smouldering cigarette hung limply from her mother’s lips.

  “Aw get on your way our Harriet and stop moaning.” Her mother flicked the ash into the fireplace. “And don’t forget to tell ‘er how you ran your own place!”

  Hattie grabbed her parka coat from a hook in the hall and wriggled into it. She slammed the front door of the terraced house and hurried out to her car on the busy street. She unlocked the Opel Kadett and gripped the steering wheel, then closed her eyes and whispered a prayer.