Coffee, Tea, The Gypsy & Me...

by Caroline James

  “God or whoever you are, please help me make an impression on this Jo Edmonds, who’s probably a snotty bitch and looking for someone with a grammar school accent. I promise not to swear and to keep me blouse buttoned up and smile sweetly, no matter what she asks about that bastard Italian Stallion and his tart. I need this job…”

  Hattie pushed sticky sweet and crisp packets to one side and placed her handbag on the passenger seat, alongside an untidy file of paperwork from the employment office. She cranked the ignition into life.

  The traffic was heavy and the car jerked as she approached the main road out of Marland. Hattie glanced at the fuel gauge - the tank was empty.

  “Bloody ‘ell.” She mumbled and disengaged the gears to freewheel down the hill to the nearest garage - Peter Parks Autos. The car lurched across the forecourt, faltered and cut-out yards away from the nearest petrol pump.

  “Shite!” Hattie sighed and looked around.

  “Now then Harriet, are you running on empty again?” Pete Parks ambled across the tarmac, his hands shoved into the pockets of a leather jacket.

  “Let your hand brake off and we’ll glide you in.” He bent over the rear of the car and gently pushed it in line with the pump. Hattie jumped out and straightened her tight black skirt over ample hips.

  “You’re always a Gentleman.” She smiled suggestively. “Stick us a fiver in.”

  “You’re looking as lovely as ever Harriet.” Pete winked. “Got a date?”

  “Piss off Pete. Save your charm for those that need it. I’m after a job at Kirkton House.” She unbuttoned the top of her blouse and pulled a crumpled five pound note from her bra.

  “Keeping it warm for you.” She teased. “I’ve heard that’s how you like it.”

  “Warmer the better.” Pete’s deep blue eyes flickered as he looked her up and down. “What are you after there?”

  “That new place, the hotel that’s opening - I’ll take whatever’s going Pete.” She fiddled with her buttons as he put the petrol nozzle back on the pump. “I can’t be choosy at the moment, got the kids to feed and bills to pay.”

  “No help from Mr Cornetto by the sound of things?” Pete screwed the petrol cap back into place.

  “No, not a bean.” Hattie squeezed past Pete and climbed back into her car. “I’ll see you.” She called out as she pulled away.

  * * *

  The road was impossibly busy for the time of day and Hattie began to panic that she’d be late. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and tried to remain calm as the traffic crawled along at fifteen miles an hour. She thought about Pete Parks. No wonder his garage did so well - every female in the Northern Lakes clamoured for a test drive. Hattie’d heard that he played away from the marital home but was discreet; no one seemed to come forward with any juicy gossip. His wife had horses, but didn’t they all round here? Most of them looked like their horse Hattie thought bitchily. She recalled a photo in the Westmarland Tribune recently of Mrs Parks in full riding apparel, smiling at the camera from under her hat as she received a rosette from the local dignitary Lord Crowther, for first place in dressage at the county show. Hattie knew Pete had a hobby too - he raced motorbikes. He’d won a race at the TT’s on the Isle of Mann, a year or two back. Race circuits must be a hot bed of lust Hattie decided. There’d always be somewhere to engage his throbbing engine…

  She could see a gap in the oncoming traffic and as she went past, noticed that the cause of the hold up was several old fashioned, horse-drawn, gypsy caravans that meandered along the main road. Bloody Hell, not the gypsies already!

  Hattie watched the pretty caravans as they plodded along, the gypsies called them Vardos. Some were horse drawn but most sat on trailers attached to a variety of vehicles and charabancs. Surely the hotel won’t open with this lot about to descend? The Fair fascinated Hattie and remembered sneaking out to the hill with her friends, her Mam would’ve been furious if she’d known.

  “Keep away from them gypsy men, they’ll ‘ave you in trouble!” Hattie could hear the reprimands. She was fascinated by the colourful comings and goings and all the fancy goods on sale, with fortunes to be told by wizened old women behind thick curtains. The gypsy boys loved a fight and Hattie knew many a tale of bare knuckle brawls to establish the hierarchy. Few visitors ventured up on the hill after night fall. In the day, Butterly was over-run and despite an influx of police from all over the county there was little law and order.

  Hattie sighed, she was late! She put her foot down and once past the entourage, soon approached the village of Kirkton Sowerby where the Templars pub looked deserted, the car park empty. There didn’t seem to be much going on anywhere. She drove past the village hall and school, then along the main road that ran through the heart of the village and slowed down as she saw a large house loom before her. A sign had been erected beneath a huge oak tree and proudly announced in gold lettering: Kirkton House Hotel.

  Hattie parked on the gravel driveway, climbed out and approached the front door.

  “Christ this is posh!” She whispered and turned the handle but the door was locked. She pushed a brass button and waited. Several moments passed and Hattie wondered whether to press the button again.

  “Hang on I’m coming!” A woman rushed down the hall. She flicked hair out of her eyes and dug in her pocket, a large brass key materialised. She fumbled with the lock, opened the door and invited the Hattie in.

  “I’m Hattie Salerno.” Hattie began nervously. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Don’t worry, I’d completely lost track of time. I’m Jo Edmonds, do come in.” She ushered Hattie into the hallway.

  “We’ll have a seat by the fire in the Red Room. Would you like some tea?”

  Hattie nodded and sat down in a leather armchair. She vaguely remembered Jo coming to her restaurant with a good looking man, whom Hattie assumed was her husband. She’d heard that he’d run off with the nanny. Another two-faced shite who couldn’t keep his hands off the hired help! She looked around the room. It had a high ceiling and a log fire roared in the grate. Deep vermillion walls contrasted with an oak dado rail, white picture rails and wooden window shutters and a dark green carpet matched floor length curtains. It was classy. On one wall, a glass-fronted recess contained a magnificent dinner service on tiered shelves. Soft lights lit the display and enhanced elaborate tureens and chargers. Hattie thought there must be over a hundred pieces.

  “I see you’re admiring the porcelain?” Jo placed a tray of tea on a side table. “Astonishing what you can pick up these days, isn’t it?” She placed a cup and saucer in front of Hattie. “Robert Mann bought it in the salerooms at Marland. No one else bid and he got it for a song. We think it came from Crowther Castle.” Hattie watched Jo pour the tea. She used a strainer.

  “So Harriet, tell me about you.”

  Hattie felt she’d better come clean. Jo had eaten at their restaurant and Hattie had no doubt that the rumour mill had reached Kirkton Sowerby and beyond. When she’d finished, she sat back and waited anxiously for Jo’s reaction.

  “It’s a bugger Hattie isn’t it. May I call you Hattie?” Jo asked. “My husband did exactly the same but with a much younger model. You think you can’t live with the shame, but somehow you have to if only for the kids. I’ve got a little one too.”

  Hattie began to relax. Jo seemed friendly and maybe her circumstances helped. Hattie visualised herself in a smart uniform moving around these rooms, dispensing drinks as she discussed the history of the porcelain. She’d chat with weary travellers, who’d stop for a night’s rest. Hattie was warming to the post and didn’t hear what Jo said.

  “So when can you start Hattie? I take it you want the job?”

  Hattie looked at Jo in amazement – she was offering her a position!

  “I’m not sure what your role will be, but you seem able to do most things. Shall we start with reception and see how things go?”

  Hattie lurched forward. Her hands trembled as she put her cup on the
table.

  “Sorry Mrs Edmonds, I’m taken aback.” She looked up. “Yes of course I’d love to work here. It’d be fantastic! I’ve done account books and things and know how to run a restaurant.” She rambled.

  “Great. I want to open in June and the sooner you get here the better. Shall we say nine in the morning? Are you alright with child care?”

  “Oh yes. I’ve good neighbours and a school and nursery nearby and me Mam, sorry my Mother, will help.” Hattie stood and followed Jo into the hallway.

  “Call me Jo by the way. Maybe Mrs E in front of guests but let’s not be formal.” Hattie wanted to hug her! With restraint, she opened the front door and ran across the driveway to her car. Hattie beamed as she urged the engine into life.

  “Wait till I tell Mam!” She grinned…

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “That’s the one Mrs Brough.” Jo pointed to the pale green chintz.

  She sat on the floor of the cocktail bar with the proprietor of Brough’s Interiors, they were surrounded by swatches of fabric.

  “We’ll have a dozen assorted cushions to match the seat covers.”

  Mrs Brough nodded her head. Her tightly curled, rigid blue hair bobbed up and down and as Jo ran her fingers through her own tousled hair, she made a mental note to avoid A Cut Above in Butterly, run by Mrs Brough’s daughter in law.

  Jo looked at Mrs Brough’s neatly tailored suit and sighed. She needed some new clothes. Old skirts and tatty jumpers wouldn’t suffice once the hotel was open. At the pub, Jo kept behind the scenes while Greg played ‘mine host’ and her clothes hadn’t really mattered.

  It’d been different when she’d met Greg in London. In those days, she was a girl-about-town and loved to be fashionable. Their eyes had locked over a drink in the Chelsea bar, where Greg mixed cocktails. Jo was smitten and they’d married six weeks later. Their dream of running a pub came true when they sold their terraced house in Clapham and made enough profit for a deposit. With Jo’s parents acting as guarantors, they secured a loan and moved to Butterly on Bevan. The pub, an old Temperance Inn, sat on the main street of the bustling market town just yards from Butterly Castle.

  Jo was thoughtful as she matched the swatches. How did she become Mrs Frumpy Country Wife? She’d rarely been seen in anything other than chef’s whites or housekeeping overalls during the punishing hours she’d worked at the pub, no wonder her wardrobe was scruffy and boring. Her weight bothered her too. She’d spent too much time in the kitchen constantly grazing and during the months of unhappiness after Greg left, the weight had piled on.

  “Will you have everything ready in time?” Jo referred to the mammoth order. Mrs Brough and her team had worked night and day to finish mountains of curtains, bedspreads and drapes. The blinds and cushions for the conservatory were the final job.

  “My lasses are all taking work home and I promise we’ll be on schedule.” The blue perm bobbed up and down. “I’ve told my Ivan, he’s to bring me here for a meal when you’re open.” Mrs Brough packed the samples away.

  “You’re an angel.” Jo said.

  They wandered out through the conservatory, where the windows had been repaired and gleamed in freshly painted frames. Lloyd Loom furniture in polythene packing was stacked against pale cream walls. They walked together to the courtyard and Jo waved as she watched Mrs Brough drive off in her shiny Mercedes Estate.

  Jo turned and looked at the garden and thought about everything that had happened in the last few months. What would Greg think of it all? Despite her anger, Jo’s heart ached whenever she thought of him. She knew he’d have loved it here. Once the paper work had been done, completion took place on the agreed date. Mr Knight from the Westmarland Trust Bank visited the property with his surveyor and true to his word, arranged the loan in record time. Jo looked at the hotel. The side wing was a perfect home and she luxuriated in the space after the confines of the tiny rented house and cramped flat at the pub.

  Someone waved from a window on the first floor. It was her Mother. Jo smiled and waved back. Her parents had arrived from their home in Wiltshire and taken up residence. Jean loved looking after Thomas and he adored his doting grandmother. George liked the spacious garden and spent happy hours pruning trees and clearing the greenhouse with Nipper, his Jack Russell at his heels.

  Jo bent and plucked a weed from the gravel then stopped at a wooden bench and paused, the sun was warm and the bench inviting. She sat down and thought about the weeks of hard work.

  * * *

  Hattie joined them the day after her interview. The Marland Employment office sent though paperwork and asked if Jo needed references. Jo didn’t see much need. She knew that Hattie’s husband had cleared off with one of the waitresses at Salerno’s Taste of Tuscany and now ran a chip shop on the Costas. Jo recalled a tall, arrogant man who screamed orders to and from the kitchen and shuddered as she remembered his fingers crawling over her shoulders, what a letch! Hattie needed a break and Jo was going to give her one.

  Gradually she’d put a team together. A local girl called Judy was now restaurant manager and general help. Judy came from The George Hotel, in the busy market town of Marland and at twenty-three was petite and pretty with blonde hair and a broad Westmarland accent. Judy’s best friend was Sandra – a robust and jovial cook who’d worked for Jo in the pub. Sandra blossomed when Jo took over and taught her to bin the boil-in-the-bags and make good, wholesome food from local produce. Their food had been a huge hit with the locals and Jo had no hesitation in employing her again, but could she create a more refined cooking style? Sandra’s gravies and custards must become jus’s and coulis’s. There was so much to be done.

  Jo was determined to have the hotel open in June. What had first seemed impossible was fast becoming reality, as the former guesthouse was transformed. Skilled tradesmen moved heaven and earth to keep to Jo’s deadline. Robert knew every furniture auction and house-clearance in the vicinity and worked tirelessly to accumulate the pieces that now graced the public rooms and bedrooms. At a bankrupt sale near Windermere, he’d bought carved Victorian dining chairs and tables and a mahogany serving cabinet. A cushion mirror over the fireplace in the Green Room came from the castle in Butterly, in a job lot with twelve framed prints of Lakeland scenes that now graced the walls in the panel room restaurant.

  A team of local staff took shape. Ladies from the village came forward with sixth form youngsters keen for evening and weekend work. They’d advertised for a chef to assist Sandra and after several interviews, chose Michael. He was twenty-seven, single and had references that suggested a creative chef. Jo bought a second-hand static caravan to accommodate him and Michael settled in immediately. He’d made a start by digging the herb garden and setting seedlings in the greenhouse. Jo prayed that the kitchen would be busy enough to support both their wages.

  Local suppliers offered deliveries to the hotel. Trevor Pigmy had the finest meat in the area and knew the history of every animal that ended up on the tiled slabs of his butcher’s shop on Butterly’s main street. His Westmarland sausages were notorious – thick, meaty and juicy, all spiced with his own secret ingredients.

  Jo was deep in conversation with plumber Arthur Harrison one morning and looked up when Judy interrupted them. She had a visitor. Delighted to be relieved from the complicated plumbing arrangements for the bathroom in Room Two, Jo turned from her crouched position under the toilet system. A tall sandy haired man held out his hand.

  “Need a lift up?” He bent forward and tugged her to her feet.

  Jo looked at his weathered face.

  “I’m Alf and I’m ‘ere because I’m a game man.” He announced.

  What on earth was he talking about? Jo certainly didn’t need any game men on the premises with all the female staff about.

  “Rabbits, hare, birds of any description, the finest venison from the Crowther Estate - whatever you want.” He smiled. “For cash of course.”

  Jo breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Well th
at’s wonderful Alf.” She said. “Do you think you could manage some samples?”

  “Follow me m’lady.”

  Alf ushered Jo out of the bedroom and down the stairs to the front door, where his battered old Land Rover was parked at an angle. Jo tried not to notice the lumps of mud on the carpet from his Wellingtons.

  Alf reached into the back of his vehicle and pulled out the inert bodies of two large hares and a haunch of venison.

  “See what your Sandra can do with this lot and I’ll be round for an order in a couple of days.” He thrust the dead animals into Jo’s hands, climbed into his Land Rover and roared off in a cloud of diesel fumes.

  * * *

  Jo heard a ring and looked up to see her mother by the conservatory door. She held a large brass school bell in her hand and steadied Thomas on her hip with the other.

  “There you are.” Jean said. “I found this old bell in a packing case upstairs. Shall I put on the hall table for your guests?”

  “I hope they don’t ring it as loudly as you.” Jo reached for Thomas. His plump little body oozed out of a pale blue romper suit and he chortled as she scooped him up and kissed his pink cheeks.

  “This suit Thomas is wearing cost more than I’ve spent on clothes in a year.” Jo said as she straightened the hand-stitched smocking.

  “Well it’s time you considered investing in something decent.” Jean shook her head. “You look a mess and won’t attract respectable clientele looking like that. Even the gypsies on Fair Hill out class you.” Jean stared at Jo’s old skirt and shapeless jumper.

  “I know, but I have to get this place sorted first.”

  “By the way, this was in the post.” Jean handed Jo a card. An embossed picture showed a sunny beach. Jo flicked it over. Her heart missed a beat as she recognised Greg’s handwriting. She handed Thomas to Jean.