Bedlam & Breakfast at a Devon Seaside Guesthouse

by Sharley Scott

  I’d had enough, my eyes struggled to focus on the numbers, my mind had turned to mush, but I couldn’t stop until each pile was checked against the bank statements. If I hadn’t found myself glued to a repeat of Four in a Bed I would be almost finished, but I’d thought it might be worthwhile research to assess what else we could expect from Mark and Belinda. The only item outstanding on their list seemed to be a lengthy review followed by a decision on whether they’d come back. Recalling breakfast this morning, I had a good idea what their response would be.

  My phone beeped, so I picked it up. Laura. ‘Book club tonight if you fancy coming. 7pm at The Anchor’s Rest. Don’t worry about not reading it. I haven’t.’

  Like the roll of a wave my heart leapt and sank. I’d love to go but we had two couples arriving around then. It wouldn’t be fair to leave Jason with them both, especially after I’d moaned at him for doing the same thing. But the thought of going out and chatting, over a glass of wine, with a friendly group about books – even ones I hadn’t read – gnawed at me and before I knew it I’d stashed the receipts away, ready to be retrieved the following day.

  I headed up to the bedroom and into the ensuite, assailed by the fug of steam. The buzz of the shower and splatter of water masked my entrance. Behind the misted shower screen I could just make out Jason’s pale back, his hair a mass of white foam. It was pointless trying to talk to him as he wouldn’t be able to hear me, so I sat on the bed with my phone, flicking through my Facebook page while I waited. The shower door clicked and Jason hummed as he towelled himself dry. He’d brush his teeth next; he always did after showering, no matter what time of day. Sure enough, the whirr of the electric toothbrush filtered out. A few minutes more and I could tackle him. Hopefully, he’d be in a better mood than earlier.

  When he spotted me, his eyebrows arched but he didn’t speak. A few grey hairs lined his temple but unlike many of his friends, he sported a full head of hair – most of it the same colour as when we’d married – while I had a bottle to thank for my brown locks. He’d tied his towel around his waist. With all the work in the guesthouse, his office-job paunch had flattened so he looked trimmer than he had for years. But his face bore the signs of fatigue, with dark shadows beneath his eyes. We both had those.

  I cleared my throat, unsure where to start. “I’ve been asked to go out tonight.”

  “Have you?”

  “Laura’s asked me to a book group.”

  “And?”

  “We’ve got two check-ins.” Optimism made me hope he’d offer to do them alone but I had no chance. Not after this morning.

  “Strange how you’ve changed your tune. One minute the business has to come first at any cost and the next it doesn’t matter as long as you can go out.”

  He took his towel off to dry his hair and turned away, leaving me to talk to his back. I glanced at the mole by his shoulder blade, thankful the consultant had said it wasn’t one to worry about. My gaze travelled down. Now he didn’t sit on his bum for most of the day, it had become toned. – his thighs too. My legs were more muscular – I could run up-and-down the stairs with ease – but my bum seemed to be like my stomach: lumpy and stubbornly holding onto the fat. In recent weeks he’d made a few gags about my ‘chubbs’. They’d hit the target and stung. Maybe I should do something about it.

  He pulled on a clean pair of boxer shorts and tilted his head as he squirted aftershave. The loss of weight made his jawline more defined. I pressed my fingers to my jaw feeling the plumpness which heralded the first signs of the dreaded jowls, one of my less attractive family traits.

  “Go if you want,” he said. “But stop trying to chain me to this place.”

  How was I doing that? When we’d agreed to run the guesthouse together, neither of us had realised how constricted our leisure time would be. But instead of working together to reach a compromise it felt as if he was manoeuvring for top dog position. He got to call the shots – any excuse to disappear with Mike – while I begged for scraps of time.

  I folded my arms. “So, expecting the guest bed to be mended is wrong? You’re at Mike’s more than here. All I wanted was one night out. But don’t worry, I’ll flipping well stay in.”

  “Don’t be—”

  “Oh, sod off.”

  For the second time that day I stormed off and, yet again, I regretted it within minutes. Back in the lounge I threw myself onto the sofa. When Jason had peevishly told me to go out, I should have said a sarcastic ‘thank you’ and left it at that. Instead, I’d stomped off in my size five boots and squished all hopes of an evening where the only B&B would be books and banter. And there would have been wine, although I’d stick to white in future.

  The doorbell rang. We weren’t expecting our new guests to arrive until seven or eight o’clock and it couldn’t be Shona and Kim. When I’d spoken with them the day before, they’d been complaining about never seeing the sun again, thanks to their odd decision to paint their bedroom as the summer holidays started. But, after spending so much time in bed when poorly, Kim had decided she couldn’t stand the yellow flowery paper a moment longer. Frowning, I got to my feet. Hopefully, it wasn’t a door-step seller or someone ignoring our ‘no vacancies’ sign and looking for a room.

  Uncle Bert stood on the doorstep. He’d exchanged his boots for a pair of trainers but his dusty blue overalls told me he’d come straight from work. His fingers nipped the edge of his cap, turning it slowly as he spoke.

  “I’m sorry for not calling ahead, love, but I were passing by.”

  I ushered him through to the lounge. “You know it’s always lovely to see you.”

  “Yes, well.” He faltered. Giving me a weak smile, he sat down heavily.

  “Are you okay?”

  Now I thought about it, he didn’t look well. The lines on his face had deepened, while beneath his eyes his skin hung sallow and grey.

  “Just a hard day at work. Every day is one closer to retirement.”

  I gave him a wry smile. Only weeks back he’d told me he had chosen not to retire as he wasn’t one for gardening or watching TV. A building site may be hard work but he enjoyed the graft.

  “I’ll put the kettle on. Tea?”

  Not waiting for an answer – Bert was a tea and two sugars man – I headed out to the kitchen, where I typed a message to Laura. ‘Can’t make tonight but will def make next time. x’

  Minutes later, I headed back to the lounge with two steaming cups to find Jason settled on the sofa beside Bert, chatting about cricket. Jason wasn’t a cricket buff but he talked easily about wickets, runs and bowling. He didn’t meet my eye and I didn’t bother to see if he wanted a cup of tea. We’d reached stale mate. A phrase that reminded me of our marriage.

  My sour thoughts must have shown on my face as Bert said, “You alright love?”

  I nodded towards the piles of stacked receipts. “Like you, just tired.”

  “Moaning is hard work,” Jason said.

  Flushing, I swallowed the barb I longed to fire back and shot Jason a ‘just you wait’ look. As Bert’s gaze flickered between Jason and I, a jagged ‘z’ settled between his eyebrows. Humphing to himself, he sipped his tea, while the silence solidified around us. I searched for something to say, but Jason beat me to it when he asked Bert how it was going at the building site. Bert responded, but he wasn’t his usual chirpy self. A quiver threaded his voice and when he smiled it flickered and dimmed in seconds.

  He patted his knees and, gasping about his age, heaved himself to his feet. “I’ll be off now. Doreen will be wondering where I am, especially with Callum stopping over at his girlfriend’s place.”

  At the front door, Jason shook Bert’s hand while I gave him a hug. Up close, the faint scent of Lynx barely masked the smell of dust and sweat, and a thin film of grime clung to his skin. Exhaustion oozed from him.

  “We’ll come and see you both soon,” I promised.

  He gave me a weary smile. “No rush. You’ve enough on your plate.”


  As he traipsed to his van parked across the road, he seemed stooped and much older. Weighed down by something. He’d wanted to get back to Doreen. Was he worried about her? Perhaps if Jason and I hadn’t been so absorbed in our squabbles, I could have persuaded him to tell me what was on his mind. As he drove away, I gave him a small wave and shut the door. Strangely, it felt as if I was closing the door on him. We hadn’t got to know each other properly. There were so many questions I wanted to ask about his childhood with my mum. I hoped, prayed, he was simply tired from work and nothing more sinister.

  Chapter 19

  From where I knelt cleaning the drawers in room nine on the second floor, I could hear a faint ringing. For a moment, I didn’t react. Jason could answer it. But then I remembered he’d had to rush off and, annoyingly, I’d left the phone in the lounge. Sighing, I placed the can of polish and duster on the carpet and sprinted down the two flights of stairs, reaching the phone just as the answer machine butted in.

  “Hold on,” I told the caller as my voice droned on and on. Finally, I stopped talking and the caller could speak.

  Whoever it was chuckled. “You need a shorter message.”

  “I need to remember to take the phone with me,” I said.

  “I guessed you were on the top floor. Murphy’s Law, that.”

  His voice sounded familiar and he knew the building too. “Have you been before?”

  He hesitated. “Erm, no. It must be the accent. You get a lot of us Brummies visiting Torringham.” He sounded defensive, but he had a point: a large number of our guests came from the West Midlands, with South Wales a close second.

  “Are you looking for a room?”

  He wanted a single occupancy room for the following week. With our only room available being a small double suiting one person, it was perfect. As I took his details, I became convinced we’d spoken before but while his unusual surname was familiar, when he gave his first name too – Max Manningtree – I knew no one with that name had stayed with us. He read out his card details and I input them into the system.

  “We’ll only use your card details if you cancel and then it’s a one-night fee,” I said.

  “Take the money now.”

  “We usually take payment on arrival.”

  “I’d prefer it if you take it today. You can do that, can’t you?”

  I shrugged to myself. We rarely had guests begging to give us money, but he was welcome to do so. When I finished the call, I headed over to the card machine to process the payment. As the receipt spilled from the machine, I noted the address details didn’t match. Perhaps I’d misheard his house number or postcode. Not that it mattered as the payment had gone through, but when he arrived I would make sure to confirm his address.

  Something bothered me about the call, although I had no idea what. Before I headed back upstairs to finish the cleaning, I checked the diary system. An Alan Manningtree had booked four nights in April, but he’d cancelled the day before his planned arrival saying he’d been called into hospital for an urgent operation the following morning. I wasn’t going to charge the cancellation fee – especially as Alan had been a regular with Maureen and Jim and might come back again – but Shona pointed out that charging a one-night fee was fair, especially as we’d lost four nights and we were unlikely to resell his room at this late stage.

  “You’re a small business,” she’d said. “Why do people accept the likes of Ryan Air keeping their money when they cancel, but not little Flotsam Guesthouse. You have to toughen up or you’ll go broke.”

  I felt bad pushing people for money. But Shona was right. After discussing it with Jason, I’d decided to take the payment but, thanks to an invalid card, it wouldn’t go through. I picked up the phone to call Alan, then promptly put it down. It wouldn’t be fair to bother him when he’d be preparing to go into hospital.

  The next day Shona bumped into me in the driveway where I told her about my lack of success. She’d frogmarched me into the lounge.

  “For frick’s sake! You’re too green for words. Give me his number.”

  “I told you, he’s in hospital.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Well, he won’t answer then, will he?”

  I shouldn’t have let her coerce me but, to be honest, I was curious to find out what would happen. I tapped out the number and handed her the phone. She hummed to herself while it rang.

  “Alan!” Such was her enthusiasm, he may well have been a long-lost friend. “Good to hear you’re up-and-about already. I’m calling on behalf of Flotsam Guesthouse. Yes, that’s correct. I think there may have been an error when I took your card details and I’d like to check them with you.”

  Handing me the phone, she pulled a face. The dialling tone purred through the speaker.

  “He got cut off?”

  “Hung up, more like.”

  When I looked unconvinced, she snatched the phone back and pressed redial. It rang and rang, until she cut the call.

  “I’ll send him an email,” I said. “When he booked he said he’d been coming here for years. I’m sure he’ll sort it.”

  “Unless he’s one of Maureen’s stooges,” Shona said, reminding me of the issues Maureen had created with guest payments and the diary. “Remember the hassle you had when she messed everything up.”

  Months later, I’d all but forgotten about Alan Manningtree until today’s call from Max. Of course, Alan never paid and my email remained unanswered. Remembering Shona’s ominous words about Maureen – strange how this Max had called days after she’d wanted to bring her grandchildren in – I felt compelled to check the two address details. Breathing a sigh of relief, I saw that Alan lived in Edgbaston, whereas Max came from Birmingham. No doubt about it. They were different people.

  As Jason came through to the lounge and handed me the receipt he’d got from the Post Office, I clicked the laptop lid shut. He’d left half an hour ago when a guest had phoned in tears after leaving her prescription medicines behind. With her train already whizzing through Bristol, it was too late for her to come back. Luckily, she had enough to keep her going until Monday, but her medication would have to be ordered in by the pharmacy. Being a Saturday, Jason had just ten minutes until the last post went at noon, so he’d sprinted down to the Post Office.

  “Just made it. Are you finished already?”

  “I’ve just taken a booking. There’s still two rooms to do.”

  “That’s a shame,” he grinned. “I was hoping it would all be done and dusted.”

  As we headed upstairs, Max fleetingly came to mind but I didn’t mention it to Jason. What would I say? A man who reminded me of Alan Manningtree is coming to stay, but while they share the same surname, he isn’t Alan and they don’t have the same address. I could imagine Jason’s response: Alan who? Then he’d say I was going mad. He wouldn’t be far wrong.

  ♦

  A week later, Max Manningtree stood on the doorstep, a small suitcase in his hand. After his insistence about paying upfront, I half-expected this Manningtree to turn up with a partner in tow and claim he’d paid for two people. But he appeared to be your average, lovely person, just like ninety-nine percent of our guests. He led the way up the stairs, to the second floor, and stepped into his room, commenting politely on the spaciousness.

  “You’ve changed the chairs.”

  “That’s right.” I smiled, pleased he’d noticed the improvements, until I realised he wouldn’t know what the room used to look like. He solved this by adding, “It’s a nice surprise to have a comfy chair rather than those dining room ones I saw on the internet.”

  As he spoke, a loud smash reverberated from outside and I rushed to the window, gazing down in shock. A car had reversed into our wall. When I’d answered the door to Max, Jason had been checking in other guests in the day room, so he would have seen the accident. Sure enough, he raced outside skidding to a halt by the back end of the car.

  “I have to go,” I said to Max. “Come downstairs to check-in when
you are ready, but there’s no hurry. I think it’s going to be one of those afternoons.”

  I galloped down the stairs and out to the driveway where a small crowd had formed. Somehow the driver had managed to embed his car on the small slate wall that separated our drive from the narrow lane which led to Moreton Hill. The car’s rear wheels were about a foot in the air, while the metal pole, from which the sign for Flotsam Guesthouse had hung just five minutes before, jutted from beneath the bumper. Our poor sign had been launched into the lane.

  Jason stood by the driver’s side door, helping an elderly man out of the SUV, while on the passenger side two women aided a frail woman who clutched a hankie to her forehead.

  The man’s crooked fingers grasped Jason’s arm for support and his voice trembled. “I don’t know what happened.” He pressed the heel of his palm to his eye. “I just don’t know. I only got the car yesterday.”

  Jason ushered him inside to the day room, while I salvaged our wrecked sign from the roadside. After tucking it by the side of the house, I brushed the splinters from my palms and headed over to the women helping his companion, telling them to bring her inside. They cradled the woman between them, patiently mirroring her feeble steps. Now she’d removed her hankie, I could see an egg-shaped mark, the colour of veins, on her forehead. Someone would need to look at that.

  Panic-stricken, Kim dashed over as I led them into the hallway. “Martha!”

  “Is she your guest?”

  “Shona’s auntie.” Holding out her arm she whispered ‘thank you’ to one of the women and took her place.

  “Are you okay, Martha?” Usually Kim had a husky low voice, but she spoke loudly as if to a child. “Not hurt?”

  “No, no,” Martha’s voice wobbled. “Just a bit of a shock, that’s all.”

  While Kim settled Martha down beside the elderly man in the day room and inspected her bruise, I rushed off to get them all a cup of tea. When I came back with the pots of tea, mugs and biscuits on a tray, two paramedics were kneeling by Martha. The two women who had helped her from the car loitered by the bookcase chatting, while Jason and Kim stood beside the elderly man.