Bedlam & Breakfast at a Devon Seaside Guesthouse

by Sharley Scott

  Eric called across the breakfast room, “Can I have more toast.” He held up the empty toast rack.

  “Won’t be a minute.”

  My heart sank as Max sauntered into the room, bringing with him the stench of fermenting vodka. But his smell was at odds with his appearance, every inch the holidaymaker in his beige cotton shorts, pristine yellow shirt and a pair of sunglasses stuck on his head. Two tables were free, one in the centre of the room, the other near the kitchen and away from most of the guests. I pointed to the latter, dismayed to see him ignore me and cross the room to the other.

  I shot back into the kitchen to hand Jason the orders and to butter the muffins before racing out with a round of toast for a waiting couple.

  “Katie!” Eric hollered and waved the toast rack at me.

  I took it from him. “The toasters can’t keep up, so it’ll be a few minutes.”

  “You just can’t get the staff,” John called across the room to Eric, who laughed.

  I swung round to him. “Sadly, I only have these two hands.” I waved them and the toast rack at him, tempering my outburst with a smile which no doubt appeared more like a grimace.

  In the kitchen, Jason shook his head as he poured the Hollandaise sauce over the poached eggs. Sweat speckled his forehead, thanks to the furnace heat. Above him the extractor fan roared – all noise and little effect – while we couldn’t entice the slightest breeze through the back door, even though we’d jammed it open.

  “If it’s not too much trouble, put the beans in the ramekins. That’s unless you want to bite my head off too.”

  “Oh, shut up!” I hissed.

  After serving the dishes, I went over to Max. As I got close the cloying scent of perfume hung in the air. Had one of the guests squirted it to mask the reek of alcohol? Max slouched, arm over the back of his chair, staring at John.

  “You get a lot of arseholes in this business,” he drawled in a voice so low, thankfully it was lost beneath the hubbub in the room. He shifted round to look at me. “Don’t let it get to you.”

  I shrugged, hoping John couldn’t hear us. “He’s a nice man really. It’s just one of those mornings.”

  “So, how’s the old dear doing? Got over the shock yet?” Of course, he’d seen yesterday’s accident.

  “Martha’s fine. They’re hoping she’ll be home later this morning.”

  “I meant the bloke.”

  I laughed, turning a few heads on the neighbouring tables. “He’s okay too. Now what do you fancy having?”

  He chuckled. “You should never, ever ask a gentleman that.”

  When I came out with his full English, I found him on the other side of the room, chatting to Owain and Gwen. I placed his plate on the table and went over to tell him.

  “Max?” He didn’t hear me, so I touched his shoulder. “Your breakfast is ready.”

  “Sorry, too busy talking.”

  The final two guests, arrivals from yesterday, hesitated by the doorway. A couple pushed their chairs back ready to leave, so I wished them a lovely day before showing the newcomers where to sit. My earlier panic had ebbed. As I cleared a table, Gwen gave me a warm smile while Owain munched his way through the last of the toast and gazed vacantly through the window. The workers – care staff in their uniforms, employees from the shops and cafés, and the mechanics from the nearby garage (I recognised two of them from Derrick’s car accident) – I’d seen hurrying in either direction when setting up for breakfast this morning, had been replaced by a stream of tourists meandering towards the harbour, bags over their shoulders, mats or towels under their arms.

  “Heavy morning?” Gwen took a sip of her coffee.

  I nodded. “The heat isn’t helping. It seems to have shot up ten degrees overnight.”

  She exhaled deeply and fanned her face. “It’s roasting. Alan was just saying this heatwave is here for the next week.”

  Alan? I thought her husband’s name was Owain. Knowing my luck, I’d been calling him the wrong name for the past few days.

  “Shouldn’t complain.” I heaved the laden tray from the table. “It’s better than rain. I hope you have a fab time on your boat trip. Everyone says it’s a great day out.”

  “I know. When we came last year, we said we’d go on it.”

  I’d forgotten that Owain and Gwen used to come when Jim and Maureen ran Flotsam Guesthouse. After my efforts this morning, would they long for the good old days? I could only hope tomorrow morning would be different and everyone would come down in dribs and drabs rather than bunched together. It would be good for the new guests to see that not all breakfast services were like today.

  Later, with just Max and another couple left in the breakfast room, I started to clear away the dairy and fruit on the buffet selection. As I headed back into the kitchen with the tray, a chair scraped as if being pushed back. I shot out to say goodbye to find Max already by the door. His sunglasses lay on the table, peeking from beneath a crumpled napkin.

  “Max!” I rushed over to the table but he’d disappeared. Following him, I called again as he reached the turn at the top of the stairs. “Max! Your glasses.”

  He disappeared around the corner. Shrugging to myself, I turned away. I couldn’t abandon the last guests in the breakfast room. Anyhow, he knew where to find me when he realised he’d left them behind. If not, I’d put them in his room later when cleaning.

  Max must have gone out while Jason and I cleaned the kitchen, either not remembering he’d left his sunglasses in the breakfast room or he didn’t need them, although I felt sure he would. The sun blinded me when I took out the bin. Under the bluest of skies, gulls shrieked and wheeled on outstretched wings. On busy days when we couldn’t get out even for a short stroll by the harbour, I loved hearing their calls. The sound of childhood holidays.

  Later that day, when I watered the hanging baskets in the cooler warmth of dusk, Gwen and Owain stopped to admire them. They’d been listening to live music at The Anchor’s Rest but needed an early night after their packed day. Even in the half-light, their faces glowed. Gwen rubbed her reddened shoulder.

  “Factor 30 and I still burned.”

  “I told you,” Owain said. He sounded fed up, as if her sunburn had become a sore point. Literally.

  Changing the subject, I said, “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Max on your travels?”

  “Max?” Gwen said. They both looked blank.

  “You were talking to him at breakfast.”

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “Yellow shirt.” I swallowed the urge to mention the smell of alcohol, even though it had been his defining feature. “He came over to your table.”

  “Oh! You mean… whatshisname…” She clicked her fingers. “Alan. That’s it. We met him here last year.”

  Alan? No wonder he hadn’t answered to the name Max. Then the penny slotted into place. That made him Alan Manningtree. But why had he lied about his name? Of course, the cancellation! But why not just pay the fifty pounds, rather than go to the inconvenience of a name change?

  “It was a bit of a surprise to see him again, to be honest. Him being Maureen’s brother and all. You did know that, I assume.” Gwen looked at me, probably to gauge my reaction.

  I bit back the urge to point out that if I didn’t know his real name, I was hardly likely to know he was related to the old owners. A chill ran through me. Had his last-minute cancellation a month after we started running Flotsam Guesthouse been one of Maureen’s nasty tricks? If so, what was he doing here now?

  Fighting to keep my voice light, I laughed, “Jason checked him in so M- Alan probably told Jason. I’ll have to ask Alan how his sister is doing.”

  They smiled and disappeared off to their rooms. When their door closed, I shot off to find Jason in the utility room dragging a load of towels from the tumble drier. I jabbed my finger at him, ready to launch into the bizarre tale about Max/Alan.

  “You won’t believe it!”

  He sighed, “What now
?”

  “What do you mean ‘what now’?”

  I didn’t hang around to find out. Annoyed by his tone and the inference that I irritated him, I stomped off and threw myself onto the sofa. I ached with exhaustion. No doubt Jason was shattered too after what had been a long and challenging day. We hadn’t had time to recover from the busy breakfast before a melee of guests from five rooms checked-out within minutes of each other. All their rooms had needed to be given a thorough clean and bedding change – rather than the basic refresh undertaken when guests stayed on – before the next arrivals. We’d stopped for a hurried lunch before Jason shot off to the butchers. When he got back, I’d checked in three couples on my own, so he’d agreed to look after the two evening arrivals while I prepared the breakfast room for the next day and emptied the third dishwasher load. If we hadn’t spent so much time bickering, we could have been proud of our teamwork.

  Carrying an armful of towels, Jason ducked through the door. I grabbed the remote control and turned the TV over, determined to ignore him. Big Ben chimed for the News at Ten.

  “So, what is it?” He flapped a towel and folded it.

  “I’m watching TV.” I jabbed the volume button to make it loud enough to provoke him, but not too loud for our guests. “I haven’t stopped all day.”

  He huffed. “And I have?”

  Before we came to the B&B we’d heard tales of couples growing closer when working together. But the only thing we’d managed to grow was frustration. We nurtured it well too. I missed the old good-humoured Jason and our free time spent having fun and relaxing together. No doubt he missed my old self too, joking and laughing at silly things. It was in my power to make tonight better. If I was being rational I would simply tell him about Max/Alan. But tiredness sapped all reason.

  I got to my feet. “I’m going to bed.”

  Chapter 21

  I had mixed feelings when Max/Alan didn’t come down to breakfast. Half of me wanted to find out what he was playing at – was his change of name because he was related to Maureen or because of the cancellation fee he still owed us from back in April? – while the rest of me felt relief at not having to confront him.

  After breakfast I left the servicing of his room until last, in case he’d decided to have a lie-in. When I knocked on his door no one answered, so I crept in. It’s always a bit worrying if you’re unsure whether a guest has gone out or not and they don’t answer the door. A few months earlier, I’d found a man asleep in bed wearing ear plugs. Luckily, I hadn’t woken him and just snuck a note under the door to say that I’d tried to clean the room but hadn’t been able to do so.

  I promised myself I’d order the ‘Do not disturb’ signs later, even though I knew that by the time I finished the cleaning I’d have forgotten about them. One day they would make it onto the shopping list.

  Max had gone out, thank goodness. But then I realised he hadn’t come in.

  His duvet lay smooth and tucked in at the corners, the pillows plumped, while clean towels hung over the bathroom rail. Even his sunglasses sat on the bedside table where I’d left them. The room smelled fresh too, after I’d aired it yesterday. He hadn’t slept here last night. Had he left? I flung open the wardrobe doors, holding my breath in anticipation of a gust of stale vodka but other than an underlying musty smell from the jacket, two shirts and pair of trousers hanging inside, he’d taken the stench of alcohol with him, wherever he had gone. With a final, puzzled glance at the unused bed, I left the room.

  After two days without seeing the sun – which our guests informed me was very hot and yellow – I needed to get out of the house. After lunch Jason and I agreed to switch jobs: he’d do the ironing and I’d go to the butchers and shops. I chuckled. The highlight of my day had become a trip to see Tommy the butcher. When I arrived back all the guests were parked on the driveway, so I abandoned the car on the side of the road while I went inside to ask Jason to give me a hand. I found him in the day room with new guests filling in the registration form.

  “This is Peter and June,” Jason said.

  June’s hairstyle reminded me of a silver-haired Margaret Thatcher, although this appeared to be the only comparison, as the woman in front of me carried a gentle demeanour and wore a flowery dress, tied at the waist. Peter smiled and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, which he stuffed into his jacket pocket. Immediately, flecks of perspiration dotted his forehead. Why the jacket in this weather? Perhaps it masked the sweat stains on his shirt, which would be a vicious circle as he’d be drenched soon.

  Jason added, “They’ve been before, about ten years ago. They were just telling me how much they used to like the bar that was once here. Do you want a hand with the shopping?”

  June nodded. “We came because of the bar.”

  “You won’t have to go far. There’s a pub up the road.” I turned to Jason. “You’re busy. I’ll be fine, thanks.”

  “Does this pub have a TV?” Peter said. “Because it has to have a TV. June knows how I like my TV. Don’t I, June? We always get the TV listings. June makes sure she circles my programmes in red and hers in blue. Red for me, as she recognises I’m important. Don’t you, June?”

  Finally, he stopped for breath. I glanced through the window to where I’d left the car parked on the side of the road. I needed to get on.

  “I don’t know but there’s one in your room and I’m sure you’ll find a pub with a TV.” Smiling, I said, “I’ll leave you to it.”

  June patted her husband’s hand. “We like different programmes. He likes a pint or two at night too, don’t you, dear? One at The Oak and another at home. You can set your clock by him.”

  “That’s nice.” A toot came from outside, where a line of vehicles had built up waiting to get past my car. “I really must go. See you at breakfast.”

  I raced outside, staggering back with heavy bags and boxes which I dumped on the kitchen floor before sprinting back to the car. Each time I passed the day room, Peter and June paused their conversation for the few seconds it took to give me a wave. Once unloaded, I parked the car across the road before heading back to unpack the shopping.

  “Katie! I was just saying…” Jason waved me over.

  What was he playing at? He knew I had to unpack the shopping and get the meat and dairy into the fridge. I pointed towards the kitchen. “I haven’t finished.”

  “I’ll do that,” he said. “Peter and June were asking me about the changes in Torringham since they last came. I know you look at those Facebook sites, so you’ll be able to tell them about it.” Scooting past me to the door, he gave us all a cheery grin. “I’ll see you both at breakfast tomorrow.”

  Puzzled, I watched him disappear before I turned my attention to Peter and June. “So, what do you need to know?”

  One of my flaws has been the inability to close a conversation. Whether Peter and June recognised this, I don’t know. But four, maybe five times within what felt like an hour, I said ‘I must be going’, each time with more desperation. Now I understood why Jason had been so eager to unpack the shopping. I would have happily traded shopping, ironing and cooking the evening meal for a moment’s respite.

  When the phone rang, I headed to the door. “I must get that.”

  “Let your husband do it,” June said. “If you’re interested in history, you should see this. Peter, show her the map.”

  The phone stopped ringing – Jason must have answered – and with it any hope of escape died. Peter pulled out a leaflet. Once unfolded he spread it across the table, flattening it with his hand. It was a detailed map, showing historic sites in Torringham along with information on each. Usually I loved learning about the history of an area, but Peter’s incessant drone made it feel more like a treble physics lesson. He didn’t pause for breath, his sentences merging into one another until he gabbled rather than spoke. As he pointed at the various locations, he told me so much about each site it would take for ever for us to reach Shadwell Point and the end of the map.


  My legs ached but I refused to sit down. Standing meant I could edge closer to the door, but each time I shuffled an inch from the table, Peter would jab the map and say, “And look at what it says here.”

  I’d bend over and smile and nod.

  “This is where they kept prisoners. Several hundred of them put to work. And here.” His finger moved a centimetre across the map. “This is fascinating. I mean you don’t get history like this anywhere. Those prisoners, well…”

  This was torture. I’d become his hostage and this room my cell. Through the window I watched couples strolling by, free to walk at will. Would he ever shut up? My stomach rumbled and my head ached. Hoping for support from my fellow captive, I gazed across at June who sat beside Peter, hands clasped in her lap. Like a grandmother watching little Johnny in the nativity play, a proud smile touched her lips. She might know the words and story by rote, but this was Johnny’s moment on stage and she would savour it.

  I could stand no more.

  “I really…”

  “I can’t believe they shut the Torring Bistro. It was famous, wasn’t it, June? On the site of the old gun emplacement, so it had miniature cannons by the doorway. Everyone who was anyone came to Torringham to eat there. We ate there once. What did we have?” He drummed his nails on the table.

  I backed out of the room. “I hope you have a lovely holiday but I must go. I’ve an urgent call to make.”

  June’s expression told me she knew I’d lied to get away. I swallowed and held her gaze, hoping she’d think me more honest if I looked her in the eye. But she tightened her lips and narrowed her eyes. There was no fooling her. But, if she was reasonable, she’d appreciate I’d spent ages with them. I needed a cup of tea and five minutes to myself.

  Something about Peter’s downcast gaze and the ‘Oh…’ wilting on his lips, made me say, “You’ll have to tell me more tomorrow when I’m not so busy.”

  Peter stood up and folded up the map of Historic Torringham. “I’ll find you after breakfast.”