Martha regarded her evenly. If she really was the sort of person who went around murdering people, as Carol implied, then she knew precisely who she’d start with.
“This,” Carol hissed, “was meant to be a relaxing holiday. Instead it’s been a shambles.”
“The children seem to have been enjoying themselves in the pool and garden,” Martha pointed out. That was an understatement. The kids had evidently had a wonderful time. “And your husband has been whistling cheerily in the garden,” she added with an innocent smile.
“Pffft. This holiday was meant to be for my benefit. I’m the one who does everything. I have a busy, stressful life, with a home to run on top of a demanding job.”
“Oh, what do you do?” Martha was genuinely interested.
“I work part-time at a high-end antiques shop in the village,” came the huffy answer.
“Goodness, you must get rushed off your feet, what with two or three customers a week.” Had she really just said that? Well tough, Martha thought. Carol had started the nastiness. The gloves were off.
“I’ll destroy you on TripAnnouncer!” Carol screeched.
“Oh dear, not that famous worldwide travel review site, please!” Martha replied sarcastically. Dear heavens, this stupid woman couldn’t even get TripAdvisor right.
“Yes, and—”
“You don’t have beam adjusters on your headlights,” Philippe broke in, much to Martha’s relief.
“We haven’t been and shan’t be driving at night,” Carol snapped back.
“You still need them. You never know if you might get delayed, or have to make an emergency trip to a hospital at night, for example. They’re legal requirements. Did you drive through Paris to get here?”
“No, we always avoid it like the plague, so no, Mr Clever Policeman, I don’t need to have one of those clean air sticker thingies.” Carol looked smug.
“Do you have an eythylotest, a portable breathalyser, in your vehicle?” Philippe continued, nonplussed by her rudeness. “And I don’t see any sign of a fluorescent jacket,” he added, peering inside.
“We never drink and drive, either of us,” riposted Carol.
“Very commendable,” nodded Philippe, “but the law requires you to have a breathalyser in your car.”
Martha squirmed. She didn’t have one in hers. Yes, it was the law, Sarkozy’s crazy law, but the law didn’t stipulate any sanctions against people who didn’t have one. She’d bought one when the law first came into place, but it had expired and she hadn’t bothered getting another, not if there wasn’t going to be a fine for non-ownership. Like Carol, Martha would no sooner drink and drive than impale someone with a tractor spike or put body parts into bales of hay. Her squirm became a shudder.
Carol looked slightly daunted but plunged on bravely. “We have our red warning triangle for if we break down.”
“Again, commendable, but you need a fluorescent jacket for the driver which he or she must wear when leaving a broken down vehicle as, for example, when erecting the warning triangle.”
Carol pursed her lips.
“And this tyre,” Philippe prodded the one at the front on the driver’s side with his foot, “is worn. That tread is less than 1.6 mm.”
“It was fine when we left home,” snorted Carol. “It’s this rough farm drive that’s worn it down.” She stared in distaste at its owner, Martha.
“Madame, you would have to have gone up and down this drive many, many thousands of times to reduce a tyre to this state. Have you been spending all day every day this week driving up and down it?”
“No, but—”
“It’s an illegal tyre.”
“Are you trying to intimidate me?” demanded Carol.
“I must be slipping because usually I don’t have to try,” replied Philippe drily. “No, madame, I am merely bringing to your attention serious and punishable vehicle safety infringements of which you are guilty.”
“Are you going to report me?” Carol tried to sound belligerent, but there was a waver to her tone.
“I should, but frankly I have more than enough on my plate with two homicides in three days. However, I don’t imagine for a moment that any traffic cop you might encounter on your way home will be as lenient, or as preoccupied. I very strongly suggest you stop at the first garage you come to and get a new tyre. Most supermarkets sell fluorescent jackets, and you can get ethylotests at the pharmacy.”
Shame nowhere sold new personalities, thought Martha sardonically.
“I wish you a safe journey,” added Philippe, then firmly frogmarched Martha to her door before either woman thought of new insults to fling.
Martha collapsed onto the nearest kitchen chair.
“Thank you for shutting her up,” she said. “Although, it’ll only be temporary. I dare say she’ll create a right fuss with the holiday cottage agency, and probably sue me for something or other.”
“Don’t be silly,” replied Philippe firmly, searching in vain in the cupboard for clean coffee cups. Keeping up to date with the washing-up was never a high priority for Martha, but in the last two days it had plummeted. Philippe extracted one from the stack – which at least was neat – of dirty crockery, rinsed it under the tap then turned his attention to the Nespresso machine. “You can’t sue someone for witnessing a crime or having body parts dumped at their gateway.”
“Isn’t causing nervous shock an offence though?” queried Martha. She had vague recollections of reading about a landmark case involving a drink with a decomposing snail in it and the woman who was served the drink suing for the upset, both physical and mental, she suffered. “Duty of care or something?”
“That was about negligence, I believe,” said Philippe, putting the kettle on. “You haven’t been guilty of that. And does that woman appear to be suffering from nervous shock to you?”
“No.” Martha gave a tight smile. “Just an overinflated ego. I’m sorry I got into a slanging match with her. Very childish of me. But,” she smiled almost properly now, “it was very satisfying.”
Philippe chuckled.
“And she had it coming,” Martha warmed to her theme. “She’s been a pain all week. In fact, half the guests are a pain.” She was in full flow now and her smile was replaced by a frown. “This isn’t quite perfect, and that’s not what they expected, never mind that the cottage description is completely accurate and there are loads of photos. Mark and I worked so hard on renovating this cottage and making it into a super holiday home, with pretty much everything you could possibly need, but has it been enough? No. The drinking glasses are too small, or the cushions don’t match, or there isn’t an egg slicer, or a knife sharp enough to cut French bread. You don’t cut French bread, you tear it with your hands!” she exclaimed, although Philippe, being French, had been born knowing that. “And they break everything, but will never admit to it. Stuff that will last me or you or any sane person a lifetime mysteriously self-destructs within days in the cottage. And they do totally bizarre stuff like drill holes in the kitchen sink, or take the screws out of the oven door, or straighten out the wire coat hangers, and they nick the batteries out of the TV remote control and the clock. They—”
Philippe placing a cup of tea in front of her shut her up.
“Oh God, I’ve been ranting,” she realised.
“Maybe just a little,” acknowledged Philippe.
“Well, it’s enough to drive a saint to drink,” frowned Martha, stirring her tea. Unlike herself, she hadn’t thanked Philippe for it. “Well, I’ve made my mind up. I’m jacking it all in at the end of this season.”
“What will you do instead?” asked Philippe. “Expand your bookkeeping business?”
Martha shook her head, then took a sip of her tea. It was awful but she managed not to pull a face. Like Mark, Philippe couldn’t make a decent cuppa to save his life. But at least Philippe had the excuse of his nationality as the reason. She’d never understood why an Englishman couldn’t do his thing with a teabag, w
ater, milk and sugar.
“No. I think I’m… No, I will. I’m going to buy a motorhome and hit the road. I’m going to go sightseeing. I shall drive very slowly along all the narrowest roads in Europe!” she announced, a grin on her face now. “In fact, I may never go higher than second gear.”
“Not even downhill?” Philippe played along.
“Especially not downhill.” Martha’s eyes were twinkling.
“How long have you been planning this road-blocking trip?”
“For about five minutes,” confessed Martha. “No, that’s not quite true. Mark was an impatient driver, as you know, but a good one,” she added quickly and fairly. “He loathed caravans and RVs and, well, anything big that crawled along and that you couldn’t possibly overtake. We used to joke that we’d get our revenge when we retired.” Her smile turned sad. “I’d almost forgotten about it, but it’s just occurred to me that maybe it’s time for that to happen. It’s time for a change.”
“Well, if you want someone to ride shotgun, just say,” said Philippe. “I could do with a change too. I’ve seen quite enough dead bodies and way more than my share of the dark side of human nature to last me a lifetime. Several, actually.” He pulled a face. “And talking of which, I’d better get back to work. Now, are you going to be alright?”
Martha nodded, not very convincingly. “I think I’ll go round to Lottie’s for the night. She wanted me to the other day, but I didn’t. But after today, well, I think I’ll feel a lot happier, especially with the cottage being empty tonight.”
The strident sounds of Carol supervising the car packing floated in from outside.
“I’ll start getting ready for the Devonshires this evening, before I go, and carry on in the morning when I get back.”
“The who?” Philippe frowned.
“The Devonshires, the next set of guests. Three of them – husband, wife and mother-in-law.”
“I don’t know,” Philippe sighed. “Beegullszwayit, or however you pronounce your weird surname, these Cuzzbertzsons who are about to go, and now Deevonjeeres?” He battled nobly with each strange name but still managed to mangle it. He shrugged. “My schoolbooks were adamant on the subject that all British people had nice, easy, short names like Smith or Jones or Green or Sprat.”
“Pratt,” Martha corrected him.
“Are you really insulting an armed officer of the law?” teased Philippe.
“Don’t be silly. I wasn’t calling you a ‘prat’, I was saying ‘Pratt’. That’s a much more common surname than Sprat. A sprat is a fish.”
“And very tasty too,” nodded Philippe.
“What a typically French reply!” observed Martha. “Anyway, Bigglesthwaite was an improvement for me.”
“I can’t believe that,” said Philippe dismissively. “Nothing could be worse than that.”
“Try Higginsbottom,” announced Martha triumphantly. “That was my maiden name.”
“Iggzy… Igginzez… what?” Philippe was stumped.
“Higginsbottom,” Martha repeated.
“What, bottom as in… bottom?” Philippe stood and tapped his right buttock.
“The same.”
“Then that is a truly terrible name,” agreed Philippe. He added his cup to the pile by the sink. “I must get back to the station now. I’ll call you with any updates on the situation. And call me anytime, Martha, I mean it.”
Martha nodded.
“Especially if Madame Cuzzbertzson starts up at you again, although I think she probably won’t.”
“I shan’t give her the chance. I shall wave gratefully from the doorway when they leave.”
Philippe smiled, ran his hand across Martha’s shoulders and strode from the house.
Chapter 10
Martha prowled round the kitchen, unable to settle, peering out at the Cuthbertsons from time to time. Even from where she was she could see that Roy looked pale. It was incredibly mean of Carol to be insisting on leaving today. Her husband wasn’t up to it. And he’d be the one physically driving, although no doubt with continuous and firm instruction from his wife. It always puzzled Martha why so few of the female guests in the cottage ever got behind the wheel. It was nearly always the men who drove everywhere. Were the ladies really that timid? Or was it rather that their menfolk didn’t trust them behind the wheel at home, let alone abroad? No, not that, not judging by the forceful female personalities she encountered week after week. Somehow driving was generally seen as man’s work.
Martha noticed Zack slipping away from the car while Carol’s attention was firmly fixed on the incompetent way her husband was packing the cases into the boot. Zack was coming her way, but rather than come to the front door he headed towards the back door, which was actually at the side. Martha met him there. His eyes were shining.
“I wish we weren’t going today,” he said, “but I can’t wait to tell all my mates about those bits of dead guy in your hay bale.”
The callousness of youth. Martha decided it wasn’t her job to work on Zack’s tact and sensitivity.
“I’ve had a great time. Helping with the piglets was so cool.”
“I’m glad you’ve enjoyed yourself,” smiled Martha.
“Soph adores the chickens, and Grandad has always loved the countryside. He’d love to live somewhere like this, but Gran likes towns. Anyway, here’s my email address,” he shoved a tatty bit of paper towards her, “and I’m on Facebook too, ZackofBeyond999.”
“Clever name,” approved Martha. “I’ll follow you, and I’ll keep in touch, I promise. I’ll send you photos of the piglets so you can see how fast they grow.”
“Awesome, thanks.”
He dithered awkwardly, so Martha took the initiative and held out her arms. He hugged her clumsily in return, smelling quite strongly of smoke. How his grandparents didn’t notice was astonishing.
He gave her an embarrassed smile as he left. “Sorry about Gran,” he shrugged. “See ya, Martha.”
“See ya, Zack,” she replied, then closed the door. Poor kid, he shouldn’t have to go around apologising for the adults in his life. She hoped he’d sort himself out. He was a good soul.
After some more prowling, and a half-hearted attempt to make a dent in her washing-up in-tray, she heard car doors slam and the engine start. She hurried to the front door and waved, but only Zack and Sophia waved back. Roy presumably didn’t dare and Carol kept her eyes firmly to the front.
“Let’s get this over with,” sighed Martha to Flossie.
There was bound to be a long, disgusted essay on the back of the feedback form. Martha left a wodge of these forms at the back of the information file that guests found on the kitchen table when they arrived. The file’s other contents consisted of the house rules, suggestions of places to visit, a potted history of the farm and the nearest villages, numbers for the emergency services and details of where various shops and services were to be found, together with their opening hours.
The holiday letting agency was very keen on feedback, Martha much less so. In her experience, feedback wasn’t based on the accurate description of the cottage given on the agency website, nor on what was actually provided at the cottage. It was based on comparisons of reality with the unrealistic, frequently surrealistic expectations with which guests arrived. Thus sentences often began with ‘I expected’: ‘I expected there would be a bath.’ ‘I expected there to be more trees.’ ‘I expected the cottage would be closer to shops’, and so on. Feedback forms encouraged guests, particularly those with chips on their shoulder, to wax lyrical about how much better they would run the cottage. ‘White linen sheets would have been nice.’ Maybe so, but not practical. Patterned polycotton sheets disguised minor stains (made by coffee cups plonked on the bed, sweets stashed under the pillow or discarded lidless felt tip pens) and didn’t require washing at climate-change-inducing high temperatures or need ironing for hours. ‘Matching crockery should be provided.’ It had been, once, but so much had been broken over the years that
Martha had taken to buying up cheap replacements from the local charity shop. She went for bright, cheerful and chunky. ‘Throws over the furniture look unsightly and are not necessary.’ Oh but they were. Martha had been anti-throw to start with, despite the advice of a friend back home who ran a B&B and who said they were essential. And thus it was that the teenage children of the very first set of visitors to the cottage left biro marks all over the sofa. Martha went straight out to get a job lot of throws. Some of these got used for sunbathing on and then had to be retired due to the impossibility of removing the greasy stains of suncream or the grass that embedded itself within the threads, but generally they served their purpose well.
And so on and so forth. Some guests made genuinely helpful comments, such as ‘perhaps a couple of extra hooks in the hallway’ or ‘a bigger bathroom mat’, and Martha appreciated those. She didn’t expect or want eulogies in praise of her, but it was nice when she got one. All she wanted was feedback to reflect a modicum of reality.
However, nothing unpleasant awaited her but that wasn’t necessarily good news. The worst, backstabbing feedback always came long-distance once the client was safely back home, and, as a further cowardly act, was sent directly to the holiday cottage agency. Martha sighed. The whole issue of feedback was such a one-way process and so open to abuse. A simple thing and totally out of her control, such as a rainy week or a bee sting, could prompt guests into spewing out hate-filled diatribe that could be very personal and nasty. Every day without fail Martha asked if guests were enjoying themselves, if they needed anything, was everything OK, and generally received smiling assurances that they were having a wonderful time and had everything they required. Only when it was too late did they suddenly admit that their holiday was ruined because there wasn’t a full-length mirror in the hallway (far too likely to get shattered), or because a cobweb appeared during the week (Martha removed all spiders she came across on Changeover Saturdays, humanely with the special, gentle spider-grabber Jared had given her), or because the tourist info in Martha’s file didn’t specify exactly how long it took in minutes and seconds to drive to some of the sites she suggested visiting (she merely gave the distance from the cottage and supplied the GPS co-ordinates). But of course she couldn’t defend herself against or do anything to remedy such after-the-event attacks.
Hate Bale Page 10
