Sunshine Over Bluebell Cliff

by Della Galton

  ‘Definitely a theme going then,’ Clara said, trying to keep a straight face. ‘Don’t let him catch you, he’ll go mad.’

  ‘He shouldn’t be so secretive then, should he?’ Zoe was unrepentant. ‘But, no, don’t worry. Phil keeps the book in the restaurant petty cash tin and he’s the only one with the key.’

  Clara hoped it stayed that way. She could imagine Phil and Mr B actually coming to blows if that book and its contents came to light.

  During the second week of September, there was another minor incident. The fire alarm went off one afternoon, which interrupted a recording taking place in the studio. It wouldn’t have mattered because the studio was soundproof, but the staff had to interrupt at a critical point, just in case there actually was a fire.

  The musicians, who were sending an audition tape to a record label, were three quarters of the way through their first perfect take – of course they were – out of sixteen imperfect takes, and they were none too pleased when Clara told them they’d have to leave the building. Particularly when they later discovered that the alarm had been set off by someone who’d opened a fire door on the second-floor landing so they could sneak out for a vape.

  ‘Why they didn’t just go downstairs, like everyone else does, I’ll never know,’ Clara had said when she realised what had happened. But as the culprit was one of the musician’s partners and not a random guest, at least she could be sure that there had been no hint of sabotage going on.

  Sabotage had also been ruled out when all the hairdryers on the first floor developed faults and blew their fuses one after the other. Phil Grimshaw did some research online and discovered that they’d been part of a faulty batch that Kate had happened to buy during the Bluebell’s refurbishment, and that there was actually a manufacturer’s recall going on.

  ‘My mum had a tumble dryer that got recalled once,’ Ellie May had said in amazement. ‘But I didn’t know it happened with hairdryers. I could do with a new hairdryer.’ She had gone off hopefully to check her dryer at home.

  There was also the mysterious incident of the intruder on the roof. This happened when Clara wasn’t on duty, but she got the complete rundown from Keith when she got in the next day.

  ‘I’ve had a very exciting night,’ he said, looking up from his place behind reception when she arrived.

  ‘What kind of exciting?’ Clara said, stopping abruptly by the desk and smoothing down her hair, which a brisk clifftop breeze had done a good job of mussing up on the short journey between her car and reception. ‘It’s windy out there today.’

  ‘I was aware of the inclement weather.’ Keith flicked over a page in front of him and cleared his throat.

  Clara helped herself to one of the individually wrapped mint imperials from the bowl they kept there. She had recently stipulated that these should be sugar-free. ‘Tell me more,’ she said, putting it in her mouth and screwing up her face as the mint’s saccharine sweetness hit her tongue. They were going to have to go back to sugar.

  If Keith said it was exciting, then it would be worth hearing about. He could go on a bit, but he wasn’t a drama queen.

  He took a sip of the black coffee that kept him awake. He drank it by the bucketload and he didn’t mind if it was hot or cold. ‘At 1.00 a.m. I had a call from the young couple in room eighteen, complaining of an intruder on the roof. Unfortunately that wasn’t Mr Bennett’s only concern.’

  Clara felt her heart sink.

  ‘He was also under the impression that the intruder was possibly a murderer because he and his wife had heard something that sounded like a body being dragged across the roof above their heads.’

  ‘What the—’ She just stopped herself from swearing.

  ‘My sentiments exactly.’ He chewed the end of his pen thoughtfully. ‘Further questioning revealed that they’d been watching some horror film into the early hours and had become a little – what Mr B might call overwrought.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that. So what did you do?’

  Keith leaned forward. ‘What I always do, Clara, in times of trouble. I made lots of soothing noises. I reassured them that no one could possibly have sneaked up onto the roof, murderer or otherwise, because I’d locked the door to the roof myself at nine p.m., having already checked that there was no one up there. Just as I always do.’

  ‘And were they happy with that?’

  ‘No.’ He tutted. ‘They were not. I even showed them the CCTV, but he wasn’t having any of it. So I went the extra mile, in accordance with the Bluebell’s ethos, and because we are all being particularly vigilant at the moment.’ He took another slug of coffee. ‘I toddled up to their room to have a listen to these mysterious nocturnal noises.’

  ‘Thank you for doing that. Did you hear anything?’

  ‘Oddly enough, yes I did. It was a little unnerving. Even for someone as level-headed as myself. I have to say that it did indeed sound like a body in a sack being dragged across the roof.’

  Clearly it had been nothing of the sort because he was now smiling. A Jack Nicholson smile.

  Trying not to screw up her face, Clara swallowed the last of the mint imperial and waited.

  ‘So, Clara, I did what any responsible night porter would do and I hotfooted it up to the roof door. I must admit I was relieved to find it still locked.’ He leaned forward, as he built up to the climax of his story. ‘You’ll never guess what it was?’

  ‘Giant seagulls?’ she hedged.

  ‘Not giant seagulls, no, but nice try. You’re right though. Our intruder was of a benign nature or I might not be here to tell the tale. Thank you, sir.’ He broke off to take some keys from a guest going out for an after-breakfast stroll. Then he fixed his full attention back on Clara. ‘Just now, you mentioned the inclement weather. I think it must have been even windier during the night because, unlikely as it seems, it was actually deckchairs that were making the noise. Two or three had been left out on the flat roof and the wind had hooked in under the seats, using them exactly like sails, if you can visualise that, and dragging them across the roof. It sounded exactly like a murderer dragging a body in a sack. A great deal more so, probably, if you’d been watching horror films.’

  ‘Were Mr and Mrs Bennett all right after you’d explained what it was?’

  ‘They were fine. They were feeling a little foolish, I think, but they were also very grateful that I’d taken their complaint seriously and we all had a little joke about it.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘I don’t get the chance to be a hero very often. It’s done my ego the power of good.’ He glanced up as Zoe came in through the main doors. ‘Mr and Mrs Bennett haven’t been down for breakfast yet, so I suspect they may be having a lie-in.’ He shook his head. ‘It all happens at the Bluebell.’

  Clara would have preferred that it all stopped happening at the Bluebell. At least until Kate got the all-clear and finally came back, even though logic told her that it was impossible for things to run completely smoothly, no matter how much effort you put in. There were too many variables when you worked with the general public. This was one of the things she both loved and hated about her job. The unpredictability of people was fun, but the unpredictability of events unnerved her and she supposed they were inextricably entwined.

  ‘There are three very important dates coming up in October,’ she told Phil when they were going through the upcoming bookings, which they did in their mid-month handover session halfway through September.

  ‘I saw the Curly Wurly stretching on the fourth,’ he said, looking up. ‘Is that genuinely a Guinness World Record?’

  ‘It sure is.’

  ‘Jesus. What’s the world coming to! Then there’s the Scargill Wedding on the tenth.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘So what’s the other one?’

  Clara smiled at him. ‘About ten minutes before this meeting I had an email from Kate to tell me that she’s booked her flight. The plaster went on this morning and she’s been cleared to fly, so she and Aiden are coming
back on the seventeenth.’

  ‘And you want everything to be running like clockwork. Don’t worry. It will be.’ He glanced at the bookings diary that was up on the laptop. ‘We’ve got a yoga group coming on the seventeenth for four days. Not much can go wrong with that. Although I suppose someone could put their back out. I nearly put my back out once when I was doing yoga.’

  ‘How? I thought it was a nice, gentle exercise. Were you in an advanced group or something?’

  ‘No, I was on stage. I was understudy for a yoga guru in this mad production and I hadn’t put in quite enough work, due to the fact I was also working full-time in a restaurant. So I was too stiff to get into the pose.’

  ‘Never a dull moment,’ Clara said.

  ‘In the theatre – or the hotel trade?’ he quipped. ‘To be honest, they have a lot of similarities.’ He paused. ‘Have you spoken to Adam Greenwood lately? I heard on the grapevine that Nick went into hospital the other day.’

  ‘Oh really? That’s not good. No I haven’t.’

  Adam cropped up often in her thoughts, but they hadn’t spoken much recently. Their lovely evening out had been four weeks ago and Clara had to admit that for a couple of weeks she’d been disappointed there had been no suggestion of a repeat performance.

  But why would there be? He’d made it perfectly clear that he didn’t like people and his one brief marriage had put him off women for life. No, he hadn’t said that. But it was what she’d read between the lines. And anyway, theirs had been a business meeting, nothing more, she reminded herself.

  ‘Is Nick all right?’ she asked Phil now.

  ‘Obviously not, as he’s in hospital.’ Phil leaned back in the office chair and linked his hands behind his head. ‘I don’t think it’s life-threatening. He has some chronic condition, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. He has. Poor guy. I’ll give Adam a call.’

  ‘In the interests of good hotel relations,’ Phil said, with a little sparkle in his eye, ‘That is probably a good idea.’

  Clara felt heat warming her cheeks. ‘Absolutely. In the meantime, we should probably go through the details of the wedding booking.’

  ‘There’s not that much left to do. We’ve got detailed instructions for how they want the venue to be set up. The cake is being delivered the day before – they arranged that themselves. Likewise, the flowers. Mr B’s on top of the catering. The registrar is booked and I have told him to contact me personally should he receive any phone calls instructing any change of plan. It’s all in hand.’

  Clara let out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding.

  ‘Relax,’ Phil told her with one of his rare smiles. ‘Nothing is going to go wrong with the Bluebell’s first wedding.’

  17

  Clara phoned Adam on his mobile number, which he’d given her for ease of communication, on Saturday morning from home. After a few rings, his voicemail kicked in. She didn’t leave a message She tried the Manor House instead.

  The call was answered by a woman with a singsong Welsh accent.

  ‘Can I speak to Adam Greenwood please?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. Can I take a message?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ll try him again later.’ Clara felt frustrated. Maybe she should have pushed her pride to one side and tried to get in touch with him sooner. It must be horrible having someone you love in hospital. She wondered if he was with Nick now. If he was, then Nick must be bad. Changeover days were the times he’d be most needed at work.

  Her phone rang almost as soon as she had disconnected and she snatched it up, feeling a ridiculous thrill of pleasure. He must be ringing her back. He wasn’t though – not unless he was calling from an unknown number.

  ‘Hello love.’ Her grandfather’s distinctive gruff voice filled her ear and she felt a flash of guilt. She had meant to ring him after the party. Poor Grandad – OK, so he might have played Russian roulette with his marriage, but he was paying a very heavy price for it.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, taking the phone out into the back garden and watching Foxy, who was doing a circuit of the perimeter. The air smelled of sunshine and jasmine. There was a trellis close to the back door. It must be blooming so late because it was in such a sheltered spot. Her feet sunk into the grass as she walked towards the back gate. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘No, love. Not really.’ Over a background hum of voices, she could hear the sounds of his slightly laboured breathing. Grandad had COPD, brought on by years of smoking, and it was obviously troubling him today. ‘Have you got time for a cuppa and a teacake, love? I want to talk to someone sensible and I think I’ve chewed off your mother’s ear enough lately.’

  ‘Of course I have.’ She felt warmed by his call. ‘Where are you? Shall I come over this afternoon?’

  ‘Are you available sooner?’ There was more laboured breathing. ‘I’m at Osmington. I came down with Jim and Elsie in the car. He’s taken Elsie shopping. I’m sitting in the Copper Kettle.’ He ran out of breath again and the background buzz of chatter made a bit more sense.

  ‘I’ll come down now,’ Clara said.

  Three quarters of an hour later, she was sitting opposite him in the cinnamon- and coffee-scented friendliness of the popular cafe. The Copper Kettle was a tourist paradise and business was brisk on sunny Saturdays, even at the tail end of the season.

  Her grandfather’s appearance had been quite a shock. He’d lost weight since the last time she’d seen him, which couldn’t have been more than a couple of months ago. He had always been on the rotund side, so the losing weight thing wasn’t too much of an issue, but he also looked gaunt around the eyes and a bit shadowed. Worse than all of that, he looked sad. No, it was more than sad, Clara thought. He looked resigned and a bit beaten too. He had a teacake in front of him cut into quarters, but he’d only had one bite of one quarter before he’d pushed the plate to one side.

  Clara wished fervently that they hadn’t all just left him to get on with it. Even though she knew that Mum was in touch regularly. She wished they had interfered and hadn’t done what they’d all agreed in the family confabs, which had been to offer support to both parties but not to offer advice. She wished they had all sat in a room and said, ‘For heaven’s sake, you two. This is madness. You’ve been happily married for your entire life. Sort it out.’

  She reached across and covered his age-spotted hand with her own. His skin felt as dry as an autumn leaf and as thin. ‘Can I do anything? Would it help if I spoke to Gran?’

  He squeezed her fingers. Then he looked at her for a long moment and shook his head. ‘I think we’ve gone past that, love.’ With the hand she wasn’t holding, he rubbed his cheek, leaving a red mark there. ‘Though, if anyone could help, it would be you. Clara the diplomat. We knew you were that right from the start. Since you were about three years old, Thelma and I thought you’d end up being a politician. Or one of them diplomatic immunity types – did we ever tell you that?’

  ‘Gran may have mentioned it once or twice, yes. Being a hotel manager probably isn’t that different. It’s my job to keep everyone happy.’

  ‘But not to lie through your teeth, eh love. Not like your old Grandad.’

  She felt desperately sorry for him. ‘You haven’t lied through your teeth. You made one silly mistake. You can’t beat yourself up for ever over that.’

  A waitress hovered at their table. ‘Can I clear these up?’ Her eyes were impatient and Clara read the subtext there: If you’re not having anything else can you please bugger off. People are waiting for a table.

  She ordered another pot of tea for Grandad and another cinnamon latte for her and a hunk of lemon drizzle polenta cake, which she had an idea was slightly healthier than the chocolate gateaux.

  When the waitress had disappeared again, Grandad gave a wheezy sigh and then looked at her squarely. ‘The thing is, love. It wasn’t just the one silly mistake. There was another one.’

  ‘Another mistake?’ Now he had real
ly shocked her. ‘Do you mean there was another woman? A different one from this Mary person, I mean?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’ He dropped his eyes now, unlinked his hand from hers and picked up his used serviette, which he smoothed out beside his plate, pushing all the crumbs into one corner. Clara felt the cool space where his hand had been round hers, in the same way you do when you’ve taken off a glove.

  ‘When was this? Does Gran know?’ But even as she voiced the latter question Clara knew that she must. She hadn’t just been being ultra sniffy. Not that any of them had ever blamed her, because she’d had a right to be ultra sniffy. She’d had the moral high ground all along. But suddenly the three Sids made a lot more sense. She’d been hurting more than any of them realised, because this hadn’t been the first time but the second. Poor Gran.

  ‘I know…’ Grandad said now as if he had read her face and knew exactly what she was thinking. ‘I told you I was a silly old fool. I don’t deserve a decent woman like Thelma.’ He coughed quietly.

  All round them, the muted conversation of the other tables merged into a single low buzz and the scents of cake and coffee and sweetness threaded through it.

  The waitress arrived back with their drinks and the polenta cake and decanted them onto the table with fresh cutlery.

  Clara tried to gather her thoughts, which were swirling. How could she best be the diplomat that he’d so recently told her that she was? She stirred the cinnamon into the froth of her latte. Maybe she should just listen.

  He began to speak again. ‘The first mistake was a long time ago – the late sixties. We’d been married for just over seven years at the time – they used to call it the seven-year itch back then. I’d got made redundant and I was having trouble finding another job – we’d been having a few financial difficulties.’ He went back to smoothing the serviette. ‘It doesn’t matter about the details. The fact is that I got close to another woman. It didn’t go anywhere. It wasn’t the same as this time. In some ways, it was worse because I had strong feelings for her, but I didn’t leave your gran. We had a young daughter, your mother.’ He gave the tiniest of sighs. ‘I didn’t do anything. But I did tell Thelma about these feelings. I thought it was the right thing to do at the time. The honourable thing to do. If you can use the word honourable in such circumstances.’ His eyes clouded at the ancient memory. ‘She was so hurt. I didn’t think we would ever get back on track.’