The Little B & B at Cove End

by Linda Mitchelmore

  ‘Frock is a much nicer word than dress, I think, because dress is also a verb and frock, well, frock conjures up a more glamorous, more dignified time somehow.’

  ‘Yeah. You get it, Mum, don’t you?’

  ‘I do. I haven’t got the sort of figure that wears a frock well, though. But you have. We should all have the courage to be who we want to be and to wear what we want to wear, and I’m very proud of you, Mae, that you’ve got the courage to do that.’

  ‘Bailey said that. About my frocks and that. I think he fancies me.’ Mae disentangled herself from Cara’s arms. ‘Bailey’s okay. I like that he doesn’t swear every other word like most of the boys at school do. He’s got an old-fashioned way of talking as well, like he’s a lot older than fifteen. He sort of speaks the way his dad probably does. I never realised that before, but then I never gave him the chance because Josh came on the scene and sort of dazzled me.’ She laughed nervously.

  ‘Some men are like that,’ Cara said. ‘Dazzlers. Like sparklers, Rosie always says; all fizz for a very short while and then they’re duds.’

  She listened hard to see if she could hear Tom moving about, coming down the stairs maybe. He’d need to be off out again soon. Tom definitely wasn’t a dazzler, a sparkler, Cara decided – he was never going to be a dud.

  ‘What is Rosie like!’ Mae laughed.

  ‘A bit of a dazzler and sparkler herself really, I think,’ Cara said. ‘But there’s room in all our lives for that at times, eh?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mae said.

  ‘So, back to Bailey. If he asks you out again, will you go?’

  ‘Today, he sort of hinted we could start going out together again, but I don’t know …’

  ‘If he asks again, maybe you could give him a chance now?’ Cara said.

  ‘Yes, well,’ Mae said, ‘I’ve got all this gambling thing to think about now, haven’t I?’ She stood up. ‘Is it still quiche for tea? I’m starving!’

  ‘Me, too,’ Cara said.

  And perhaps some Prosecco with it. Not that they were celebrating anything, but things had moved on for them both now Mae knew about Mark’s gambling and Cara had told her the truth about his leaving.

  ‘In the garden?’ Mae asked. ‘The sun’s still on the top terrace by the apple trees.’

  ‘You’re on,’ Cara said, surprised how easily Mae seemed to have accepted the situation.

  ‘I might change for supper,’ Mae said. ‘This dress feels a bit skanky now. What with me wearing it at work all day, and all the angst when Bailey was telling me what he did, and then now …’ Mae shrugged.

  ‘Do that,’ Cara said. ‘Half an hour?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘But you still look lovely, Mae, whatever’s been going on.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Mae said, taking a sneak look at herself in the huge mirror over the fireplace. ‘I’ll pass.’

  And then she skipped out of the room, turning to give Cara a twirl in the doorway, before running to her room.

  ‘And I feel like a dishrag full of holes,’ Cara said, flopping down into the chair again, her head in her hands.

  ‘You’re too tough on yourself.’ Tom’s voice. Tom’s voice very close, close enough that his hand had now reached out and squeezed Cara’s shoulder. She flinched. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘Yes. No. What’s the time? I thought you were going out?’

  Please, please, say you’ve cancelled dinner with Louise.

  ‘I am. But I got trapped when Mae came in. I couldn’t go past the sitting-room door without being seen. I didn’t want Mae to know I’d heard so I just stopped there, just managing to nip into the downstairs cloakroom when she went upstairs. I promise to put the toilet seat down from now on and for evermore, by the way …’

  ‘Oh God, you heard everything.’

  ‘Just about. Flattered beyond belief that she compared me to Michelangelo. In my dreams!’

  ‘It wasn’t all bad, then?’ Cara said.

  ‘Far from it. But I’ll say my pennyworth and then you can tell me to mind my own business. I can see it must have hurt Mae like hell to have only just found that out about her dad. But I also think it must have hurt you more to have been shielding her from that, and having to live with it all before asking Mark to leave.’

  ‘And my paintings that Bailey told Mae are in the village pubs. I’ll have to go and see if that’s true.’

  ‘It sounds as though it might be,’ Tom said. ‘Do you need a hand to hold when you do it?’

  A metaphorical hand or a physical one?

  ‘Company would be good,’ Cara said. ‘If you’re offering.’

  ‘I am. But I’ve got to go. Louise should be there by now. She won’t like being kept waiting.’

  ‘Then I’ll let you get off,’ Cara said, her thoughts all over the place now. Tom was making it sound as though he really would like to go with her to see if the paintings really were hers or not, and yet his ex-wife still seemed to be featuring very heavily in his life.

  ‘I might be late back. I’ll be as quiet as I can coming in. Wish me luck.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Cara said, crossing her fingers on both hands.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘Sorry I’m late for breakfast,’ Tom said the next morning, suddenly appearing in the kitchen doorway. ‘If there still is some.’

  Cara glanced at the clock. Not quite ten. She’d been looking at that clock at ten-minute intervals since eight. Mae had had breakfast and gone off to her job. Cara had taken a call from the Information Office and now had a lady – a Miss Horsham – due to arrive at about four o’ clock and booked in for two nights. She’d then made soup, some cheese scones, and cleaned the worktops to within an inch of their lives. Something to do while she waited for Tom. She’d stayed awake until at least one o’ clock waiting to hear him come back but had eventually fallen asleep.

  ‘But you’re here now,’ Cara said. ‘And of course you can have breakfast. What would you like?’

  Cara was aware she had come over all landlady and not a woman who the day before had been, perhaps, on the cusp of having a relationship with the man standing in her kitchen, looking so damned desirable.

  ‘Scrambled egg? A rasher of bacon? Coffee? That’ll do me.’

  ‘I’ll bring it …’

  ‘To the breakfast room? I’ve been thinking, Cara, that I’d like to have breakfast here from now on, if that’s okay. I don’t feel like a guest any more. Besides, I get dragged into conversations with other guests in the breakfast room that keep me from getting on with my work. So …’ Tom looked, pleadingly, at Cara.

  Cara hadn’t been expecting that. She walked over to the fridge and took out the bacon, found the butter and the milk.

  ‘I can get it myself. I don’t want to put you out more than I already do. And you can tell Mae I promise to put my coffee mugs straight in the dishwasher from now on instead of leaving them in the sink. I am a man reformed!’

  ‘Will do!’ Cara laughed. ‘And of course it’ll be okay for you to have breakfast here.’ And then, as Cara took three eggs from the rack and cracked them into a bowl, she asked, because she needed to know, ‘How was dinner last night?’

  ‘Ah, I was going to ask you that. I kept thinking about you and Mae eating quiche and salad while I was listening to Louise’s demands. How did it go?’

  ‘Surprisingly good,’ Cara said, smiling. Tom had very neatly turned that question around, hadn’t he? ‘She sort of understands why I had to ask her dad to go. Well, to try and sort himself out really. And we talked about relationships. Making them, breaking them, then making new ones again.’

  ‘Yeah, never easy that, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has there been anyone since Mark?’ Tom asked. ‘No, no, don’t answer that, I shouldn’t have asked. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay. Violin time,’ Cara laughed, playing air violin. Tom had asked as though he really was interested. ‘I haven’t,
no. Not even a drink with anyone. No one’s asked me.’

  ‘Well, if you want my opinion, there are probably more than a few men around here who need to go to Specsavers.’

  Was that his way of asking her out for a drink?

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment!’ Cara laughed. She lit the gas and put butter in the pan ready to scramble the eggs. Then she put three rashers of bacon under the grill. ‘You?’

  ‘Ah. I can’t claim to be so saintly,’ Tom said. ‘Post-divorce, that is. Before that I was faithful, which is more than I can say for Louise. Which is probably more than you need to know but I learned a lot about you last night when I was unintentionally eavesdropping, so it’s only fair I offer you some info in return. Well, I think so. Tell me if I’m out of order.’

  ‘No, no,’ Cara said quickly. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘It took me years to figure out that she was being unfaithful. The saying has it the wife is the last to know, but in my case it was the husband. My turn for the violin.’

  What he’d told her wasn’t exactly funny, but as Tom played air violin with a hang-dog expression it made her laugh.

  They were laying out a bit more of their pasts to one another, weren’t they?

  ‘And dinner last night with Louise?’ Cara asked, reaching for a plate from the rack on the wall. ‘Don’t think you can get out of telling me!’

  ‘I tried,’ Tom said. ‘The thing is she wants to come down for the art festival. She wants to share my venue to show her own work …’

  ‘Louise is an artist?’ Cara asked. The delicious banter she and Tom had been sharing had suddenly soured. What was he trying to tell her?

  ‘Potter.’

  ‘And will she? Be sharing your venue?’

  ‘No. She wasn’t best pleased when I told her that. Or when I drove her back to the railway station to pick up the night sleeper back to London. Louise – as ever – is between lovers. She got as mad as hell when I wouldn’t tell her where exactly in Larracombe I’m staying. We share an agent, Louise and I, and that’s how she found out I was down here.’ Tom reached for the wooden tub of cutlery Cara always kept on the kitchen table. He placed a knife and fork either side of the table mat. How very comfortable he looked doing that despite the conversation they were having. And how good it felt to Cara watching him.

  But she was itching to know if Louise had been someone with whom Tom had been less than saintly after their divorce. But she couldn’t ask that, could she? Tom would tell her in his own time – if he wanted to. It was none of her business anyway, and what they’d both been, and to whom, was in the past.

  Tom’s breakfast now plated up, she set it down in front of him.

  ‘Coffee in a tick,’ she said, flicking the switch on the kettle. ‘Croissant? I’ve got some in the freezer.’

  ‘Only if you’ll join me,’ Tom said.

  Cara reached for another mug, then took two croissants from the freezer and put them in the microwave on defrost. It ought to have felt strange being invited to drink coffee and eat croissants in her own kitchen but somehow it didn’t.

  ‘The paintings,’ Tom said. ‘The ones Mae’s been told are in the village pubs? When do you want to go and see if they’re there?’

  ‘Now?’ Cara said. ‘I’ve got a guest booked in for tonight, but she won’t be here until mid-afternoon.’ Cara spooned ground coffee into a cafétière and then poured on the hot water. Maybe they could do lunch as well, her and Tom? Perhaps, over moules marinières or something, and a glass of wine to loosen their tongues, there’d be a bit more unravelling of one another’s pasts, paving the way for a new future for them both?

  ‘Ah, not right now,’ Tom said. ‘Back to the coalface for me when I’ve eaten this. Tonight maybe? And if there’s any of that quiche left over from yesterday, I’m sure I could find it a good home.’

  ‘There is,’ Cara said. ‘I’ll put a slice on a plate for you in the fridge.’

  She ought to go, sooner rather than later, to see if they were her paintings in the pubs but didn’t want to go on her own; Tom had offered her a hand to hold yesterday, and he’d brought the subject up again now. She’d just have to patient, wouldn’t she?

  ‘When you’ve got a moment,’ Cara said, sitting down opposite Tom, and cradling her mug of coffee in her hands. ‘To go and look at the paintings, I mean. It’s been a while since I’ve seen them … I can wait a bit longer.’

  Miss Horsham – Sylvia – was late arriving. Very late. Mid-afternoon came and went. It was well after eight o’clock when she turned up.

  ‘The traffic around here is horrendous!’ Sylvia Horsham snapped the moment Cara opened the door. ‘And this place wasn’t easy to find. Hilly. And it’s raining.’

  Cara had urged her to come in, given her a choice of teas from which to choose, regular and decaffeinated coffee, then shown her to her room.

  ‘My bags,’ Miss Horsham had said. ‘They’re in the boot of my car.’ She’d jangled her keys at Cara, held them out towards her. ‘My wrists, you know. I can’t lift heavy things. Oh, and I can’t stand flowers in a bedroom. All that pollen.’

  ‘Right.’ Cara took the offending flowers in one hand and Miss Horsham’s car keys in the other, too stunned to say or do anything else.

  Miss Horsham’s stay went from bad to worse after that. The rain didn’t let up and Miss Horsham refused to venture outside.

  ‘I’ve got plenty to read,’ she told Cara.

  So that was why her case had been so damned heavy to carry in.

  Miss Horsham rang out for takeaways. Fish and chips. Curry. Chinese. She didn’t seem to have regular mealtimes. The first morning she’d turned up at gone eleven expecting breakfast.

  ‘Breakfast finished at nine,’ Cara had told her. ‘But seeing as you had a horrid journey yesterday, I’ll make an exception this morning.’

  Miss Horsham had merely harrumphed.

  The first time the takeaway delivery lad from the fish and chip shop in Quay Street had arrived on Cara’s doorstep, she told him he must have got the wrong address. Miss Horsham then appeared on the landing.

  ‘He has not!’ she called down the stairs. ‘I’ll take delivery of it in the breakfast room.’

  In two days, Miss Horsham seemed to have cancelled out all the good experiences Cara had had with the guests who had come before her. Cara wrote a list of rules to be posted in the guest rooms. No takeaways permitted on the premises. Breakfast served 7 – 9 a.m. Rooms must be vacated by 10 a.m. on day of leaving.

  Tom had been mildly amused at Miss Horsham and her antics. At breakfast on the second morning of her visit, he’d joked that if she got any worse or overstayed her booking, he’d nip down the Beachcomber and round up a few burly fisherman to come and turf her out. But Tom had hardly left his room during Miss Horsham’s stay. Cara had heard him talking to someone on his phone quite a lot. Sometimes quite late. Cara didn’t want to think about who it might be.

  But now the rain had stopped and the sun was out again in full force and Miss Horsham had gone – as well as two of Cara’s best Egyptian cotton towels and the little dish Cara had placed on the bedside table in the room to hold coins or keys or whatever else her guest might use it for. Ah well, she’d put it down to experience.

  Cara set about cleaning the room, sorting the bedlinen. She opened the window to rid the room of the lingering food smell. She wondered just what Miss Horsham might have got from her stay, apart from reading a lot of books that she’d left at the bottom of her bed – her idea of payment for the towels and dish she’d taken, perhaps.

  ‘Has she gone?’ Mae asked, suddenly appearing in the doorway.

  ‘At last!’ Cara said.

  ‘I don’t know why you didn’t just chuck her out,’ Mae grumbled, leaning against the door jamb, dressed today in a deep cerise and white gingham boat-necked dress with a wide white cumber band.

  ‘I considered it,’ Cara said. ‘Tom offered to round up some heavies from the Beachcomber if she overstayed h
er booking!’

  ‘Huh!’ Mae said. ‘Did you know he had breakfast in our kitchen this morning?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cara said. ‘I said he could. I mean, would you want to have breakfasted with Miss Horsham?’

  ‘And I caught him putting a portion of cottage pie in the microwave last night,’ Mae said, ignoring Cara’s question.

  ‘I told him he could do that as well,’ Cara said.

  ‘Huh!’ Mae said again. ‘Anyway, back to the Beachcomber, seeing as you mentioned it. Are you going to go in and see the painting? And the others in the Boathouse?’

  ‘Of course,’ Cara said. ‘I would have gone before but, well, with Miss Horsham here I didn’t want to leave the house. I wouldn’t have put it past her to go exploring, and make herself more at home than she already had if I wasn’t here.’

  She could tell Mae was put out that she hadn’t been before. Cara considered telling Mae that Tom had said he’d go with her when he had a moment. She could hear him upstairs, dragging something across the wooden floor in his room. An easel probably. Or maybe a chair.

  ‘Yeah, there’s that,’ Mae said. ‘Anyway, I’m off in a minute.’

  ‘To work?’

  Despite the fact it had been raining fairly heavily for the past two days Mae had been in the ice-cream kiosk, coming back to report that ‘stupid people eat freezing cold lollies even when it’s wet and freezing cold! Losers!’

  ‘Nope, not today.’ Mae grabbed the hem of her dress on either side and made figure-of-eight movements with it – a coy gesture, Cara thought. ‘I’m, like, seeing Bailey.’

  ‘Ah,’ Cara said.

  ‘Josh came by yesterday and the day before. Gardeners don’t work in the rain, I suppose. Well, he wasn’t anyway. He was with Alice Morrell. Came right up to the kiosk he did and bought two pina colada lollies. All over her he was, like a dose of hives or something, slobbering on her neck when he fished the money from his pocket. Like I cared. Lollies, Mum, when it was so cold I wore my jacket all day at work.’

  Ah, so that was where the comment about people eating lollies on freezing cold days – losers! – had come from!