‘What kind of measures have you taken?’ I enquire in a serious tone, trying to ignore Nolan’s slightly uncomfortable expression. Doesn’t he want to know? ‘What efforts are you making to be greener?’
‘Oh, you know. Lots of things,’ Irene McClapperty tells me, looking a little awkward. ‘The bins. Bulbs. Composting. That kind of thing.’
‘That sounds lovely,’ Nolan says. ‘Nice to see folks making an effort. How long have you owned this gorgeous cottage?’
Well, that’s moved the subject on, hasn’t it? It’s clear Nolan doesn’t want to question Irene McClapperty further about her B&B’s green credentials. I wonder why?
The next few minutes are taken up with idle small talk as we drink our cups of tea, and then Irene McClapperty shows us to our room – which is enormous, gorgeous, and comes with a roll-top bath and a bed you could lose at least six puppies in.
I should be ecstatic about all of this, but instead I feel a little perturbed.
‘Why didn’t you let me ask her more about how green the B&B is?’ I ask Nolan, after Irene McClapperty has left us to settle in.
‘Because there’s plenty of time for us to find out about all of that stuff. It doesn’t need to be the first thing we ask about.’
I think on what he’s just said for a moment, and sigh. ‘Yeah. You’re right. It doesn’t.’ I pinch the bridge of my nose. ‘I think I’m becoming a little obsessed.’
Nolan comes over and wraps his arms around me. The hug is long, lovely and entirely what the doctor ordered.
‘Look,’ he says, continuing the hug, ‘just don’t worry about it for the next few days. We’re here to unwind. You don’t have to be on an environmental crusade every minute.’
‘Okay,’ I agree, nestling my face in his neck. It smells divine. ‘I’ll try to be a bit more . . . a bit more relaxed.’
Nolan ends the hug with a long, lingering kiss – and wouldn’t you know it, my concerns about how kind Irene McClapperty is to the polar bears go right out of my head.
I’m more concerned with puppies right now. Or rather, that bed that you could lose six of the cute little buggers in.
Nolan’s right.
I have to unwind.
I’ve got myself so passionate and committed to my job and the cause it champions that it’s turned me into a stress-filled frustration monster. That isn’t good for anyone – including me.
A few days of not thinking about it – and not thinking about work at all – will be good for me.
And that starts with seeing just how comfortable that bed truly is . . .
Very comfortable, as it turns out.
And that’s all the detail you’re getting.
Later that afternoon, Nolan and I drove a couple of miles to a pub restaurant that Irene McClapperty recommended to us.
The Lamb’s Tail was delightful, and the food was delicious.
By the time I’d consumed my salted caramel pudding, I truly was feeling relaxed for the first time in weeks. Neither of us mentioned work once during the meal, which made a massive change. Usually it’s the main topic of conversation in any chats we might have. I get the feeling that Nolan is deliberately not bringing it up, which is fine by me, as I don’t want to either. I don’t want anything to ruin my chilled-out mood, and talking about how The Green Tangent are still a bit unhappy with the new logo designs would certainly do that.
No. I am a chilled-out Ellie Cooke, and I intend to stay that way for the rest of the weekend.
If only . . .
If only those bulbs were all low energy.
Those ones.
Up there.
In the lounge light fitting at Withy Views B&B.
But they’re not, are they?
They’re normal bulbs. Normal, sixty-watt bulbs. Big, bulbous, normal, sixty-watt bulbs that I can’t stop looking at as Nolan stokes the fire, and I sip on my third red wine of the evening.
I noticed them about five minutes after we came in here to relax, after getting back from The Lamb’s Tail. Nolan suggested we spend a little time in the expansive cottage living room on one of the comfy sofas, and there was nobody else about, so it seemed like a great idea.
But now I see those bulbs, I can’t relax. Not properly.
Because why are they there?
If Irene McClapperty runs an environmentally friendly B&B, then why does she have normal bulbs in here? I haven’t seen them anywhere else. All the other lights seem to be fitted with low-energy LED bulbs.
The ones I’ve seen, that is. There are plenty of places around the B&B I haven’t visited. Are there more normal bulbs here? And what does that say about Irene McClapperty’s true commitment to reducing her carbon footprint?
I should never have had that conversation last week with Donald from Earth’s Future Lighting. He’s one of our newer clients, who came into the office to talk to Amisha about the layout for his company’s website. Donald told me how bad normal light bulbs are for the environment. I knew they weren’t great, but I had no idea just how much energy they use until he gave me a very detailed rundown of the damage they cause both to your electricity bill and the world around you.
And there’s four of them right above my head, right now . . . and I can’t relax.
Neither can I express my opinion about the four light bulbs to Nolan, without ruining the laid-back vibe we’ve had all day.
‘Let’s go up to bed,’ I say, trying to sound as chilled out as Nolan looks.
It’s utterly ridiculous that four light bulbs are forcing me out of a room, but I can’t help it.
‘Really? I was just getting comfortable,’ he says, looking a little disappointed.
‘Oh, I can make you comfortable, mister,’ I purr in his ear. ‘Very comfortable indeed.’
You can get a man out of any room in the world, if you purr in his ear like that.
I’d like to say I don’t feel a slight wave of relief come over me as we leave the lounge and its normal light bulbs, but I’d be lying.
What has become of me?
‘Toast?’ Irene McClapperty asks, as she pours me a filter coffee the next morning.
‘Yes please,’ I reply, continuing my appraisal of the massive kitchen as I do.
Is that one of those big range cookers I can see over there? Because I’ve heard they can be really bad for the environment. Surely someone who claims to run a green B&B wouldn’t have something like that in her kitchen?
I’ve already clocked the utility room that lies just off the kitchen. That’s probably where she keeps the kitchen bins. Whether they are recycling ones or not, I just don’t know. And I really do need to take a look in Irene McClapperty’s cleaning cupboard to see if she’s using the right kinds of products or not. If I see any disposable wet wipes, I may need to lodge a formal complaint.
Irene McClapperty brings over my toast, and with it a pat of butter in a dish. ‘Here you are, Ellie,’ she says, as she puts it down in front of me. ‘Only natural butter here. None of that fake stuff with the palm oil in it.’
She’s obviously keen to point out what efforts she’s making to be green, after my questions yesterday.
‘That’s lovely,’ I reply with a smile. And it is.
If only there weren’t those four normal light bulbs to worry about.
I manage to finish my breakfast without saying anything more. I don’t want to upset Nolan – or the two other guests currently at the B&B, for that matter. Maggie and Charles are here on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, and they really don’t need me harping on about whether Irene McClapperty uses bleach when she cleans the toilets while they try to eat their breakfast at the other end of the long table.
‘I read all about what the palm oil is doing to the poor orangutans,’ Irene McClapperty continues, looking at me solemnly. ‘Poor orange things.’
I affect a half-hearted smile. ‘Yes, it is a tragedy.’
It was Mordred O’Hare who convinced me of such. There’s only so long you can be
talked at by an animated bush with tears in his eyes, before you start to feel real sympathy for the apes he’s telling you about.
I’m glad Irene McClapperty knows all about the evils of palm oil, and is doing her bit to combat it.
But she also has four normal light bulbs in her living room, so I don’t say anything else to her as I bite down on my buttery toast and try to ignore that feeling of tension that just won’t leave the space between my shoulders.
‘We’re all finished,’ remarks Charles to Irene McClapperty, as he slurps the last of his morning tea. ‘Time for us to get up and about. It’s a lovely day!’
‘It is!’ our host agrees, starting to clear up their used crockery. ‘Any plans, you two?’
‘Oh, we’ll probably just go for a walk along the river,’ Charles replies, smiling indulgently at his wife. ‘At our age, nothing quite beats a lovely long walk somewhere beautiful.’
‘No indeed!’ Irene McClapperty says, trying her best to balance a couple of nearly empty plates, a teapot, two cups, and several used paper napkins. I wonder where she’ll be dumping the food residue. Does she have proper recycling facilities in that utility room or not?
Only one way to find out.
‘Let me help you!’ I exclaim, rising from my seat and bustling over to where Irene McClapperty is still trying to juggle all of that breakfast detritus.
‘No, no! I’m fine!’ she insists.
‘It’s no bother!’ I reply, with a brittle good humour in my voice.
I’m going to get to the bottom of how green you are, Mrs Irene McClapperty, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.
I pluck away the two plates, along with the napkins. ‘I’ll just take these over to the bins, shall I?’
‘Oh . . . er, yes please.’ Poor Irene McClapperty looks quite distressed at my sudden insistence on helping her clean up. It’s probably not something that happens too often in her B&B. Most people are content to let her get on with it, given how much money they’ve paid to stay here.
‘Your bins are out in the utility room, yes?’
‘Um . . . yes dear, they are.’
‘Thanks.’
And with that, I beetle over to the utility with triumph in my eyes.
Time to see just how green Irene McClapperty really is!
There are two large black bins out here, hidden behind a white wooden partition so the guests don’t have to look at them. But this guest is going to give them a good going-over, of that there is no doubt.
One is clearly an ordinary refuse bin. The other is green-topped and must be for the recycling.
But where is the bin for the waste food, eh?
Clara from Protocol Waste Management told me that all homes should have three bins. One for non-recyclable waste, one for recyclable items, and one for food waste!
But Irene McClapperty only has two.
I grumble to myself as I scrape the remnants of Charles’s beans and Maggie’s fried egg into the black bin, and deposit the napkins in the recycling bin – which is only a quarter full. How much recycling is Irene McClapperty actually doing?
I plonk the plates on the kitchen counter near the sink and return to the table, where Nolan is giving me an indecipherable look.
‘You . . . you did put the napkins in the recycling bin, didn’t you?’ Irene McClapperty asks me.
‘Oh yes. I most certainly did,’ I tell her.
‘Oh, well, thank you.’
‘What do you do with it?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘With the recyclable waste? Where does it go?’
Irene McClapperty looks a little perturbed. I’m not surprised. I’m now fixing her with an expression that would have been familiar to anyone undergoing questioning by the Wehrmacht about eighty years ago.
‘We have a composting system out the back,’ she tells me. ‘My son put it in.’
My eyes narrow.
Hmmm.
Believable, or not?
Would anyone with four normal light bulbs and no food waste bin have a composting system out the back?
‘Ah . . . that’s good . . . that’s good to know,’ I tell Irene McClapperty. I’m not sure whether I believe a word of what she’s saying, but I can hardly question her further right here and now, can I?
I will need to investigate this claim of hers about the composting system before I can say anything more . . .
‘I think a walk might be a lovely idea too, don’t you Nolan?’ I say to my boyfriend, who up until now has just been sat silently, watching me with an incredulous look on his face.
‘What?’
‘A walk, Nolan. Like Charles and Maggie are doing.’ I point at the couple with a finger that’s probably just a little bit too firm. ‘A walk would be nice. Very nice . . . indeed.’
‘Er . . . okay, Ellie,’ Nolan says, nodding slowly.
‘Excellent. That’s all sorted then. We’ll finish up here, and go for a lovely walk. We’ll start in the cottage garden. If that’s alright with you, Irene McClapperty?’
Oh God.
It’s one thing to mentally say her full name over and over, just because it’s so incredibly incongruous with her demeanour and look – but it’s quite another to say it out loud.
‘Yes, yes. The cottage is freely available for guests to enjoy.’
‘Excellent! Excellent, excellent,’ I say, sipping at my now-cool cup of coffee. I will find out whether Irene McClapperty is telling me the truth about her composting system, or my name’s not Montgomery Burns.
Sorry, I mean or my name’s not Ellie Cooke.
It is a lovely day outside. Charles was right. The sun, which has been entirely absent from this trip so far, has come out to play – although there are some large dark clouds off to the south that look like they might be ruining the party before long.
Time enough for that walk though.
Or should I say . . . investigation.
‘What is wrong with you?’ Nolan asks me, as we walk down the side of the cottage and out into the centre of the massive, mature garden. The damn thing is filled with so many flower-covered terraces, pergolas, gazebos and trellises that finding this composting system is going to be a job and a half.
‘Nothing! I’m perfectly fine, Nolan. How about a game of hide-and-seek?’
‘What?!’
‘A game of hide-and-seek. This garden looks like it’s perfect for a game of hide-and-seek, don’t you think?’
Well, how else am I supposed to get rid of Nolan while I look for Irene McClapperty’s composting system?
‘I don’t think—’
‘Come on, Nolan. Where’s your sense of childhood adventure?’
‘Er, back in my childhood?’
I give him a playful punch on the arm.
‘Ow!’
‘Oh, come on, that was just a playful punch. The kind you gave when you were a kid.’
Nolan rubs his arm and looks at me with an expression that is rapidly descending from mild befuddlement into full-blown concern. He knows something is most definitely up with me, but is probably too scared to bring it up.
That’s fine, Nolan.
You just go along with my ridiculous suggestion to play hide-and-seek, so I can catch Irene McClapperty out, and I’ll be okay for the rest of our minibreak. No worries at all.
‘Go on, you go off and hide,’ I demand, ‘and I’ll come and look for you after the count of fifty.’
Nolan has zero interest in playing hide-and-seek, but he can also see the expression on my face, so he does as he’s told.
I give him a few moments to disappear behind one of the ivy-covered trellises, and then nod in a satisfied manner. That’s got rid of him. Now I just have to find the composting system – if it exists!
One problem, though – what the hell does a composting system look like?
I know what a compost heap is, but a composting system? That sounds techy. And something that’s probably made out of biodegradable plastics.
>
It probably looks like a big green dalek, doesn’t it? Oh yes. That’s the type of look a composting system would have, and no mistake.
Let’s have a look around the corner here.
Nope. Not there.
Behind that trellis?
Nope.
Underneath that hyacinth-thronged gazebo?
Not there either.
Behind that lovely wooden bench and miniature fountain?
Certainly not.
Damn.
I’m not thinking this through properly.
A composting system would be nearer the house, wouldn’t it? Because you’d need it to be to get to it easily. Yes. Nearer the cottage. That’s where I’ll look next. Nolan went off in the opposite direction, so I won’t have to worry about him.
I search along the south wall of the cottage to no avail, pricking myself on a couple of rose bushes as I do so.
I then have a go at searching along the west wall – and wouldn’t you know it, I find the bloody composting system!
Only, it doesn’t look like a big green dalek. It’s just a slightly raised, square metal hatch, sitting in the middle of a neatly cropped patch of grass, enclosed by some brown, wicker fence panels.
Nevertheless, this must be it.
I’m almost disappointed.
I really wanted to catch Irene McClapperty out, but here we are – at her composting system. She was telling the truth.
Aha! But does she use it? That recycling bin in the utility room was nearly empty. Who’s to say Irene McClapperty actually puts this to any better use?!
I’ll have to open it up and have a look.
The metal hatch is only about a foot and a bit wide, but it’s also pretty damn heavy. Far heavier than I was expecting, and it takes all of my strength to pull it up and slide it off on to the grass.
A slightly unpleasant whiff hits my nostrils as I look down into the darkened guts of the composting system. I can barely see anything down there, so I employ the torch on my iPhone to get a better look.
About two feet below the hatch cover is a layer of greenish brown sludge.
Hmmm.
That certainly looks like compost, doesn’t it?
Going Green Page 25