The Golden Oldies Guesthouse (ARC)

by Dee MacDonald

  Then she espied the sign which heralded an exit to a load of places she’d never heard of but there – at the foot of the list – was Portmerryn. Take the third exit at the roundabout, her printed-out instructions informed her. She’d positioned them on the passenger seat so she could glance at them quickly from time to time. Now she was on the last leg of this epic trip.

  The road went on and on, but Celia didn’t mind. There was no need to go above forty most of the time, and there were lots of bends and hills which necessitated slowing down to thirty or less. At one point she could see a line of eight cars behind her in the rear-view mirror, but most of them roared past her when she got to one of the few straight stretches of road. Everyone was in such a hurry these days! She’d come miles and miles without needing to hurry, so goodness only knew where all these people were rushing to.

  It was a lovely day now, the cloud clearing and the sun finally emerging. And these wild flowers all along the side of the road in pinks and blues and yellows! She wished she could stop right now and paint some of them. May had always been her favourite month with everything so fresh and green, even in Dudley.

  She’d been driving for a good half hour before she got to the top of Portmerryn Hill and the view which took her breath away. Such dramatic scenery and such an expanse of sea! Again she felt she’d like to get her paints out this very minute, but there was nowhere to stop. As she descended to the coast she saw the rhododendrons – masses of them, lining the roadside and all in full bloom. And what a quaint little shop, with a post office, too! Not that she’d be expecting any mail and she certainly wouldn’t be sending any postcards, although there was a time when she might have done. Now she was driving along the coastal road with the sea pounding away on her right and some surfers wobbling around in the water. It must be cold in there which was why they’d be clad in these black things from head to toe – wetsuits, were they called?

  She was to look out for the pub and then to turn left shortly afterwards. There it was: Seagull Hill! Celia navigated her way up very carefully around some large potholes and almost missed the sign on the right: ‘The Sparrows’ Nest – Guesthouse’. And then she was there, parking in front of this beautiful big house, alongside a Land Rover and a smart Jaguar. Just as well she hadn’t rolled up in the old noisy Vauxhall.

  Celia rang the bell and the lady who answered it said, ‘You must be Miss Winsgrove? Do come in!’ She’d asked for a room with a sea view but all she could see at the front of the house were trees. But when the lady opened the door to the bedroom Celia could see that she certainly did have a sea view, and a stunning one at that! Then she said, ‘Call me Tess, and I’ll go find my husband to help you up with your things.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Celia, looking round at her new abode. This Tess seemed very pleasant and efficient, and the room was most acceptable. This was to be her home for an indefinite period and she’d rather hoped it might be pretty and chintzy. But the colours in this room were plain and muted and rather austere for her taste. Nonetheless, as she looked around at the twin beds, the easy chairs, the pretty wardrobe and then at the view again, Celia felt she’d made a good choice.

  And no one was likely to find her here.

  16

  GLIDE EASY

  The Glide Easy people finally arrived on the Tuesday morning, which was none too soon, as that was the day when Miss Celia Winsgrove was to arrive in the late afternoon. Glide Easy had the doors folding and unfolding in a very short time, accompanied by a long explanation for what had happened, none of which Tess understood. She only wanted to be assured that this ‘blip’, as they called it, would not happen again. It wouldn’t, they told her; it was a one in a million chance. Tess knew that every time she put her finger on that damned switch her heart would be in her mouth. No charge, they assured her, all covered by the guarantee. What wasn’t covered by the guarantee was the row she and Simon had had over it.

  They had all enjoyed their fish and chips last Saturday night, but Tess discovered that had been Matt’s idea. Her dear husband would have been perfectly happy eating in the pub without a thought for her, alone, guarding their property and their possessions. At times Simon could be incredibly selfish, no doubt due to being pampered in his acting heyday and, not least, being the baby in a family of three girls and the much-wanted son. His older sisters had adored him, cuddled him and pandered to his every whim. It was, admitted his sister Shirley, a miracle that he turned out as well as he did. Probably due to getting more than his quota of looks and charm as well.

  By the time Matt and the family headed back to London Tess could contain her wrath no longer.

  ‘They must have thought you were very selfish and uncaring to leave me here while you just went off to the pub like that,’ she said, as she stacked the lunchtime things in the dishwasher.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Simon, ‘they probably only thought you were being obsessive. Anyway, we all came back here, didn’t we?’

  ‘And whose idea was that? Not yours. That was Matt’s.’

  ‘A very good idea it was, too,’ said Simon airily.

  ‘It wouldn’t have occurred to you. You’d have spent the whole damned evening in The Portmerryn Arms with my family and thought nothing of it.’

  ‘Tess, for God’s sake, will you let it rest?’

  ‘No, I bloody well will not let it rest! It’s the principle of the thing; that you’d risk your wife’s feelings and safety for the sake of a pint of bloody beer and a less-than-gourmet meal.’

  And so it had gone on and on until Simon made some excuse about having to go out, and Tess continued to fume and wonder if she should consider a divorce.

  As she was preparing dinner Simon returned, bursting through the kitchen door with an armful of red roses. Dozens and dozens of them.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, well…’ She adjusted the oven temperature, then said, ‘Where on earth did you find all these?’

  ‘I did have to drive quite a distance,’ Simon said, laying the roses on the kitchen table, ‘but you’re worth it. Come here!’

  Tess reluctantly let herself be embraced.

  ‘Relax!’ he said. ‘I said I was sorry. I’m sorry for being a thoughtless, selfish, stubborn pig. Will that do?’

  ‘Just about,’ Tess said, grinning. ‘Just add “arrogant”.’

  ‘I’m a thoughtless, selfish, stubborn, arrogant pig,’ he agreed, before they both dissolved into laughter.

  No, her husband wasn’t as perfect as she’d first imagined! But she still loved him to bits and only prayed that these wretched windows would give them no further trouble.

  * * *

  As Tess awaited the arrival of her second guest she thought how lucky she was to have Dominic. He was so easy: didn’t want a cooked breakfast, was out most of the day, and kept his room tidy. It couldn’t last, of course, not with three more lots about to arrive. She was curious about this Celia Winsgrove, not quite knowing what to expect. She was coming to paint watercolours, she said. Her email had been brief and to the point; she’d much prefer to communicate by letter, she said. And, when the letter arrived to confirm her booking, it was beautifully written in an almost calligraphic script. She’d signed it: ‘Yours faithfully, C.A.H. Winsgrove’. She had to be old and she had to be fussy.

  So, when the red BMW appeared outside Tess wondered if she might have guessed wrongly.

  An elderly bespectacled lady emerged from the driving seat. She had a slight stoop, and short grey hair. At close quarters Tess could see watery blue eyes behind the spectacles, no make-up of any kind, and her clothes were of good quality, neat but dull.

  She hadn’t raved about the view from her room as Dominic had done. And she hadn’t said, ‘Call me Celia’ either. She would, she said, like dinner at seven thirty and she wasn’t keen on anything too spicy or too foreign. And she’d like some tea, in her room, as soon as convenient, with milk, please. Tess hadn’t bothered to point out the tea tray in her room
. Anyway, the poor woman was probably exhausted from her journey and wanted to be waited on.

  ‘Simon,’ she said when she got downstairs, ‘could you please help Miss Winsgrove carry her things upstairs?’ She wondered what Simon would make of their latest guest.

  When he came back he said, ‘Well, she didn’t make a pass at me or anything. I think you’re safe!’

  ‘Seriously, Simon, what did you make of her?’

  ‘Typical old spinster, I’d say. Quite a flashy car, though, and I think she’s probably got some money. Leave it to me, I’ll win her round in due course and find out the nitty-gritty.’

  * * *

  Dominic liked a couple of vodka and tonics in the sitting room before he had his dinner. As Tess served him she asked, ‘Where did you go today?’

  ‘Oh, just along the coast,’ he replied. ‘I’m still looking for inspiration and the sea is very important.’

  ‘Will your book be about the sea, then?’

  ‘Well yes,’ he said, ‘I’m planning to write something about the smuggling that used to go on around this coast. They were my favourite stories when I was young.’

  ‘Lots of shipwrecks out there, I’m told,’ Tess said.

  ‘I’m really just at the research stage at the moment,’ he said. ‘Looking for information.’

  ‘I know who might be able to help you,’ Tess said as she poured the tonic into his vodka, ‘Jed down at the pub. Have you been in there yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Probably worth a visit. Apparently, they have great beer, too. Anyway, Jed comes from an old Cornish family and a long line of innkeepers. He’s also got pictures of old sailing vessels all round the walls. Jed’s a bit of a rough diamond but good-hearted and he knows a lot about local history.’

  ‘I might have a wander down there after dinner,’ Dominic said.

  Tess cleared her throat. ‘The thing is, we’ve had another guest arrive today. She wants to eat at seven thirty as well, and I wondered if we should put you both at the same table, or give you a little table each?’

  Dominic took a sip of his drink and smiled. ‘Wouldn’t it be a bit peculiar us sitting in solitary splendour at separate tables?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose it would. But what if you don’t get on? I mean, she seems very nice but you can never tell, can you?’

  ‘Let’s see what happens this evening and, if she’s absolutely awful, then I’ll eat in my room or change my time, if that would suit you.’

  ‘We’ll play it by ear,’ Tess agreed.

  * * *

  Celia Winsgrove appeared on the dot of seven thirty. She’d changed into a cream blouse and tweed skirt, which she wore with sturdy-heeled court shoes.

  ‘Would you like a drink before dinner, Miss Winsgrove?’ Simon asked.

  ‘No, thank you. Some water with my meal would be nice. Tap water, that is. I don’t agree with all these silly-sounding and expensive so-called spring waters in bottles.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Simon.

  Tess busied herself behind the open door into the kitchen so she could hear their conversation, keen to know how Miss Winsgrove would fare with Dominic.

  Dominic, pink-faced after two large vodkas, emerged from the sitting room and sat down opposite. He held out his hand. ‘Dominic Delamere,’ he said.

  ‘Celia Winsgrove,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘It would appear we’re the only two guests.’

  ‘For the moment, yes,’ agreed Dominic. ‘But I do believe others will be coming in the next week or two. Have you come far?’

  ‘I’ve come from Dudley,’ she said. ‘Except I stayed overnight near Bristol.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said.

  Simon came back into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of wine.

  ‘Dominic,’ he said, ‘will you be having your usual claret?’

  ‘Oh, most definitely,’ said Dominic. ‘Would you like a glass, Miss Winsgrove? This is a very nice wine.’

  ‘I don’t actually drink alcohol very much,’ she replied. ‘Except at Christmas, when I generally partake of a sherry or two.’ She giggled.

  ‘Well, this is also an occasion for celebration, is it not? I understand you’ve come to paint? I think that calls for a glass of wine, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, just a very small one, then, Mr Delamere.’

  ‘Please call me Dominic.’

  ‘Are you here on business, Mr Dela… Dominic?’

  ‘No, I’m also hoping to be creative. I’m planning to write a book.’

  ‘How interesting. I say, these mushrooms are rather nice.’

  ‘Tess and Simon are excellent cooks and very good hosts. I’m looking forward to the goulash.’

  Celia took a small sip of wine. ‘Goulash? I don’t think I’ve had that before. I’m afraid I have rather conservative tastes.’

  ‘Well, there’s no time like the present for trying something new. Aren’t artists supposed to have eclectic tastes?’

  ‘I’ve not actually painted before,’ Celia said, taking another sip. ‘This is just something I’ve always wanted to do.’

  Tess was pressed up against the edge of the door hoping to find out something more about each of her guests. Aware that they’d finished their first course, she ventured into the dining room to remove the plates.

  ‘That was delicious, Tess,’ Dominic said. ‘I was just about to ask Miss Winsgrove here why she had left it so late to start her new hobby.’

  ‘Oh, is this a recent interest, then?’ Tess asked.

  ‘Well, I’ve always been interested but I couldn’t give it much time before.’

  ‘Oh, why is that?’

  ‘My mother died recently and she was an invalid for many years, so I didn’t have the freedom to get out and about. I was working as well, until a couple of weeks ago.’ Celia sipped her wine again.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry about your mother,’ Tess said.

  ‘Well, she was ninety-seven and very cranky,’ said Celia matter-of-factly. ‘That starter was delicious.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tess.

  As she headed back into the kitchen she found Simon dishing up the goulash. ‘Did you hear that?’ she whispered. And they both dissolved into giggles. They really did have an eclectic mix of guests!

  17

  TITANIA

  Titania Terry swore continually as she did eighty miles an hour down the M5 in her sporty old Toyota. She couldn’t abide these dreadful drivers tootling along at less than seventy in the middle lane and holding everyone up. The motorway was busy today, being Friday. She wished she’d set off a day earlier. Then she got stuck in the middle lane because of so much overtaking traffic and ended up behind an enormous great truck trying to overtake another enormous great truck. The one in the slow lane was probably doing fifty miles an hour, and the one overtaking it doing fifty-one, so the whole operation took about five minutes, and why the hell would they bother? Titania wondered. God, it was a long way to Cornwall. But she’d get there in another couple of hours hopefully.

  She was wearing her purple kaftan with the silver embroidery, along with her black leggings. She wasn’t sure about the silver boots; they weren’t particularly summery or comfortable, but they looked just right with this outfit. And she was wearing her chains and her bracelets which jangled each time she changed gear.

  The A30 was busy, too, and so was the B-road that supposedly led to Portmerryn. It went on and on and on. Titania sang along to Radio 2 and shouted at some silly old fool in front who – as well as holding everyone up doing thirty miles per hour – had suddenly decided to turn left without any warning. He shouldn’t have a driving licence, Titania decided. Probably some sort of country yokel. When she got to the top of the hill she got stuck behind a bus, which partly blocked her view. But she could see a lot of ocean out there, so this must be Portmerryn. And, boy, didn’t it look like a one-horse town! What on earth had possessed her to book a room in this godforsaken hole? She was missing London already. She drove past the pub an
d saw the sign for Seagull Hill. The bus carried on to goodness-knows-where.

  Didn’t anyone ever fill in potholes round here? God, they were horrendous!

  The guesthouse was easy to find and there was plenty room to park. That was the thing with London: parking was a complete nightmare. She checked the mirror before she got out of the car to see if the kohl had smudged round her eyes, but it was fine. What sort of people would live in a place like this? she wondered. Well, here was the first of them: a tall woman in jeans and a shirt.

  ‘You must be Titania Terry?’ the woman said.

  ‘And you must be Tess?’ Titania said, trying to ignore the arthritic protestations of her bones as she heaved herself out of the car, and wondering if she’d overdone it with the silver boots.

  ‘Yes,’ the woman said. Titania could see her looking at the boots. ‘How was your journey?’

  ‘Bloody awful,’ said Titania. ‘Heavy traffic most of the way.’

  ‘Oh dear. Well, never mind, you’re here now. Can I help you take some things up to your room? My husband will bring the heavy stuff.’

  At that moment a rather attractive man, presumably the husband, appeared. ‘Simon Sparrow,’ he said.

  Titania had seen him somewhere before, no doubt about it. ‘Titania Terry,’ she said, smiling and hoping there wasn’t lipstick on her teeth.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘the famous Titania Terry! Didn’t you do the Old Vic back in the—’

  ‘Yes, it was a few years ago,’ she interrupted. ‘I’ve done most of the West End theatres, darling, and lately just touring. You know how it is.’ She hesitated. ‘I feel sure I’ve seen you somewhere along the line.’