“They’re not big on get-togethers.”
“Tough. I’m relying on you to round everybody up.”
“Actually, darling, I think I’ve one of my heads coming on, I’ll just… ”
“No,” I interrupted sharply, “No, you won’t. You will not slope off as usual and leave everything to me. You got us into this crazy situation, the least, the very least you can do is pull your weight to get us out.” She opened her mouth, but I was just getting into my stride, “If, Ma, you decide you want to leave at any time, that’s just fine with me, say the word and we’re out of this like a shot. It isn’t my guilty conscience that’s keeping us here – these people may be your family, they’re not mine. As far as I’m concerned, they’re just a bunch of nutty strangers. We stay, we go, your choice.” I paused for breath and she tutted.
“I honestly do not know, Serenissima where you get such a mouth – and that hard streak, not from me that’s for sure.”
“Is that so? Well let me tell you… ” we were interrupted by a series of agitated pings from the bell on the reception desk in the hall. I stepped out from the shadow of the staircase to take a look. There was a young woman with her back to me, shifting from one sturdily-shod foot to the other. Outside the front door, I could see a small car drawn up – honestly, they really shouldn’t leave that door open all the time when the reception desk was unattended. I looked down at myself, I was hardly a picture of sartorial efficiency, but someone would have to go, I put out a hand to grab Ophelia who was, as always, dressed impeccably and could easily play receptionist. Needless to say, the instant I’d turned my back, she’d seized the opportunity to slope off, leaving me with no choices. Bloody woman.
“Morning,” I said brightly, making the best of things and moving forward. The woman jumped and swung round to face me. She was younger than I’d thought with a black knitted hat pulled down over a mass of curly, hectically red hair, the freckles that go with it and a nose either reddened by the wind or a streaming cold. She had a black leather coat over her arm, a document case under it and a chunky jumper tucked into the waist of her trousers, which was doing her no favours in the tummy region.
“Oops, you made me jump.” She said, “Sorry about the bell, I never know whether these things are really meant to be rung, but there didn’t seem to be anybody around?” She had one of those speech patterns that make a question of every statement, voice rising plaintively at the end of each sentence seeking, doubting or inviting comprehension. It was one of my business partner Sally’s most annoying habits and I hated it that after a while in her company, I’d find myself doing it too.
“No, I’m terribly sorry, there should have been someone on duty.” I indicated my jeans apologetically, “Bit of a housekeeping blitz.” I moved into place behind the desk, on which sat the large, closed registration book and was about to haul it open in an officious manner until it occurred to me, it might reveal an appalling blankness of page, so was probably best kept closed.
“Do you, um, have a reservation?” I asked.
“No. No, actually I don’t.”
“Ah.” I sucked some air in through my teeth, to indicate this wasn’t good news. She looked swiftly over her shoulder, reminding me of Gladys, although she needn’t have worried, the hall was hardly thronging with cocked ears, nevertheless she leaned forward and lowered her voice.
“Look,” she confided, “I’m actually in a bit of a pickle.” Great, I thought, just what I needed, someone else in a pickle. I waited politely for her to go on.
“I really, really don’t know whether you’ll be able to help me out?”
“Well, you’ll have to give me a clue.”
“Yes, sorry, sorry, silly billy me, I’m in that much of a tizz – you see we were all set up for Westerly Manor. But there’s been a bit of an issue.”
“An issue?” my questioning tone echoed hers, despite my best efforts.
“God yes. See their chef’s only gone and run off with the owner’s wife, the Dalmation and all of last week’s takings.” I sealed my lips and looked suitably shocked, though if she thought Westerly Manor had issues, she should get a load of ours. “Anyway,” she continued, “Oliver Owen – the owner, you probably know him don’t you, he’s in the most dreadful state – she was last year’s overall Crufts winner, the dog I mean, not the wife.” She paused for breath, “Thing is, all the prelim work’s been done, but he says he simply can’t go ahead now and of course he’s right, we can’t film him, he’s either cursing or crying and that doesn’t look good, does it? So I’ve been driving round and round all morning and someone finally sent me here.” She paused again, taking in the surroundings and looking suddenly doubtful, “This is a hotel isn’t it? I mean you are a going concern?” I lied swiftly and without compunction.
“Absolutely.”
“And you haven’t been in business all that long?”
“Well… ”
“God! Sorry, sorry, sorry.” She struck herself, open-handed on the black tea-cosy, “I’m such a numpty, haven’t even said what I’m after, have I?”
“A room?” I enquired hopefully, leaning against the desk and feeling, as I often did with Sal, that if I was with her long enough, I’d never regain a normal speech pattern.
“No. I mean yes. Actually, more than one?” She said. I tried not to look over-excited. “And, oh sugar! I haven’t even asked, are you the proprietor? I’m only supposed to speak to the person in charge.”
“Trust me.” I said firmly, “If there’s anybody in charge, it’s me.”
“Phew, jolly good, relief all round! Look this is my card.” She was, it appeared, Charlotte Leavington-Rubicon, researcher for All Seeing Eye. “But call me Charley,” she instructed, “Everyone does. Thing is, we’re doing a series called Lift Off – following through on people setting out in different enterprises, that’s why we picked on Oliver, he was the manager, but he just bought out the previous owners. Anyway, what we’re after is the ups and downs, highs and lows, you know, personalities and problems behind the projects, fly on the wall – it’s pre-sold to Channel Four, scheduled for Spring, we’ve already got a bakery, a nursery – tots not plants – and wedding dress hire under our belts, now we want a country house hotel, d’you see?” She paused and we both took a deep breath. I was indeed starting to see, and who’d have thought manna from heaven might turn up in a black woolly hat.
“You want to film a documentary here?” I clarified. “About us?”
“Well, in principle yes, although I do have to find out a bit about you and make sure you’re interesting enough – although,” she added hastily, “I’m sure you are. But like, at Westerly – there was the prize-winning dog – makes for interesting stuff, gets the viewers involved you know, we want the Ooh Factor, quirky or cute, either will do just as well.”
I nodded enthusiastically, my mind racing. We’d have no problem with quirky, although I didn’t think we were in with a chance when it came to cute. We’d also have to make sure Bella wasn’t recognized by any less-than-satisfied clients from the London scandal, and I wasn’t entirely sure whether Ophelia’s light might best be hidden under a bushel or whether a celebrity relative, come down to help out, would be an additional attraction. I dragged attention back to Charley with an effort.
“…so you see.” She was saying, “I’ve simply got to, got to, got to, get it all set up today.” The pale blue eyes were swimming a little now and the right one had developed a small tic, this was one seriously stressed researcher. “We’re all geared to go and Max – our director, terribly good, short-listed for a Bafta last year, but bit of a diva – will tear his hair out, and mine, if we’re not all ready and raring. Please tell me…” she put one desperate, nails bitten to the quick, hand on my arm, “…that you’re interesting?”
“Well,” I said reflectively, patting the hand. “We don’t have
any prize-winning dogs, but we do have a tame wolf.” I wondered briefly whether we could train him to stop purring and start howling. “And, it’s really funny you should turn up now, because we do seem to be having a few curious goings-on.”
“A wolf? OMG how wonderful is that?” Her grip tightened on my arm. “And goings-on?” Her nostrils flared, “What sort of goings-on?” I did my own bit of looking over the shoulder to check for listeners and she automatically mirrored me, before we both leaned in towards each other again.
“You’ll probably laugh,” I said hesitantly, “But we think we might be… haunted.” I dropped my voice and cast my eyes downward, to indicate what a disaster that would be.
“Oh!” She said, face flushing, “Oh, oh, oh, my giddy sainted Aunt. That’s just too, too wonderfully brilliant for words. A ghost, you’ve got a ghost?” I nodded modestly and tried to look rueful at the same time. She’d whipped off the woolly hat in the excitement and was fanning her hot face.
“And would you… would you be happy to have us film here?” She asked breathlessly. I pursed my lips and did the sucking air through the teeth thing again, I didn’t want to come across as too easy – never a good start to a relationship,
“I will have to talk to my Great Grandmother, she’s…”
“There’s a Great Grandmother?” Charley’s flush was becoming positively hectic and she was hopping from one foot to another. Much more excitement and I’d have to throw a bucket of water over her. “My God – viewers just love a Great Grandmother.” I smiled grimly – I wasn’t sure they’d love mine.
“Right, well she’s the actual owner, although,” I added hastily, “I’m running the show now, but I would have to have a word. And I’d need to know a bit more about what’s entailed. And,” I added tentatively, “Whether there’s any financial inducement?” In truth, I thought the PR would be worth its weight in gold on its own, but no harm in asking – you don’t ask, you don’t get. “Perhaps we can sit down for a chat and you can fill me in on all the details. Coffee?”
“Yes, yes please.” She said. “That would be wonderful, you’re an absolute star. I’m dying for a wee first though, all that driving, you know.” I directed her to the downstairs toilet I’d discovered earlier, then sprinted for the kitchen, where I was beyond frustrated to find no evidence of cleaners and still less of Ophelia on their case.
Time being of the essence, I boiled up just enough water for one coffee, threw two cups and saucers together spooned in granules, filled mine up with cold water, hers with the now boiled and legged it back, so I could usher her, in leisurely fashion into the library. I had to take a deep breath to avoid panting in an unseemly fashion – a little more time here and I’d either be fit as a fiddle or dead. Indicating a chair, I handed her the hot cup.
“Mmmm lovely, thanks a million,” she murmured, unwinding her woolly scarf. “I needed this more than you can possibly know, you’ve saved my life in more ways than one.” I smiled, warmly at her, the feeling was mutual.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Charley Leavington-Rubicon and I spent a highly productive period in the library while she recorded on her phone my potted history of the house, its conversion to a hotel and (judiciously edited), some of the family members and staff involved. And if, because just over twenty-four hours ago I’d known less about the set up than she did, there was a fair bit of imaginative gap-filling, she didn’t know and I wasn’t bothered. Mind you, it did belatedly occur to me, it might not have been a bad idea to record a few bits myself, so I could remember exactly what I’d said.
“Wow, what a background.” She said, throwing herself back in her chair then bouncing forward again, “Now, tell me, tell me, tell me about what’s been going bump in the night. Actually, you won’t believe this but… ” and she wriggled and shivered a little
“…I’m actually getting some odd sensations right now.” I was pretty certain any odd sensations she was getting were due to the clapped-out springs of the armchair in which she sitting, because I was sitting on its companion and was getting some uncomfortable feelings in the nether regions myself. This, combined with the diabolical draught whistling under the library door, wasn’t doing anything for anybody’s comfort zone but still – all grist to the chill mill.
“Goodness.” I said, wide-eyed, hand to chest. “You must be very sensitive Charley, most people don’t sense her immediately.”
“Her?”
“Well yes, it was in here you see that she…” I paused and took a slow sip of my icy coffee to give myself time to decide what exactly it was she’d done.
“My God, she killed herself, didn’t she?” Charley gasped obligingly.
“But that’s just incredible,” I gasped back, “How could you possibly know that?”
“I just felt it.” She said breathlessly, she now had her hand on her chest too. “Who was she?”
“One of the housemaids, a young girl from the village. Just sixteen years old, came here to work, and…”
“Wronged, she was wronged, wasn’t she? A man? It’s always a man.” I nodded silently, maybe if I didn’t say anything else at all, Charley would sort out the whole story for me. She leaned even further forward, so I did too.
“How did she… ?” she asked.
“Hanged herself.” I said glumly.
“How?”
“With a rope?” I knew it – I was starting to talk like her.
“No, I mean, where from?” Charley was looking round the room expectantly, I could have kicked myself, maybe I should have stuck with the self-contained simplicity of poison.
“No, sorry,” I amended hastily, “She actually hanged herself in the attic, but it was in here that she and he…” I paused delicately.
“The bastard!” The venom with which Charley spat that, led me to believe she’d had her own poor experience with the opposite sex in the not too distant past – I’d have to introduce her to my Mother they’d have things in common. “So, what does she do?”
“Do?”
“I mean, do you actually see her, or is it just noises, sobbing and that?”
“Ah, well, some people have certainly seen her, you know,” I said vaguely, “Others just seem to hear her, calling out for him and yes there is a fair bit of sobbing now you mention and sadness, a terrible feeling of sadness. Good grief,” I shivered dramatically in admiration, “It’s just like you’re tuned in to her already Charley, it’s uncanny.” She sighed with satisfaction,
“People do say,” she conceded modestly, “That I am on the sensitive side. But Sandra, this is all just brill. First class. A1. Bloody brill, times ten over!”
Naturally, once I’d embarked on the tragic tale of the brief life and times of poor wronged little Polly Malone – I know, I know, not dead original – but you try being more imaginative, when you’re thinking on your feet although I must admit, every time I paused for breath, Charley was in like Flynn. Honestly, the girl was wasted as a researcher, she should have been a member of the Screenwriter’s Guild. We covered the whole sad tale in no time, both of us totally bowled over by how much she seemed to be sensing. Indeed, we agreed, it was almost as if she knew what I was going to say before I said it.
It transpired, the filming schedule was over the next six weeks and wouldn’t be every day. She explained, this enabled them to work concurrently on other projects, but would also give a longer overview of what was going on with the hotel. They’d need three rooms for a couple of nights every week and on some weeks, four rooms. There would be herself, Maxwell Fearnstill the Director, Karl their camera guy and intermittently, Ffion Sykes who was doing intros, summaries and connecting pieces, but didn’t need to be there all the time. Charley announced Ffion with some pride, and thereafter talked about her as the Talent, so although I’d never heard of the woman, I did a small ‘ooh’ with my mouth to show how impressed I was
. Apparently, much of the narration would be added after editing, back at the studios, and the majority of the programme would be shot with Maxwell himself questioning us from off camera as we went about our daily business.
In view of the length and regularity of the booking, I was able to offer Charley a special rate for the rooms, although as I had no idea what the normal rate might be, this was truly a shot in the dark. However, I can’t have been far off as she was most appreciative, and in the general bonhomie, I threw in breakfast for good measure, although made it clear we’d charge additionally for evening meals. By this time, I was starting to get a tad twitchy, we’d been uninterrupted so far, but the last thing I needed was one of the family walking in before I’d primed them. I glanced at my watch which showed we were coming up for 12.00.
“Look, I hate to be rude but…” I said, getting up from the chair and reflecting my bottom was probably permanently spring-scarred. Charley seized the hint with alacrity, as indeed she had everything else, she really was a most obliging sort of a girl.
“No, you’ve been beyond brilliant Sandra, I absolutely can’t thank you enough, I’ve a heap and a half of stuff to go off and get on with now, and I can always call you for any more info I need, can’t I? I simply can’t believe how lucky I’ve been, this is soooo much better than an award-winning dog. See you first thing Monday then?” I hesitated, I could already see my avowed tenure stretching further than I wanted, but this was too good a chance to pass up.
“Super.” I said. “Can’t wait.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The documentary idea was greeted at the 5.00 o’clock family confab I’d called, with all the enthusiasm I’d expected.
“A documentary!” said Etty in Lady Bracknell tones. “Over my dead body.” We were an uneasy gathering, and I for one was exhausted and not prepared to put up with any nonsense. I glared at her,
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