‘Hello,’ she says. ‘I’m really sorry we’ve intruded. I didn’t expect residents.’
After a moment, the woman slowly lifts her head and stares straight at Mel. She says nothing and doesn’t even appear to be shocked by her presence. There’s just nothing, as if she’s empty inside. She blinks once, slowly, before turning her gaze to Kate, who has retreated to the door. Then she looks back at Mel again. No smile, no words, no flicker of shock, anger or surprise. Just nothing.
‘We’ll leave you in peace,’ Mel mouths in an overstated way to make it easier to lip-read, in case she’s deaf.
The woman just stares.
‘OK, well, I’m sorry again,’ she says, walking away backwards until she bumps into Kate. ‘Come on, love, let’s leave the lady alone. Sorry,’ she repeats with a brief wave as they close the door behind them.
‘That woman in room twelve was weird,’ Kate says, dumping several holdalls from the car in room nine, the one she’s finally chosen.
‘Very,’ Mel replies, lowering a box of stuff to the floor. ‘And how on earth did we fit all this in the car?’ she says, shaking her head at the things they’ve unloaded.
‘She looked as though she’d been in there for ever,’ Kate goes on. ‘Maybe that’s what happens to anyone who comes to stay here. They get trapped, like they’re in some impossible computer game so they never leave.’
‘I think you’ve been playing too many computer games,’ Mel laughs, opening the holdall and taking out a stack of Kate’s clothes. She goes over to the chest of drawers – an old brown thing with gold-coloured square knobs. When she opens the top drawer, it’s lined with orange and green floral wallpaper. ‘That’s straight out of the Seventies,’ she says, checking it looks reasonably clean before putting Kate’s T-shirts and other tops in there.
‘Sick,’ Kate says, peering in. ‘This place is like a museum. It’s so cool. Even though she scared me a bit, that old lady is pretty cool too. Like a ghost or something.’
‘I’d say less of the old, love,’ Mel jokes, dumping a pile of Kate’s underwear in another drawer. ‘I don’t think she can have been too much older than me.’
‘She must have been at least eighty, I reckon. And that’s super-old.’
‘I reckon she’s early fifties, fifty-five tops. And that’s only fifteen years or so older than me. Your perception of old is very different to mine, young lady.’ Mel goes in for a tickle then, making Kate squeal. That’s when they spot Nikki in the doorway.
‘Settling in OK?’ she asks. ‘I brought you these.’ She holds out a pile of fresh towels – not the usual hotel-issue white bath sheets, but rather half a dozen patterned and striped towels in varying shades of turquoise, yellow and green.
‘Thank you, that’s kind,’ Mel says, taking them and placing them on the bed. They smell fresh, at least, she thinks.
‘We’re opening up the bar shortly,’ Nikki continues. ‘We sometimes get a few in on a Saturday, so it’d be a good chance for you to meet one or two of the locals. Also, Tom said he’d come by for a pint. He’s maintenance. Rose is in the kitchen making her famous lasagne. I told everyone you’re here.’ Nikki grins, the edges of her almond-shaped eyes almost reaching her tight hairline as she beams. She’s changed into what looks like some kind of uniform – a stretchy black skirt and a white blouse with a name badge pinned crookedly above the top pocket.
‘Great,’ Mel says, wringing her hands together, knowing that somehow she has to make Moreton Inn profitable. And to achieve that, she needs a motivated team. Or a new team, she thinks, imagining Tom to be a pensioner who occasionally dabbles with a screwdriver if the mood takes him.
‘See you downstairs then,’ Nikki says, heading off and closing the door behind her.
‘They’re hoping you’re going to save this place, Mum,’ Kate says, lifting her beloved computer from its box and blowing dust from the top. Mel had saved and saved in the run-up to last Christmas, taken out a payday loan, done extra shifts at The Cedars, and still Michael had stepped in with the last couple of hundred pounds so she had enough to buy Kate the gaming machine she so longed for. He’d told Mel he’d had a spot of good fortune, that Kate deserved a decent gift. Mel didn’t ask questions but accepted gratefully.
‘That’s what’s worrying me,’ Mel replies, laughing. ‘But at least Nikki seems keen.’
‘Too keen, if you ask me,’ Kate says, putting her computer monitor on the dressing table in the window. ‘She’s trying too hard. Olivia at school does that. Comes across all goody-goody then stabs you in the back.’
‘Well, I’m sure Nikki isn’t like that. Let’s give her a chance, eh?’ Mel gathers up the towels and takes them into the bathroom, unfolding them to hang on the rail. But she freezes, stifling a squeal as the stiff body of a dead mouse falls out of one of them.
Fifteen
It was the delicious smell that drew Mel downstairs. After she’d disposed of the mouse, trying to convince herself that Nikki couldn’t possibly have known it was there, all she wanted to do was lie on her bed and take stock of what had been a long and extraordinary day. Tiredness didn’t come close to describing the deep ache in her bones. It hardly seemed possible that this morning she was emptying out the last dregs of their belongings from the little flat in Birmingham, loading up the car and then, as if by magic, she and Kate were in a hotel less than a mile from the sea in a village she’d never heard of two weeks ago.
Her hotel.
According to Robert Hedge, the other firm dealing with the matter had released documentation a few days earlier, allowing Mel to move to the premises as if it were her own. While the final paperwork hadn’t quite yet been processed, Robert assured her that the legalities were in hand.
‘Until the deed is transferred, you are still free to leave and disclaim the inheritance. But you can feel secure that it cannot work the other way round. The other party cannot withdraw. It all works in your favour, Melanie. Rest easy that someone has got your back.’
‘But who?’ Mel had asked, time and time again over the last couple of weeks. And she was always met with the same answer.
‘I’m afraid it’s not in my power to release that information, mainly because I don’t know it myself. You may find, though,’ he’d said, in that fatherly way of his, ‘that in time, your benefactor reveals themselves.’
Various papers arrived to sign over the next few days, along with a couple of explanatory phone calls, and a quick visit back to the office to sign several documents and Mel was given the go-ahead to move to Moreton Inn. She’d had no idea what to expect and, having been here only a few hours, she was still none the wiser. Surely someone must know something. And she couldn’t help wondering if Joyce had had something to do with it. She needed to find out how long ago the woman had died, plus her full name, then she’d be able to run a search on her will.
‘That smells amazing,’ Mel says, the swing door to the kitchen bouncing shut behind her as she goes in. ‘Hi, you must be Rose. I’m Mel,’ she adds, going up to the woman standing at the stove. The woman turns, revealing herself to be in her late fifties, greying hair piled up in a messy bun, with a sheen of perspiration on her ruddy round cheeks.
With a startled look, the woman hesitates before wiping her right hand down her apron front and extending it to Mel. ‘I’m Rose, cook and chief bottle-washer,’ she says, giving Mel a handshake that seems to go on for ever. ‘Nikki told me all about you. Good luck to you, is all I’ll say.’ The woman’s large chest heaves in time with her laugh as she exposes a rack of crooked teeth from behind her plump lips.
‘Oh… thanks,’ Mel says. ‘Nikki said you’re making lasagne.’
‘Pretty much the only thing anyone comes in for,’ she admits, clamping her arms around her large body. ‘That said, fish-and-chip night draws a few out of the woodwork.’
Mel has a flash of homesickness, reminded of Tony’s fresh battered cod, the smell winding its way up into their flat. She shakes her head briefly. After
what’s happened the last couple of weeks, there’s no going back.
‘I can’t wait to try it,’ Mel says, glancing around the old-fashioned kitchen.
Coughing loudly, Rose turns back to stirring the huge vat of bubbling sauce before dumping a pile of grated cheese into another pot simmering on a low heat. ‘Things haven’t been the same since… since Joyce passed away,’ she says.
‘How come?’ Mel asks, hoping this is her chance to find out more.
‘We’ve lost our way a bit, truth be told. Nikki’s tried, but with no money to spend, it’s been tough.’ Rose turns away and lets out a second long, rasping cough. ‘Joyce had her troubles. I’m no gossip and I didn’t know her very well, but I do know that she loved this old place. It was her dream. But over the years, what with one thing and another, it turned into a nightmare for her.’
‘Troubles?’ Mel asks. ‘I can see why she loved Moreton Inn. It certainly has charm.’
Rose stares at her, eyeing her up and down, one hand idly stirring the sauce. ‘You mean you don’t know?’ She lets out a laugh.
‘No, I don’t know much at all, other than that I’m somehow meant to make the place profitable.’ Mel feels her chest tighten at the thought. Nikki and Rose are clearly relying on her for keeping their jobs, and she has no experience of renovating property either.
‘Best you don’t ask, chuck,’ Rose says. ‘But we’re… well, we’re glad to have you here all the same.’
‘I’m… I’m glad to be here too,’ Mel replies, hoping that’s still true. ‘What can I do to help? If you’re expecting customers, there must be something I can get on with?’
Rose pauses for a moment, looking confused. ‘Help? Well… I mean, you could make sure the dining area is prepped and shipshape.’ She pauses. ‘While you’re still here,’ she mutters, turning back to the pan.
‘Sure,’ Mel replies, feeling somewhat adrift in her new home as she pushes through the swing doors.
‘Nah…’ Mel hears from across the room as she’s filling up the glass salt and pepper shakers. The voice of a man. What she needs is a notebook, to write down everything that has to be changed – from big things, such as building works and renovations, right down to the smaller touches, like new salt and pepper mills rather than these old things.
She looks up.
‘Nah…’ comes the voice again. The man, early forties, is at the bar glancing over his shoulder at her. He turns back to Nikki, who hands him a pint. A customer, she thinks. Promising.
‘Mel,’ Nikki calls out, ‘come and meet Tom.’
Mel lays down the ground pepper container, fighting back a sneeze as she gets up from the banquette. For some reason, she’s not aware of crossing the heavily patterned carpet. Isn’t aware of her hand reaching out and shaking that of the tall man as he extends his arm. And it’s only when he says ‘Nah’ for a third time, with a glint in his unusually blue eyes, that she manages to speak.
‘Nah?’ Mel replies as if it’s a perfectly normal thing to say around here, perhaps some strange local custom or greeting.
‘Your T-shirt,’ the man says in a deep voice as Mel struggles to unhook her eyes from his.
‘Ohh,’ she says, finally breaking the spell of whatever it is that has seemingly paralysed her. ‘I couldn’t resist buying it,’ she adds. ‘It kind of sums me up.’ Mel laughs, wishing she hadn’t when it comes out as a croak.
‘Funny,’ he says, turning back to the bar and taking a sip of his pint. Mel isn’t sure that her Nah T-shirt is that funny – rather a bit old and faded now – but she humours him with a smile. Though before she can say anything, the man is unbuttoning his blue check shirt. Then he pulls it wide open.
Mel feels her eyes widening, a gasp creeping up her throat, not sure how much of himself he’s about to reveal, but when he does, she can’t hold back the spray of laughter.
‘Now that’s too funny,’ she says, rocking back on her heels as she reads the ‘Yess!’ slogan on his T-shirt.
He gives an overstated shrug, each of his big hands up around his shoulders, a broad grin appearing within the smattering of blond stubble. ‘Great minds,’ he says. ‘I’m Tom,’ he adds. ‘Seeing as Nikki’s not going to intro…’ He stops, spotting that she’s not behind the bar any more, that it’s just the two of them. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Nah,’ Mel replies in a silly voice. ‘I’m Mel, the new owner. I know I may look like some exhausted and overgrown teenage indie band groupie, but I’m ready to get stuck in.’
‘Yess,’ Tom replies, winking as he buttons up his shirt again. ‘So what brought you to the area?’ he asks, perching on one of the bar stools. ‘And more precisely, why Moreton Inn?’
‘Truth is,’ Mel replies, taking the stool next to Tom’s, ‘I don’t actually know.’
‘Curious,’ Tom says, having more of his pint. ‘May I get you a drink?’
‘Thanks. I’ll have a Coke, please,’ she says to Nikki who’s just come back, deciding she needs to keep a clear head for now. A nightcap later won’t hurt though, knowing her deep exhaustion will prevent her from sleeping. It’s as if sleep is beyond her now – having kept vigil the last couple of weeks, only dozing lightly, waking up at the slightest sound. She’d needed to stay alert.
‘So go on then. Give me three words to describe why you’re here.’ Tom grins at her, giving her a sideways look. For a moment, Mel can’t speak, let alone think of three words that sum up her situation.
‘Umm…’ she says, biting her lip.
‘Two words left,’ Tom laughs.
‘Christ,’ Mel replies, laughing as he stares at her over the rim of his glass. She can’t help her eyes wandering down his forearms – tanned and lightly covered in blond hair. Strong arms, she thinks. Hands and arms used to doing manual labour. ‘Nooo,’ she says finally, laughing. ‘It’s too hard.’
‘So your three words are “Umm”, “Christ” and “nooo”,’ Tom says, making a puzzled face.
Mel covers hers, leaning her elbows on the bar. She laughs as she looks up, swishing her hair back over her shoulders. ‘Actually, that’s probably quite accurate,’ she says. She’s about to continue, but spots someone coming into the bar. The flutter of excitement in her stomach at the prospect of an actual customer makes her slide off her stool, as if she should be greeting them, welcoming them, ushering them to a table.
But when she sees who it is, she stops – freezes, one foot on the floor, the other still on the rung of the stool. It’s the woman from room twelve.
‘Must be six o’clock,’ Tom says in a low voice, glancing at his watch.
Mel looks up at him, a quizzical look in her eye, before looking at the woman again, who is now seated at a table for one in the front window. It’s as if she has teleported herself there without even moving. Mel watches as she lays her book on the table, simultaneously unfolding a paper napkin onto her lap.
‘That’s Miss Sarah,’ Tom says quietly, leaning in close to Mel. ‘She’s been here for ever and never says a single word.’
Sixteen
‘Never says a word?’ Mel repeats, also whispering. ‘Been here for ever?’ Her mind whirs, putting two and two together, wondering if she’s the woman Robert Hedge mentioned. She hasn’t glanced up from her book since she sat down. It’s as if she’s part of the furniture, one of the fixtures and fittings, though Mel can’t help thinking that her ghostlike presence, her pale face and frumpy plain clothing is actually drawing attention to her more than anything.
‘Nope,’ Tom says. ‘Or rather, nah.’
‘I’ll be changing my T-shirt tomorrow,’ Mel laughs, rolling her eyes. ‘How come she never speaks?’ she says quietly, sliding back onto her stool.
‘No one really knows. Miss Sarah just is.’
‘And she’s been here a long time?’ Mel’s mind is racing, wondering why she has a right to stay at the hotel, have her meals provided. She takes a sip of her Coke.
‘Yup. As long as I’ve had anything to do with the p
lace. And that’s a long while.’ Tom laughs. ‘My dad used to do odd jobs around here, look after the garden, and I’d come and hang out with him as a lad. I remember her from back then, though she was a lot younger, of course. In my late teens, I’d come in for a few pints with my mates and we’d sometimes see her.
‘Then I moved away from the area, but Dad’s health declined, so I came back a couple of months ago to look after him. That’s when I took on a few maintenance jobs here and there. I don’t need to as I’ve got my own construction company, but it gives me something else useful to do.’
‘I see,’ Mel replies, not seeing at all. ‘I’m sorry to hear your dad’s been poorly.’ She studies the woman again, expecting to be caught staring. But she seems oblivious to anyone else in the room. ‘Why is she called Miss Sarah?’
Tom shakes his head. ‘Again, no idea. It’s just what she was always known as,’ he says in a low voice.
‘How old is she?’ Mel is mindful of keeping her voice low too.
‘She’s one of those people who never seems to age,’ Tom says, emptying his glass to the halfway mark. ‘When I was a kid, she can’t have been that much more than a kid herself.’
‘Has she ever spoken?’ Mel asks, trying to understand the strange situation.
‘Again, no one really knows. Joyce took care of her, and it was always just assumed they were mother and daughter. But after she died, nothing changed for Miss Sarah. Breakfast, lunch, dinner – always the same times, always eaten in here at that table. Occasionally she’ll go for a walk, but aside from that all she does is read.’
Mel glances at her again, her mind bursting with possibilities. It’s hard to tell if her hair is the palest grey or the lightest blonde. It’s swept high on her head in a neat chignon, and the light blue cardigan she wears – or is it grey? – over a cream blouse seems to swamp her small frame. The colour of the A-line skirt she has on above sensible, flat black shoes is equally difficult to determine. It could be beige; it could be more of a greeny-grey. But however hard she is to gauge, there’s no doubt in Mel’s mind that this must be the woman the legal documents were referring to. The woman who has a right to remain. Remain silent, Mel thinks.
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