‘What do you know about Joyce?’ Mel asks. If she recently died, it makes perfect sense that she is the mysterious benefactor. But why? Mel doesn’t know a single person called Joyce.
‘My dad’s the one to ask. He knew her well back then. Had a bit of a crush on her, if I’m honest. Joyce ran this place for donkey’s years, though she never did anything much with it, as you can see,’ he adds.
‘So she actually owned Moreton Inn?’ Mel asks.
‘As far as I know,’ Tom replies. ‘She was… well, let’s just say Joyce was one of those characters who didn’t see much good in anything. If the sun was shining, she’d grumble that the weather was bad.’ Tom laughs. ‘I don’t think she was always like that. Donald, her partner, had a lot to do with how she was, I suspect.’
‘Donald?’ Mel asks, trying to piece everything together. Maybe he was the one she should be focusing on. ‘Is he still alive?’
Tom nods. ‘And he’s a nasty piece of work. He and Joyce weren’t married but he was always hanging around here. Dad had a good few run-ins with him over the years. As did most people.’
‘Does he ever come into the bar?’
‘Not to my knowledge these days,’ Tom says. ‘And you wouldn’t want him to. He didn’t treat Joyce well. No one understood why she didn’t just kick him out.’
‘I guess… well… sometimes I guess it’s not that easy,’ Mel says quietly, glancing at the floor.
‘Anyway, as you can see, Moreton Inn needs dragging into the present. I hope you’ve got deep pockets.’
Mel smiles, glad of the change of subject. ‘Rose said there’d be a few customers in for food later.’ The more she hears about the place’s history, the more she’s tempted to play her ‘get out of jail’ card and call Robert Hedge to reverse the process. But she knows she can’t. Whatever secrets the place holds, she has to make a go of it.
‘Ah, you’ve met Rose,’ Tom adds, raising his eyebrows. ‘She was very close to Joyce and was one of the few who got on with Donald, according to Dad.’
‘She was?’ Mel says, puzzled, remembering Rose’s words. I didn’t know her very well. Perhaps she’d misheard.
Tom nods as he sips his pint. ‘So what made you buy the place?’ he asks, ducking behind the bar and pulling a packet of nuts off the display rack. He waves them at Nikki and she nods, jotting something down in a notebook at the other end of the bar.
For some reason, Mel feels she can trust Tom, reckons he knows things that could help her. ‘I… well, I didn’t actually buy it. I was left it in a will. In a roundabout sort of way.’
‘So are you Joyce’s long-lost relative or something? Did you get tracked down by one of those heir hunter people?’ Tom grins, pulling open the packet of nuts and putting it on the bar between them. ‘Help yourself.’
‘It’ll sound weird, mainly because it is weird. But I have no idea if it was Joyce who left me the hotel. How long ago did she die?’
Tom thinks. ‘Must be a bit over a year ago now, if Dad’s correct. But his memory’s not the best these days.’
‘Nikki mentioned a stroke,’ Mel says, finishing off her Coke.
Tom nods. ‘Apparently, but…’ He stares at her, as if he’s about to say more but is gauging how much she already knows.
‘But?’
‘Probably just rumours, and I don’t like speaking ill of the dead, especially as my old dad was as sweet as caramel on her.’ Tom makes a fond face, as if the thought of his dad having a crush was amusing. ‘But from what I’ve heard, it seemed like a bit more than a stroke to me.’
‘Really?’ Mel says, her heart kicking up. ‘What happened?’
‘I didn’t see first-hand, of course, but put it this way: a stroke doesn’t give you head injuries and a bloodied face, does it?’
Mel thinks. ‘I suppose it could if the person having the stroke took a tumble afterwards.’
‘Indeed,’ Tom says. ‘But not when you have the stroke in bed. In your sleep.’ His voice is still low, cautious that no one overhears him. ‘But as I said, I’m not one for tittle-tattle and can only go on what I’ve heard. Some of it’s come from Dad, so may not be accurate. The old boy’s not all there these days. His dementia’s getting worse.’
‘I’m really sorry to hear that,’ Mel says, feeling unsettled. ‘What was Joyce’s last name?’ She wants all the information she can get.
‘Lawrence,’ Tom says, draining the last of his pint and grabbing a few nuts before standing up to go. ‘Joyce Lawrence. Dad once told me that when she took over Moreton Inn in her mid-twenties, she was a “fun, feisty blonde bombshell”. His exact words. She had grand plans for the place, apparently, after her stage career didn’t exactly take off in London. But when Bray came on the scene, she gradually turned into a downtrodden, miserable husk of a woman over the years. That’s how I remember her as a lad – middle-aged and grumpy. We were all a bit scared of her.’
‘Blonde bombshell isn’t how I’d imagined her,’ Mel comments.
‘It’s funny what Dad remembers,’ Tom says, putting his coat on. ‘He’ll forget to wear shoes when he goes out, but ask him about things from forty years ago, and he’s all over it.’
And it’s as Tom is leaving, saying that he’ll be back in a few days to go over any potential odd jobs that Mel may want doing, that Miss Sarah looks up from her book. As Mel walks past her table, she offers her a smile. But the woman just stares through her, as if she doesn’t even exist.
Seventeen
‘I’ve brought you this, love,’ Mel says, knocking gently on Kate’s bedroom door before going in. The tray is balanced on one hand as she shuts the door behind her. ‘You must be starving. Not sure I’ll make a great waitress—’ She stops, seeing Kate jump up from a lying to a sitting position on her bed, shoving something under the covers. Her cheeks burn scarlet.
‘Everything OK?’ Mel asks, sitting down beside her and handing her the tray.
‘Thanks, Mum. This looks… delicious.’ Kate ducks down to give it a sniff, then shrugs as if it might actually be, despite appearances.
‘It tastes nice. I met Rose earlier, the chef, and she made huge quantities of lasagne. Then we had about two customers in, and each got free seconds just so it didn’t go to waste. Rose and Nikki had some too, as well as… as well as that strange woman. She was in the restaurant.’
‘The creepy, silent one?’ Kate says, shovelling a forkful of food into her mouth. She makes an appreciative face.
Mel nods. ‘She’s called Miss Sarah, apparently. Bit weird, the “Miss” part. I reckon she’s the woman who’s allowed to live here. I still have no idea why. And it turns out the previous owner…’ Mel trails off, deciding not to tell Kate the gory details.
‘Maybe she’s a ghost, really,’ Kate says, wiping her chin with the paper napkin.
‘A hungry ghost, in that case. She polished off a decent portion of lasagne. Rose carried it over to her and put it in front of her. Then Nikki brought over a lemon drink from the bar. They knew exactly what she wanted without her saying a word.’
Mel stops herself, not wanting to upset Kate. This is their new home and she doesn’t want her unsettled. Moving here wasn’t simply to escape Billy; it’s also a chance for Kate to make friends, start a new school, shake off the past. ‘Anyway, for such a skinny creature, Miss Sarah sank the entire lot within a few minutes. Then she scuttled off. Back to her room, I imagine.’
‘Yeah, I saw her,’ Kate says, glancing up.
‘You did?’
‘On the landing. I heard this weird weeping sound and went out to see what it was. She was just standing there, outside my room, crying but not actually crying. There were no tears or anything. Just this sound. Like a puppy whining for its mother.’
Mel’s eyes widen. ‘Oh God, that sounds strange. She didn’t upset you, did she?’
‘No. She just looked at me for a bit, and I looked at her and then she… well, then I just shut the door.’ Kate’s cheeks colour as she stares do
wn at her plate, cutting up her lasagne.
Mel nods. ‘Good. I’m going to introduce myself to her properly tomorrow. Guess I just have to accept her right to be here and treat her like any other guest.’ Until I find out more, she thinks, looking around Kate’s room. She ruffles her daughter’s hair. ‘You’ve done a good job in here, Katie. You’ve been busy.’
‘It feels a bit more like home now.’
Mel sees that Kate has set up her beloved computer equipment on the table in the window and arranged a few framed photographs beside the monitor. She shudders when she spots a picture of Billy.
‘Nice that you have a photo of… of your dad out, love. I don’t recognise that one.’
Kate shrugs and eats more lasagne, not making eye contact with Mel, who knows that’s a sign to back off.
Her eyes flick to her ex’s photo again. There’s no denying she still finds Billy attractive – the mischievous look in his eye bewitching. And while he wasn’t the burliest man around, he never dodged a fight, never feared a six-foot-four man taking a swipe at him. Billy was agile and quick. Quick-witted, too. Sharp body, sharp mind.
‘That looks pretty,’ Mel says, eyeing the batik wall cloth Kate has pinned above the fireplace. She’s draped a string of fairy lights over the mantelpiece and lit a few of her beloved scented candles. She’s unpacked all her clothes, too, the empty bags stashed on top of the old wardrobe. Despite the worn carpet, the grubby paintwork, the room feels cosy with its sloping ceiling and exposed beams.
Kate glances up from her food and smiles.
‘We’ll get the rest of our stuff sent on soon,’ Mel says, knowing she can’t leave it with Michael for ever. ‘If you want to stay on, that is.’ Birmingham is no place for them now, not after what happened before they left.
Forty-seven – that’s how many times Mel’s phone had rung in quick succession, with Billy’s name appearing on the screen over and over so fast that she didn’t even have time to go into her settings to block him before the next call came.
Her hands were shaking as she lay on the sofa, wrapped up in her duvet with Kate sleeping only a room away. All she could do was put her phone on silent and watch her screen light up as if it were about to ignite in her hands. There were three voicemail messages left – each one silent, each one telling her nothing. Except the last one said everything – I’m out here. I’m watching. I’m waiting.
What she heard in the empty message made her get up off the sofa, her legs feeling weak as she checked all the windows were secure before barricading the front door with a chair wedged under the handle. The ambulance siren she’d heard moments before in the street below, the calls and jeers of a group of youths messing about and yelling out a girl’s name – they were the exact same sounds she had heard in the background of Billy’s voicemail. Her blood had run cold that night and she’d not slept a wink.
Kate looks up from her food, smiling. ‘Yeah, I think I do want to stay here, actually,’ she says with something of a sparkle in her eye. Something inside Mel relaxes.
‘Agreed,’ she replies. ‘It’s a funny old place, but there’s something quirky about it that just feels…’ Mel glances to the ceiling, trying to find the right words. ‘That just feels… homely. Does that make sense?’ She reaches out and touches Kate’s hand as it rests on the bedcovers.
‘Totally, Mum,’ she replies, grinning. ‘I can’t wait to explore tomorrow. And I’ll google the local schools, too. I could start next week after May half-term.’
Mel’s heart swells. For Kate to be willingly discussing schools is a huge thing for her. She prays she’ll fit in and not be picked on again. All she wants is for Kate to be happy. But the good feelings are short-lived as Mel senses something vibrating beneath the bedspread, directly underneath where her hand is touching Kate’s.
A phone.
She glances at the bedside table where Kate has turned on the lamp and set out the book she’s reading, along with her glasses, her headphones, a glass of water. And on top of the book is her regular phone – the Samsung Kate uses every day.
Eighteen
Over the next few days, Mel spent her time finding out as much as she could about Moreton Inn and how it was run – or not run, as it soon became clear. Nikki and Rose, with the assistance of an occasional cleaner, had obviously been doing their best to carry things on since Joyce passed away, but without many customers or guests, without a clear vision and funds to build the business, even someone as inexperienced as Mel had no trouble seeing that they were on a downward spiral.
She’d delved through the record-keeping, poring over the books both before and after Joyce’s passing, scanning down the itemised list of purchases. Everything from sacks of potatoes to kegs of beer, cleaning materials and bulk-bought crisps – the outgoings far exceeded the list of takings, especially with wages factored in.
Mel had also flipped through the payslips, going back several years, with one name particularly catching her eye – Donald Bray. As Joyce’s partner, it made sense that he was on the payroll, although the amount he received each week was significantly higher than the others. And nowhere could she see evidence that Joyce was taking a wage herself.
Feeling overwhelmed, Mel had closed all the files and put them back on the shelf, deciding to focus on the renovations. The upshot was, she had no idea if she was up to the job of running Moreton Inn, and her resolve wavered hourly. The tasks ahead seemed mammoth and, four days after their arrival, she felt as though she’d been turning in circles. And there were still barely any customers.
‘Why don’t you come and help me pace out where the new extension will go?’ she says to Kate, who has just emerged from her room at nearly midday. ‘Get some fresh air instead of playing computer games all day.’
‘Do I have to?’ Kate grumbles, taking a bag of crisps from behind the bar.
‘Healthy breakfast,’ Mel says with a wink, giving an overstated look at her watch. ‘And yes, you do. I need someone to hold the string tight while I peg it in.’ Mel opens up another of the architect’s plans she’d found in Joyce’s office, spreading the large sheet of paper out on the bar.
‘I found all these documents, look,’ she says, beckoning Kate over. ‘Seems as though planning permission was granted and is still current, the designs all drawn up and approved. But works were never actually started.’ Mel wonders what prevented the build. ‘It actually looks a pretty decent idea, and the quotes aren’t astronomical.’ She knew the funds soon to be released to her would easily cover the work as well as giving her a large buffer to live on until business picked up.
‘Can’t we go for a walk down to the sea instead?’ Kate says, giving the plans a cursory glance as she stuffs her hand into the bag of ready salted. ‘Yuck, these are stale,’ she says after taking a bite. She drops the bag onto the bar.
‘Hmm?’ Mel says vaguely, distracted by several letters between the architect and Joyce. It was strange to see the deceased woman’s handwriting, albeit in photocopies – a hard-to-read scrawl slanting diagonally down the page.
Dear Mr Taylor,
I must insist that you take my suggestion for the siting of the new extension seriously. Erecting it directly behind the restaurant is a mistake and will not enhance the character of the old building. I wish you to submit plans for the structure on the north elevation, as discussed at our meeting. There’s simply no way I can condone the council’s recommendation and refuse to proceed in that vein.
Sincerely, Joyce Lawrence.
The letter feels like a tiny insight into the woman’s character, her determination about the extension clear. Mel wonders why she was so against the council’s recommended location. And if Joyce Lawrence is her mysterious benefactor, then she wants to know everything about her. What if she’s a relative? A long-lost aunt or distant second cousin?
The pang in Mel’s heart doesn’t go unnoticed – a tight tugging, familiar to her over the years. She made the decision a long time ago not to track down family m
embers, and certainly not her mother, who had seen fit to discard her at birth. However tough the circumstances, however hard times were, Mel can’t even begin to imagine abandoning Kate. As she’d once said to Michael, back when they were kids at the children’s home, If my mother saw fit to throw me out, then I must be trash…
Unlike her, he’d done everything in his power to trace his birth parents, eventually reuniting with them, briefly, aged nineteen. But the pain that ensued for Michael was reason enough for Mel not to attempt something similar. While his mother had died two years before he traced his birth family, his father had immediately rejected him, stating that he couldn’t possibly be related to a gay man. He’d got three other sons and told Michael that he didn’t need another.
Unperturbed by his experience, hoping Mel’s would be different, Michael had bought her a DNA testing kit last Christmas, thinking it would be fun and would help her feel more connected if she at least knew she had relatives, however distant, even if she chose not to get in touch or meet them. Mel had been tempted to do it, send off the sample of saliva that Michael had persuaded her to collect in the little tube, but she couldn’t go through with it, and had thrown the sample in the bin. It felt symbolic – as though she were trashing her family just as they had trashed her.
‘Seems like Joyce didn’t like the architect’s plans for some reason, nor the council’s decision not to approve what she actually wanted,’ Mel says to herself, biting on the end of her pen. ‘Come on, Katie. Make yourself useful and follow me.’
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