Bedlam & Breakfast at a Devon Seaside Guesthouse

by Sharley Scott

  I gabbled an explanation. “I’m sorry about this. I’m hiding from a couple of guests. After the day I’ve had, I really can’t face them tonight.”

  As she ushered me down the steps into the dank courtyard, heading through the utility area into the kitchen, I told her about Alan and the trip to the hospital before moving on to Peter. I felt a bit mean talking about him, as he hadn’t done much other than have a passion for history. If he’d come in low season, I may have offered to do some research for him, even welcomed the discussion, but he’d picked our busiest month when we were lucky to get an hour or two of waking time to ourselves. He’d left me with little option than to climb the wall between the guesthouses to get home, rather than endure his endless drone.

  “Do you want a cup of tea?”

  I took in the steam-filled lounge and the condensation on the windows. On the coffee table sat a laptop, surrounded by a mass of paperwork. Centrepiece in front of the TV stood an ironing board, draped with a half-ironed sheet while a twisted mass of pillowcases and duvet covers overflowed from a large basket on the sofa. On each armrest sat piles of folded towels, the only calm amongst the storm. It reminded me of our lounge, except Shona and Kim’s was usually tidy.

  “Busy day?”

  She rubbed her forehead. “It’s been a nightmare and then Kim’s insisted on doing this yoga course her friend’s been going on about.”

  “Yoga?”

  “I know! Trust her to decide she needs to learn how to relax in the middle of August. Most people watch TV or read a book.”

  She stumbled over the leg of the ironing board. “We’re up to our eyes in washing after the machine broke down this morning but she says she can’t let her mate down. She went last week and reckons it helps her but what about me?”

  I gave her a sympathetic but non-committal shrug, all too aware their relationship issues seemed to be mirroring mine and Jason’s.

  “I’m slogging away ironing and she’s like ‘I’m a tree’!”

  She flung her arms in the air, Y-shaped, and raised her leg, promptly planting it back on the floor. Again, she attempted to lift her foot to the inside of her thigh. I’d seen the tree pose in yoga before and hers was nothing like it. After a few wobbles she pointed her hands together and raised them steeple-like above her head, grinning victoriously.

  “Easy!”

  Without warning, she lurched backwards, her mouth a circle of shock as she threw out her arms to stop herself from falling, but her hand caught the mantelpiece. I gazed in horror as her vintage paperweight – with its stunning depiction of a coral reef covered in vibrant anemones – wobbled and then in slow motion tumbled from the side, smashing onto the old tiles surrounding the hearth. As shards fired out like bullets, Shona crashed into the ironing board. I grabbed the metal legs to stop it from toppling over, but the huge steam unit and iron slipped from the stand and plummeted to the carpet. As water poured from the tank, I snatched the iron from the floor. Luckily, it had fallen on its side rather than flat on to the carpet, but molten fibres clung to the metal band and a dark strip marked the beige carpet.

  “Ouch!”

  Biting her lip, Shona clutched the back of her leg. Pulling her hand away, she gazed at the red smear and quickly clamped her palm back over her calf. She limped off towards the kitchen, a crimson line trickling down her leg, leaving me to turn off the iron and settle the unit back onto the ironing board.

  As she pressed a bundle of tissues to her wound, she groaned, “Kim’s gonna kill me.”

  While she dressed her cut, I took the dustpan and brush into the lounge and cleaned up the fragments of coloured glass. Shona hovered over my shoulder.

  “I loved that.”

  “So did I.”

  She took the dustpan from me and hobbled back into the kitchen, returning with a cloth and a wire brush. The latter she handed to me.

  “Do you reckon we can hide the mark?”

  I gave her a doubtful look. “I don’t know. Then there’s the tile too.”

  Three large cracks snaked from a chip in the centre of the large ornate blue and green hearth tile. Glumly, I surveyed the beautiful hearth. I adored the cast iron fireplace with its ornate designs and often wished Flotsam Guesthouse hadn’t been stripped of most of its features in the sixties. To think this one had lasted over one hundred years until destroyed by a ‘tree’.

  Shona slapped her hand to her forehead. “I’m well and truly done for.”

  While I knelt on the floor with the brush, taking care to lift rather than snag the damaged carpet fibres, Shona shot off. The front door clanged shut and, for a moment, my heart jumped into my mouth. Had Kim arrived home? When she didn’t appear, I heaved a sigh of relief. I didn’t fancy being the one to tell her what had happened.

  By the time Shona came back clutching a pencil case, I’d done my best with the carpet, making the mark a bit less visible – although Kim would spot it immediately – and I’d scrubbed the melted fibres from the iron. Apart from the hearth, the cluttered lounge was almost back to how it looked when I’d first come in.

  “Jodie gave me her Ellie’s colouring pens.”

  She pulled out a navy felt-tipped pen and settled down to her colouring project, while I stood back. How on earth she thought Kim wouldn’t notice, I had no idea, but I didn’t voice my doubts. When she finished retouching the last of the white with a shower grout pen, which she’d found after rummaging under the kitchen sink when searching for trainer whitener, I had to admit she’d done a good job. It increased the time before Kim spotted the damage from one to ten seconds, or twenty at a push.

  She got to her feet and slapped her hands together. “You were saying about needing help to get in?”

  “I wouldn’t worry. Alan and Peter would have given up by now.”

  Then I groaned. Jason would have seen Alan come in and expected me to arrive a few minutes later, no more than the time it would have taken to park the car. I should have tried to call again and let him know I was next door. Great! My plan to hide from our guests meant Shona faced a furious Kim, while I would have a worried Jason to contend with.

  Apologising for bothering her, I left through the front door and cut across the gravel drive to slip into our guesthouse. At first all seemed quiet, but then I heard a low drone and my heart sank. I crept forward, hoping to avoid Peter but as I passed the day room, Jason sat in one of the chairs, arms folded, pouring over a map with Peter. He threw me a filthy look.

  Caught between escape and helping Jason, I hesitated by the door. Peter glanced up and smiled at me.

  “You’ve missed me showing you the old cave system.”

  The chair scraped as Jason stood up. “You can show her now if you like.”

  “I’d love to, but I need Jason to give me a hand with something, umm, that needs sorting.”

  Peter smiled and folded the map. “That’s sounds worrying. I hope you get it dealt with.”

  I hid my surprise. Was that all he was going to say? This was Peter who would never use two words if two hundred could be found. He stretched back and lifted his arms and yawned loudly.

  “It’s been a busy day. I’ll show you tomorrow.”

  I said my goodbyes and followed Jason into the lounge.

  “Thanks for that.” He slumped onto the sofa and grabbed the remote control, jabbing it at the TV. “I really enjoyed listening to him for an hour while you disappeared goodness knows where.”

  “Round Shona’s. We had a bit of an issue.”

  I headed off to the kitchen in search of food but came to a halt by the lounge door. “You don’t want to be stuck with Peter but you’re quite happy leaving me with him. If you noticed, I tried getting you out of there.” Then I added one more moan because I could. “Stop being so thoughtless. Your time isn’t more precious than mine.”

  Before he could respond I shot off.

  ♦

  With breakfast being its usual manic affair, I managed to stop Peter each time he started to
chat by pointing at another guest and saying ‘Sorry, got to go’. One of the first to arrive that morning and the last to leave, he sat with June amongst the detritus of a finished service, craning his neck to attract my attention as I cleared the tables at the other end of the room. From the corner of my eye I caught him pointing at me to June. When he pulled himself up from the table, I grabbed the half-laden tray and shot into the kitchen, where I clattered around filling the dishwasher – although most of the plates and cups were on the tables in the breakfast room – and wiped the sides, while Jason discovered the oven required an urgent clean after an accidental bacon juice spill. Any meanness I felt about hiding from Peter and June was overlaid by relief when their chairs scraped on the floor.

  “Have a lovely day!” I shouted from the kitchen door and waved my tea cloth at them to prove I was busy working.

  Once they’d disappeared upstairs, I put the dishwasher on, locked the breakfast room door and grabbed a tray. Four tables, including Peter’s, were laden with cafetières, pots, cups and side plates. I glanced at the clock. By now we should have finished and be heading upstairs to make a start on the guest rooms.

  Jason appeared with another tray and together we settled down to clearing the tables. We didn’t speak. Somehow, we’d got used to not talking to each other. Did he notice too? Okay, we sniped, made sarcastic comments, even laughed if something stupid happened, but we didn’t talk. Not like we used to do. The only conversation I had each morning was in my head, which meant I had a lot of time to think. Right now, Peter filled my mind.

  I shouldn’t have treated him so badly. I’d apologise later and listen to his tales, even if he did go on and on and on and on and on. But why should he expect me to spend my precious free time learning about Torringham’s history with him as the tutor. If I wanted to do that, I could read a book or go online. But it was mean of me to ignore him. He was a guest after all. I clamped my hands to my face and groaned. I’d have to bite the bullet and listen to Peter or else my conscience would eat at me.

  As Jason passed with a full tray, he gave me a puzzled look. “Are you okay?”

  “Just thinking about something.”

  He didn’t stop to find out what. Not that it mattered. If I told him I was worrying about hurting Peter’s feelings, he wouldn’t understand. Not that I did to be honest. Any sane person wouldn’t expect a receptionist, a waiter or a cleaner in a busy hotel to spend hours with them and, unlike us, staff in larger hotels had the luxury of going home to get a break from unusually needy people.

  Jason came past carrying a full bin bag. “Is your face going to fall apart if you let go of it?”

  Back in the kitchen, I ploughed the tray through the cups and plates on the worktop to make room. If we didn’t get a move on, we’d be here all day. I turned to Jason. “You finish the kitchen, while I make a start upstairs. I saw room two go out earlier.”

  I stepped from the breakfast room to be hit by the stench of stale alcohol in the hallway. Alan stood there, his room keys dangling from his hand. In all the rush of the morning service and keeping out of Peter’s way, I hadn’t realised he’d missed breakfast. I’d even forgotten he was here.

  “Are you okay?”

  Swaying, he rubbed the plaster on his head. “Lucky that Maureen’s sorted me a coach back home after those men stole my ticket, so I’m fine now.”

  His petulant tone made it sound as if I’d done something wrong. Strange how just a few days ago Kim and I had been talking about the challenges of running a B&B. One of her warnings had been about her recent experience with a guest who’d expected too much.

  “Most guests are lovely and laid-back, but the really demanding ones are often the least grateful. You go overboard for them and nothing’s good enough,” she’d said.

  Alan was proving her point.

  A red-topped bottle jutted from the pocket of his jacket. Vodka. How Maureen had got the money to him, I didn’t know, but thanks to her contribution towards his journey home he’d been able to treat himself to a half-bottle or more. From the state of him, this may be the second one. What condition would his room be in? I muttered a silent prayer for him to go quietly and quickly.

  He dumped the key in my hand and I smiled. “I’m glad you’re sorted, especially after yesterday. You’ve got your bags and everything?”

  I opened the front door to let Alan out, thankful to breathe fresh air. As he veered towards the door frame, instinctively I grabbed his arm to help him but he shook me off.

  “Do you want me to walk you to the coach stop?”

  He waved me away. “I’m not an invalid, you know.”

  He staggered off. Three steps forward, one sideways, the occasional lurch backwards, like the drunks at the White Hart. Lovely old men who spent all day downing pints, not moving from the bar stools until the bell signalled time. Then they teetered out like marionettes being controlled by a child.

  Would he be back within the next hour begging for a room, not allowed to board the coach? When he made it to the corner, I shot upstairs to check his room. My eyes smarted from the alcohol fumes, so I flung the window open and sprayed the room with odour neutraliser. The duvet lay in a huddle on the bed, a damp towel strewn across the pillow but there was nothing amiss. No underlying smell of sick or anything else to fire warning signals. On the side by the kettle sat a notebook. Rubbish? I flicked through it. In jagged handwriting usually seen in much older people than Alan, he’d scrawled figures interspersed with notes to himself. I flicked through the pages, ready to throw it in the bin.

  Bailiffs coming Saturday. Need £250. (This was underlined twice). Maureen? Elsie?

  Boris Lad. 10/1. (And beside it a huge tick).

  Torringham £200. Paid.

  Electric. Must pay. How?

  Faster than Reason. 8/1. (This time a cross which sliced the paper).

  Hospital. 27 August. Oncology ward. 10.15am. Mr Anderson.

  I snatched the book, raced down the stairs and out of the door. Had he come to Torringham for a holiday before he went into hospital? I sprinted down the road – not thinking to tell Jason where I’d gone – and, not waiting for the little man to turn green either, dashed across the traffic lights, rounding the corner to the coach stop as the National Express pulled away. In a fug of diesel fumes, I juddered to a halt. The seats by the bus shelter were empty, which meant Alan had been allowed to travel. Sure enough, as the coach rumbled past he sat by the window near the back. Our eyes met as I waved the book at him, mouthing and signing to say I’d post it to him. He put his hands together and mouthed ‘please’ and gave me the thumbs up.

  Yesterday’s sun had been replaced by low grey cloud that promised drizzle at best, rain at worst. I felt that way inside too. I wished I’d listened to him the night before. But it wasn’t my place to be giving him money. Or was it? I had no idea what I should or shouldn’t have done, only that I hoped his hospital visit wasn’t too serious. As soon as I finished the rooms, I’d get his address and post the notebook back to him.

  ♦

  After finishing Alan’s old room, I headed to the next door along and knocked. When no one answered I went inside, pushing the jamb beneath the door. The ensuite in this room could be seen from the landing – not ideal when I knelt to scrub the loo and guests walked past waving as they went out for the day – but wedging the doors open made it easier when I took out the used items and brought in clean towels, cups and beverages.

  As I made a start on the sink, a shadow appeared in the landing. Peter. I waved my cloth at him, hoping he’d get the hint. My late start on the rooms followed by a failed attempt to return Alan’s notebook, meant I would be lucky to finish before our new guests arrived.

  “Have a good day!”

  He stood by the ensuite door. “We’re going to Berrinton Museum.”

  “That will be nice.” I gave the taps a final swipe before heading over to the shower. “I’ll see you later then. I can’t stop now.”

  I laid an o
ld towel in the cubicle and stepped onto it, surprised to find Peter in the ensuite when I went to close the shower door.

  “This is someone’s room,” I said.

  He cleared his throat. “I won’t be long. Did you know the museum holds the largest collection of…”

  Was he really trying to talk to me about history now? While I didn’t like him being in the ensuite, thankfully there was nothing personal to the room’s occupant on the sides. Ignoring him, I made a start on the side wall, moving round to spray and wipe the rear and shower unit. Noise spurted from his mouth but all I heard was ‘blah, blah, blah’. Obviously, he didn’t need an attentive audience, just a body in the room while he rabbited on. Hot and flustered, I moved onto the final section, scrubbing the tiles as fast as I could. In my haste, my elbow hit something hard and I gasped as a jet of water poured from the shower head. I punched the shower’s off button and, gasping, smeared my hand over my drenched fringe and face, splatting the excess water to the floor. My top resembled a wet t-shirt competition, the lace on my bra peeking through the translucent material. At least the cold water had cooled me down. I made sure to keep my arms level with my bust when I finished. Oddly, I found Peter still droning on, with no mention or seeming knowledge of my accident. How had he missed what had happened when he stood just inches from the glass, his eyes now level with mine thanks to the shower tray being a foot higher than the floor.

  “…so, I’ll bring you back some leaflets. I know you’d like them. I can’t believe you haven’t been there yet.”

  “I can’t get out.”

  “Oh yes.” He stepped back, leaving me barely enough room to squeeze through the gap between the shower door and the wall. Would he ever get the hint and go? Keeping my arms at chest height to hide my soaked top, I waggled the bathroom cleaner in his face.

  “I need to get on. Hope you have a good day.”

  “Well, yes, but that reminds me. June doesn’t want to miss Emmerdale later but I’ve got my eye on this documentary.”