Bedlam & Breakfast at a Devon Seaside Guesthouse Read online

  Bedlam & Breakfast

  at a Devon seaside guesthouse

  Copyright © Sharley Scott 2018

  Sharley Scott asserts her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. This novel is a work of fiction. The characters portrayed within it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Illustration © John Gillo

  The Old Fish Quay

  www.johngillo-gallery.co.uk

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  They say be careful what you ask for. And the one thing life has taught me is to be specific with wishes. As a child I’d undertaken French lessons with an au pair who lived in a house with a kitchen bigger than the ground floor of my home. This huge place had an indoor swimming pool and tennis courts and – best of all – ten bedrooms. Imagine that!

  I could spend one night in each and still have room for my future two children and husband. So, my younger self dreamed of a ten-bedroomed house and, like many of my other simpler wishes, it came true. But with an unexpected twist.

  ♦

  Chapter 1

  Our guesthouse stood before us, an impressive double-fronted Edwardian building, set over three floors with elegant sash windows framing the door. Perhaps a little more dilapidated than I recalled from our two fleeting viewings, as I couldn’t remember the porch missing a few tiles or the snaking crack in the wall by the corner quoins. On the last trip I’d learned the term for the lovely stones that jutted from the corner of the property when I’d questioned the owner about the choice of colour. He’d beamed as he told me he’d painted it in honour of his favourite team, Norwich City.

  “That’s nice,” I’d said and turned back to further examine the green quoins and window ledges that clashed with the canary yellow of the render. Looking on the positive side: at least he wasn’t a Watford fan.

  The front door opened and the soon-to-be ex-owners of Flotsam Guesthouse stepped out. Jim’s stomach bulged over his trousers, while his shirt poked through his open flies. Behind us, our daughter, Emily, sniggered.

  “So, from now on you get the pleasure of early mornings and late nights.” Jim’s belly shook when he laughed. “We’ll think of you when we’re having a lie-in.”

  “I’m sure you will.” My husband, Jason, took the lead as we trooped in behind them. He and Emily had to bend their heads when they stepped through into the lounge, whereas I could walk anywhere in the guesthouse and not have to worry about its many low doorways.

  “While Maureen gets your wife up-to-date with the bookings, you’ll want to check the water, electric and a few other bits.”

  Jim led Jason from the room, leaving Emily and I with Maureen who showed us the booking system and told us a bit about their guests. As she twittered on – her Midlands accent at odds with Jim’s Norfolk burr – a weight settled. How would we ever get to grips with everything after an hour’s talk? We’d been left under no illusion about follow-up contact if we had questions or issues in the future. We’d offered too little for the property to expect an after-care service.

  After a hurried check of the guesthouse rooms, a grinning Jim and Maureen scarpered from our lives with a cheerful ta-ra.

  “Did you remember what Maureen said to do if the shower stopped working in room five?” I asked Jason.

  “No idea,” he said. “Jim was too busy telling me which appliances shouldn’t be turned on at the same time if we didn’t want to trip the electric.”

  With our first guests arriving in two days, we didn’t have long to find out the answers to these questions or why Maureen had smirked when she’d pointed to their names on the diary system. But before we could start to worry about the days ahead, we had a van to unload and rooms to prepare. It would be a long day.

  ♦

  The worktop shuddered as Jason’s fist slammed down. Too tired to react, I rubbed sore hands over eyes that begged for sleep while Emily hovered nearby biting her lip. As the day had progressed, we’d watched Jason morph from his usually calm self to a ranting madman.

  “So, he switched the cooker for this broken pile of junk? As if we don’t already have enough to do.”

  The picture on the estate agent’s details showed a different cooker to the one now sitting in the middle of the kitchen after Jason had spent the best part of an hour trying to bring it back to life.

  “And you’ve got to mend that shower” Emily angled away from my ‘zip it’ stare. She may have turned twenty the week before, but she hadn’t lost the teenage gift of knowing exactly which buttons to press. “And the wardrobe door in room four and the drawers in room five. And, that’s not all…”

  “Thank you,” I said, meaning anything but.

  “You haven’t told him about that iron burn under the rug either.”

  As Jason slumped against the counter, head in his hands, I gave him a hug. He rewarded me with a weary smile and a gentle kiss. He smelled of sweat and grime. We all did. Everything we touched in the kitchen had a strange stickiness and when we’d run knives along the edges of the worktops, grease had curled away like butter. In the rest of the guesthouse dust settled into thick layers on everything above head height or behind the drawers and wardrobes. Dozens of filthy cloths now littered the floor of the utility room and our old toothbrushes lay bruised and blackened in the bin, thanks to the thick mildew that coated the underframe and corners of each shower cubicle. Like so many things, the mastic was beyond help and would need to be dug out and replaced.

  With just the three of us lugging all our belongings into the house, we’d had more than a few stressful moments throughout the day and regurgitating all the sickening issues wasn’t going to help.

  “Have you wondered why that woman, Maureen, grinned when she pointed at the guests’ names in the book?” Emily said, continuing her mission to bump up our stress levels. “I’ve been thinking how odd it was. Like she knew something we didn’t.”

  I’d spent most of the day wondering about that, but tiredness clogged my thoughts. It could wait until tomorrow. “Let’s go to bed,” I said.

  For once, Emily allowed me to usher her upstairs, with Jason following behind, sighing as he snapped off the light in the kitchen. Flotsam Guesthouse certainly lived up to its name.

  ♦

  After blistering hard work – literally, thanks to an ill-fitting pair of new trainers – and a dash of luck that the new cooker arrived on time, we were ready to open. We made a final check on the guest rooms being used during the next few days. At first glance they looked lovely, with pristine bedding and plump towels but, like the black canvas of a night sky which becomes dotted with stars the longer you gaze at it, when observed the room offered a different picture. The skirting boards were scuffed and chipboard peeked through the melamine on the wardrobes and drawer sets. As we earned enough over the coming months we could replace these with proper wooden ones, along with the curtains, voiles, kettles, cups, cushions, pillows, quilts and so on. The thought of our bank balance never being above zero for years made me shudder, especially when it came to replacing the more expensive stuff. We’d scrubbed stains from the carpets but there was little to be done about worn areas or the iron burn Emily had discovered. Throughout the guesthouse the woodchip wallpaper needed a new coat of paint too. Or, better, stripping it and replastering, but a decision on that would have to wait
until the season ended.

  We’d been desperate to live in Torringham, with its stunning harbour and breathtaking coastline. But, with money being tight, the only way we could do so was if we bought a place in need of work and Flotsam Guesthouse certainly fitted the bill. For now, we would have to live with what we had and cross our fingers that nothing else went wrong.

  I wandered through to the lounge to recheck the guest registration forms and amounts. We had three guests arriving today: Dougal Marriner and a Mr and Mrs Jones. I grimaced when writing the registration form for Dougal, especially with the figure of £35 per night, half the rate of the other couple. What on earth had Maureen been thinking to charge him so little for room four, especially as the only area of saving for a single occupant was for one breakfast and a set of towels. All the rooms were ensuite with double beds, but this was one of the mid-range rooms that also had a small dressing table and a seating area, although the chairs were obviously salvaged from the old breakfast room stock.

  Opposite me Jason slumped on the sofa, head back, arms outstretched. He let out a gentle snore. Even in sleep his face seemed drawn with grey smudges beneath his eyes. So much for our new start being easier than our previous roles: ones we’d been so desperate to leave we’d leapt into the frying pan of our dreams without much thought. A glimmer of doubt flickered. Had we done the right thing? While my job at a children’s respite centre had become more stressful and Jason’s job in sales meant we saw little of each other, there were downsides to our new start. We’d been unable to convince Lucy, his daughter, to join us – I had mixed feelings about that – and we’d dragged Emily, our youngest, miles from her friends. For what? I gazed at the packing boxes and our cramped lounge. Would all our stuff fit in this small space? We’d given up a lovely family home for a living area comprising two bedrooms and a lounge.

  As the doorbell rang, Jason woke with a start, bleary eyes gazing round in incomprehension, while I packed my doubts and fears where they belonged, in the deepest corner of my mind. We had to do this. We had no choice.

  “Come on,” I said. “It must be our guests.”

  A young couple stood on the doorstep. Hands shaken, luggage handed over, we took them to their room. They didn’t seem to notice the tired furniture or the clashing curtains.

  “Ooh, your duvet set is gorgeous.” The woman brushed her hand over the cover. “And it’s a fab-sized room.”

  I heaved a sigh of relief. Our first-ever guests would be just great.

  ♦

  Two people stood at the door. Both wore glasses and hats – his a flat cap and hers a pink rimless thing not seen since the sixties – and matching shocked expressions.

  “Y-you’re not Maureen,” the man stuttered.

  “Katie.” I held out my hand but let it fall to my side when neither stepped forward.

  The woman looked past me into the hallway. “Where’s Maureen?”

  “They’ve moved. We’re the new owners.”

  They looked at each other and then back at me. “I don’t know if I like this,” the woman said.

  Two cases sat on the drive, obscured from view behind one of the ornamental pots for our bay trees. Had these people turned up hoping for a room? At that moment Jason came through from the kitchen, wearing a cheery smile. He held out his hand.

  “This is Jason, my husband.”

  As the man glared at him, Jason’s hand slid to his side but he maintained his pleasant smile. “And you are?”

  The man stiffened. “Mr and Mrs Marriner, of course.”

  “There’s two of you?” When they exchanged perplexed looks, I added. “Maureen said it was just yourself.”

  “Well, I doubt that very much. Maureen knows we always come together.”

  “Come in,” said Jason. “We’ll sort this out inside.”

  “What is there to sort out?” Mr Marriner spat the last two words but, as Jason picked up the cases, he allowed himself and his wife to be ushered through to the day room, where they were offered a chair. They sat as if ready to spring for freedom.

  “You’ve got our room?” Mr Marriner said.

  “Yes, but we were told you were a single occupant. Not that it’s a problem. Katie can put extra bits in the room while we chat but it won’t be at the rate you were quoted.”

  “Oh, but it will.” Mr Marriner’s tone sharpened to steel.

  His wife unclipped her handbag and drew out a sheet of paper, which he snatched from her grasp.

  “See here.” He stabbed the letter. “Maureen said we get room five for £35 a night including breakfast for the two of us.”

  “Room five? But that’s one of the biggest rooms.”

  “That’s our room.” Arms folded he leaned back into the chair.

  My heart sank. I’d just put Mr and Mrs Jones into that room not an hour ago. Surely, I hadn’t misread the booking system?

  “Give me a minute.” I rushed off to the lounge, leaving a confused Jason holding the fort.

  The booking system showed I’d been right. One person – Dougal Marriner – in room four for five nights and the other couple – Mr and Mrs Jones – in room five for two nights. I took the laptop through to the day room to prove my case, where it was immediately waved away as nonsense.

  “So, you’re saying we’re not in our room,” Mr Marriner said. “We’re not having that. We want our room or else!”

  I’d had enough. “You’re telling me that Maureen has always charged you just £35 a night for both of you to stay in room five? I’ll go back and check.”

  Mrs Marriner’s cheeks reddened and she feigned an interest in her handbag, while Mr Marriner’s eyes darted to the sheet. “It says it all here,” he said but his voice trembled.

  “I bet it does.”

  Jason placed his hand on my shoulder. “All we can do is put you in room four, our next largest room on the first floor, and move you to room five in a couple of days.”

  What was he playing at? Not only was he agreeing to the ridiculously low fee but a move mid-stay to the larger room meant extra costs on laundering the bedding. At this rate we’d be paying for guests to stay. These people blooming well knew that the double occupancy fee in the letter was either a typo or a deliberate error. I willed them to look at me, but both averted their eyes.

  “We’re not happy but it will have to do,” Mr Marriner said, echoing my very sentiments.

  As we led the way to their room, with the couple huffing behind us, it hit me that we no longer had the luxury of leaving work for the safety and privacy of home. Running a guesthouse meant Mr and Mrs Marriner would be living with us for the next five days. The thought filled me with dread.

  Chapter 2

  Two women stood on the doorstep. A mismatched pair in every aspect of dress and demeanour. The black woman was tall with a welcoming smile, her braided hair pulled back by a colourful silk ribbon that shimmied in the breeze. Her companion, who was at least a foot shorter with a pasty complexion and spikey blonde-tipped hair, held out a small foil-covered dish.

  “Shona.” She pushed the dish into my hands. “We would have come earlier but we thought we’d give you a few days to settle in.”

  “I’m Kim. We’re from Jetsam Cottage B&B next door.” Well-manicured maroon nails glinted in the sunlight as she extended her hand. They matched her shoes and the pattern in her hair ribbon too. I tucked the dish into the crook of my arm to free up a hand and greet her.

  “Come in,” I said, hoping they wouldn’t. We had too much to do.

  They followed me through to our small lounge, waiting while I shunted boxes around to clear a channel to the sofa. What would they make of our living area with its too-big leather sofa that almost blocked the back door? We’d had a nightmare trying to get it through the door, hindered by a century old frame built for smaller statures and a period when furniture encouraged people to sit upright rather than slump down. Even our armchair looked like a mini sofa – each armrest alone could fit a person’s backside when nee
ded. When we came to change our sofas, it would be leaving in the hands of professional removers or – more likely – in bits.

  From upstairs came the sound of banging as Jason fought with an unruly door, assisted by a fed-up Emily. My job today was to ensure at least two more of the guest rooms were as clean as possible for our next arrivals tomorrow. We’d come prepared with new bedding, sheets and towels, after we’d spotted the threadbare state of some of the linen during our viewings. Unfortunately, our pristine white bedding didn’t fit with the seventies-style orange curtains which we vowed would be replaced within a week. Our wish list was fast becoming the size of an Argos catalogue.

  “How are you settling in?” Kim asked.

  “We’ve had a few surprises.”

  “I bet!” said Shona. “We wondered who’d take this place on.”

  “Shona!” Kim shot her a look. “It wasn’t quite like that.”

  “It’s not like we thought you were mugs.” Shona said, her Essex twang becoming more pronounced. “I mean, you can see it’ll be a lot of work.”

  “It already has been.” I relayed the story of the Marriners’ arrival.

  “Not that old basket-case Dougal Marriner! We knew Maureen wasn’t happy about the price you paid but...” Shona stuttered to a halt under the heat of Kim’s angry gaze. Then she shrugged. “It’s not like it’s a secret or anything. She told everyone who’d listen. Be grateful if booking Dougal in for so little is the worst she did.”

  During our few meetings and phone calls, Jim and Maureen had often fired barbed comments about how we’d paid too little for this place. But they’d chosen to accept our offer. I sighed. What if giving Dougal a low rate wasn’t the worst of it? Surely, she wouldn’t be spiteful enough to mess up the bookings.

  “We didn’t come here to scare you,” Kim said. “I’m sure it’s just a one-off.”