Bedlam & Breakfast at a Devon Seaside Guesthouse Read online

  ♦

  Jason ducked under the doorframe as he wandered into the lounge. His sand-coloured hair was dusted with grit, which speckled his shoulders too. He smeared his hands down his face – the incarnation of ‘The Scream’ – before crumpling onto the sofa.

  “Still at it?”

  “I’m having to phone almost every guest to check their rooms and rates. What was she playing at? Spiteful old bag.”

  He shook his head. “One day down, four to go. It won’t be long before the Marriners become a distant memory.”

  “It can’t come soon enough. At least he won’t be asking for three pieces of bacon again.”

  The sofa creaked as Jason sat beside me. The knees of his jeans were coated in grime where he’d been working on a leak in the utility area, but his hands had been scrubbed clean. Drawing me into a tight cuddle, he kissed the top of my head, my nose and finally my lips, rewarded by a smile and kiss in return. We’d promised ourselves we’d be a team, there to support each other and work in harmony, to make Flotsam Guesthouse a success. Right now, with my earlier doubts sealed away, I knew we could. I pushed the paperwork aside, giving myself a few minutes off to bask in the warmth of his body.

  “Let’s put this down to experience,” he said. “How about we see if Emily fancies a walk to the beach?”

  With breakfast and the rooms ticked off and no one checking in until tomorrow, I’d set the afternoon aside to deal with the booking issues Maureen had created, starting by phoning guests on the pretext of introducing ourselves as new owners. It proved a useful exercise. Most of the bookings were correct but, for the inaccurate ones, Maureen had chosen people similar in personality to Mr and Mrs Marriner. I’d refused to back down when they argued that they had the booking amount in writing, so we had to take them. For a start, Maureen had agreed the rates and, also, our standard rates were cheaper than many places. The moaners and chancers were welcome to find somewhere else. We didn’t need more guests like Dougal sodding Marriner.

  Apart from a few unanswered calls, I’d reached September in the bookings so there was no urgency. My mind had become a quagmire of bookings, rates and queries, while our lounge was becoming an oppressive cell. We’d moved here for the change of scenery and lifestyle; not these four walls. Jason didn’t need to persuade me to escape.

  ♦

  The harbour was my favourite part of Torringham. Small sailing boats floated at high tide or rested lop-sided on the pebbly bottom when the tide ebbed, while an assortment of colourful cottages lined either side of the bowl hillside, rising in higgledy tiers. Shops, restaurants and pubs clustered the roadside and lanes where tourists jostled for space on summer days. A working town with a thriving fishing industry, the air near the trawlers was as likely to smell of brine as of oil but Torringham was an honest, industrious town. One where even in winter there was always a good pint or meal to be found. We’d stayed in another B&B when we first viewed Flotsam Guesthouse on a crisp January day and the owner had proudly told us that Torringham wasn’t filled with second homers who flocked back to London in the winter, unlike many seaside towns further down the coast. After viewing a few B&Bs in the morning, we’d joined other hardy visitors to trek along the wild coastal path before heading to a warm pub that night for a steaming pie and mash by a log fire. That day clinched the deal. No matter how much work needed doing to Flotsam Guesthouse, it was the one for us.

  Today the sun warmed our faces and gulls wheeled in a sky the blue of postcards and summer dreams. We caught the odd whiff of fish and chips as we strolled along the front with Emily in the lead, eager to reach the beach where a promised ice cream awaited. That and a chance to beat Jason at stone skimming. She’d inherited his competitive streak. From my seat on a jutting rock I watched them, with their jaws clenched and the same determined look on their faces as they competed for the most bounces. Although they were similar in height, Emily had my darker colouring. Her brown eyes sparkled in delight as she leapt up and down, fists pumping the air. She’d obviously beaten Jason and he wouldn’t be allowed to forget it.

  Dogs bounded around me, scattering a fountain of droplets as they shook themselves. I laughed until my sides ached when one of the dogs took to chasing madly after the pebbles launched by Jason and Emily.

  In the bay, trawler boats thrust towards the open sea, while yachts lazed waiting for the breeze to pick up. One hardy soul swam nearby, his bare arms plunging into the water, his mouth a black chasm with each upturn of his head. I shivered and leaned back to catch more rays.

  “They’re not allowed.” A familiar voice cut through the air, followed by his wife’s tut of agreement. “Not on the beach.”

  Closing my eyes, I groaned and hoped they wouldn’t spot me.

  “Eeuww!” It sounded like Mrs Marriner. “No! No!”

  “Get your dog under control!” came Mr Marriner’s booming voice.

  I squinted through a half-closed eye to see Mrs Marriner twirling round, squawking, her handbag held aloft as a terrier jumped up and down, bouncing away from Mr Marriner’s ham-fisted attempts to catch it.

  A man lumbered along the beach, panting and shouting, “Robbie, get ‘ere!”

  By the water’s edge, Jason and Emily kept their backs to the commotion as they shifted like crabs to the safety of the other side of the beach, leaving me statue-like on the rock, unable to move for fear of being spotted.

  “That thing shouldn’t be here!” Mr Marriner shouted.

  Apart from the occasional ‘I said I was sorry,’ the dog owner didn’t get to say much as Mr Marriner launched into a loud rant about dogs on beaches and all the ills of society and what on earth was the world coming to when people couldn’t read as it clearly stated ‘no dogs on the beach from May to September’.

  “It’s April,” the dog owner said.

  “What?”

  “I said,” although the dog owner shouted it. “It’s April. A-P-R-I-L.” And with that he scooped up his dog and stomped back the way he’d come.

  ♦

  The next morning, Mr and Mrs Marriner walked into the breakfast room three minutes before the end of service, her thick heels clopping over the laminate flooring. They didn’t even glance at me when giving their tea order or when it was brought out. Lips pursed, they stared at the menu before announcing they would have the same as yesterday. While there was no mention of the three bits of bacon Mr Marriner had requested the previous day, a churning undercurrent told me something was up.

  Stupidly, I asked, “Is there anything you need?”

  Mr Marriner turned around, his gaze level with my chest. Flushing, he spun back to the menu.

  “We’re not happy,” Mrs Marriner said.

  On the neighbouring table, Mr and Mrs Jones’ cutlery hovered motionless over their plates. I could feel them stretching to hear what was being said.

  “I’m sorry about that. Is there something wrong with the tea?”

  “Not just the tea. Everything.” Mr Marriner took a deep breath as if readying himself for a lengthy tirade.

  “How about we sort your breakfasts and we can talk in private afterwards.” I shot into the kitchen.

  Jason didn’t need to ask me what was wrong. He’d heard. Handing him the order slip, I pressed my finger to my lips and shook my head, warning him not to say anything. The silence rolled in ominous waves from the breakfast room, until we heard the screech of a chair being pushed back. It could have been a guest going to get more juice or simply wanting more leg space, but something told me to check. Both Mr and Mrs Marriner were striding from the room.

  “We’re leaving,” Mr Marriner said. “This is the worst stay we have ever had and we won’t be paying for it either.”

  Stranded between trying to maintain a friendly façade with Mr and Mrs Jones in full view and feeling a compulsion to strangle Mr Marriner, Jason saved me when he stomped out of the kitchen in his new checkered trousers. He’d forgotten to take off the ‘Smokin’ Hot Chef’ apron Emily had bought fro
m an online company that printed words and images to order. Beneath the words was a large picture of Jason sucking a sausage as if it were a cigar.

  “I’m in the middle of cooking your breakfast. What is the issue?”

  “Our room, of course.”

  Jason’s jaw tightened but he maintained his calm composure, while I stewed by the breakfast room door. I could deal with Dougal Marriner all right, but – my fists squeezed into tight balls of anger – maybe it was best to leave this one to Jason.

  “But you accepted your stay on the agreement that we would move you when the room became free. Yet, on the day you’re moving, you choose to leave.”

  “Well, we’re not happy.” As Mr Marriner’s bottom lip jutted, I could picture him as a schoolboy, stamping his foot.

  “Neither are we,” Jason said. “We’re sad to see you go but we hope you find somewhere more suitable, although that may be difficult. Can I get your bags?”

  “They’re in the car,” Mrs Marriner said.

  “And we won’t be paying,” Mr Marriner added.

  “But you will,” Jason dropped his voice. “We’re not green enough to let you play another silly game.”

  “Game? You think we had fun here?” Mr Marriner spluttered.

  Jason straightened so he towered over the couple. “We’ve acted honourably throughout. Pay up or your car won’t be leaving our drive until the police arrive.”

  My wonderful husband looked them straight in the eye without wavering, easily winning the ‘who blinks first competition’. With his face a magnificent shade of burgundy, Mr Marriner stuffed notes into Jason’s hand. Seeing the colour of his money gave me as much pleasure as seeing the colour of his face. A moment to be savoured. And one only bettered by the slam of the front door and the knowledge that they wouldn’t be returning.

  Back in the safety of the kitchen we heaved sighs of relief and Jason gave me a much-needed cuddle, cut short by the ring of the doorbell. Shooting worried glances at each other, we headed to the door. Had they left something behind? Or had they found another thing to complain about? The shape through the frosted glass appeared shorter than either of the Marriners.

  As Jason opened the door, a woman barked, “Your car?”

  Shocked by her confrontational tone, I stepped to his side. Outside, a black car had parked over the path, leaving a small gap between it and the two cars on our driveway: ours and our guests. It had rained overnight and droplets clung to the car bonnets, while a rectangle of dry brick showed where the Marriner’s car had sat. Thank goodness their car hadn’t been obstructed too.

  Without waiting for a response, the woman jabbed her finger at us. “You expect me to push my son into the road, do you?”

  Unable to see anyone with her, we followed as she strode off. She pointed to a young boy who sat strapped into a wheelchair abandoned in the middle of a pathway, unable to fit through the space left by the Audi. My heart leapt into my throat. The boy’s pale face, wide eyes and contorted wrists, reminded me of little George, from my old job at Hartfield children’s respite centre. Even though many of the children had challenging issues, in all the years I’d worked there we’d lost just a few, but each loss reopened an old wound until, with George’s death, the scar no longer healed. His wide, toothy smile and huge blue eyes haunted me. Life had been unfair to my chirpy chap who’d been taken by pneumonia days before his tenth birthday. When Jason had asked for the third time about starting afresh, I’d jumped at the chance, handing in my notice and putting the house on the market without a thought to the reality of a two-hundred-mile move.

  The lad rewarded my wave with a smile as wide as George’s.

  “Well?” The woman moved in front of the wheelchair as if to protect her son from us.

  When Jason went to answer, I butted in, careful to moderate my voice and not escalate her upset into a row. “We’re sorry but that car’s got nothing to do with us. We can see why you’re cross. I used to work at…”

  “Liars too, I see.” She grabbed the wheelchair handles and pushed it off the edge of the kerb. As it jolted onto the tarmac road, she turned back. “This is a small town and you’ll come unstuck if you try treating us like you did Mo and Jim.”

  As she marched away, Jason squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.” He waited for me to move but when I didn’t, he added, “We best get back to our guests.”

  He wandered inside shaking his head, leaving me to stand in silence. He might say not to worry but he knew I would. His gentle embrace showed he understood how much this would have upset me.

  I longed to run after the woman and tell her we’d never want to cause her further difficulty. Parents of children with disabilities faced so many challenges without more being added. Our respite centre had been a lifeline to them, offering a few days of rest and time to spend with their other children, away from the worries of hoists, feeding tubes, medication and trying to navigate everyday obstructions such as this car.

  But I couldn’t get over what the woman had said. She'd been right to ask us to move the car but why wouldn't she listen when we’d explained it wasn’t ours, and why the snide parting shot? My stomach lurched. What on earth had Jim and Maureen told everyone? Did people whisper and point when we walked through the streets of Torringham? Would word get around, so we struggled for business? The woman and the young boy had reached the bottom of the road where it curved towards the shops. A few more steps and they disappeared from sight.

  On the other side of the road, a man came out of the cottages banging the door behind him. I tracked his steps until he reached the Audi.

  “You shouldn’t block the path like that.”

  He glared at me. “It was only a minute. What harm has it done?” He looked up and down the empty street as if to prove his point and clambered into the car, muttering, “Daft bat.”

  No point responding. When the sun dipped behind a cloud casting a gloom in the air, I pulled my arms around myself and, head down, went back indoors. Voices filtered from the breakfast room as Jason chatted and laughed with the young couple, no doubt recounting our adventures with the Marriners. But I couldn’t join him. My mind reeled. Had we made a huge mistake? Before moving here, we’d known our seaside idyll wouldn’t be all sun and sea with every day a joy. But I hadn’t expected it to be like this.

  One of my many flaws was reading too much into a situation. But, even so, less than a week into our supposed fresh start I couldn’t shake the feeling that the edges of our dream were smouldering ready to burst into flame. If we didn’t take care, we could be tossed from the frying pan in which we found ourselves. And I knew where that would lead.

  Chapter 3

  Breakfast done and rooms cleaned, I flopped on to the settee, unable to believe that we had the rest of the day ahead without a single guest checking in or an email to write. We’d been in Torringham for just six weeks but already Emily had stopped working at the guesthouse after finding a better job as a hotel receptionist in nearby Berrinton. Who could blame her? She needed to get out and make friends, but it meant our workload had increased. At least I had a few minutes to myself this afternoon before starting on the ironing, unlike poor Jason who had been co-opted into helping Mike at Seaview with a macerator. Apparently, having one here made us experts, but more likely Mike wanted someone else to deal with his toilet issues.

  Kicking off my shoes, I shuffled round to get more comfortable and plumped the cushions behind my head. Remote control in hand, I’d started ploughing through the afternoon TV listings when my phone buzzed. Shona, from Jetsam Cottage next door. ‘You won’t believe this…’ her message began. I laid down the phone, not wishing to be drawn into one of the many sagas she’d told me about. Soon curiosity nibbled at me but as I typed in my password, the doorbell rang.

  Our six weeks here had taught me that guesthouse owners are hostages to the door. It could be a guest locked out or some other crisis, although this time the caller was almost certainly blonde and spikey, in
more ways than her hair style.

  The front door hadn’t even opened fully when Shona barged through. When she flung her hands in the air, I knew this would be the start of a long story.

  “Can you believe it!” Usually she toned down her Essex accent but this was Romford at its finest. “What sort of people steal duvets and pillows? I told Kim we should say no to those workmen as they sounded dodgy, especially when they turned up in that van, but she wanted to fill that flaming room. It’s the John Lewis set too, you know, the one we got in the sale.”

  She paused, giving me a chance to speak. “The workmen took your new John Lewis set?”

  It had been the highlight of the week on the B&Bers’ WhatsApp group. How Shona and Kim had managed to buy a £250 duvet set for £36 and then used it in one of their budget rooms. Us B&Bers had interesting conversations.

  “And the duvet and pillows. Actually, they left one pillow but still. It’s our favourite set. We know how to get them back.”

  An ominous feeling settled. “Do you?”

  “They’re working on a house in Berrinton. One of them was chatting to Kim and told us they are doing a few building jobs in the area. Yesterday and today is Berrinton, tomorrow is Plymouth and so on.” She took a deep breath. “Can you take us to Berrinton? We’d go but our car’s in for its brakes.”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  She ran her hand through her peroxide-tipped hair as if thinking, even though she would have mapped it out before coming around. “We’re going to ask for them back.” Then she gave me her sweetest smile. “Very nicely, of course.”

  ♦

  Scaffolding lined the frontage of the house, while beside a skip brimming with rubble sat the sky-blue hippy van I’d seen on Shona and Kim’s drive the day before. We’d found the right place. I leaned against my car as Shona stood on tiptoes to peer into the van. She signalled to Kim who wandered over and turned to me with pursed lips before marching to the door. They’d found their bedding.