Home to Roost (26 page)

Meekly, I do as she says, and Oksana, radiant at finding someone who she can converse with, skips out of the door. Martha/Bertha and I regard each other. Her eyes narrow as she says, ‘Have you ever considered a career in theatre? You’d be excellent in pantomime.’

Before I can react or think of what to say, she turns to go. But not before I see a twinkle in her eye, a twitch of her lips. She’s trying hard not to laugh. Breaking into a relieved grin myself, I call out to her retreating back, ‘I’ll bring the milk up when it arrives.’

She calls back, ‘Oh, didn’t I say? I came down to tell you that it won’t be necessary. Bertha and I are going out to explore the town.’

The rest of the day passes in a blur of confusion and activity. The guests arrive and are shown to their rooms. Most are satisfied, but one couple complain. ‘This doesn’t look like the room I saw on your website,’ the man says. ‘It looks far smaller.’

I smile that landlady smile I’ve got down pat now. ‘It’s hard to show sizes on a web photo, I’m afraid.’ I don’t know what he’s on about; it’s a beautiful double room.

‘Haven’t you got anything else?’

‘I’m sorry, but we’re fully booked.’

He still looks disgruntled. The woman hasn’t said a word. She doesn’t seem to have an opinion at all. They are both standing in the doorway, refusing to go into the room. The man says again, ‘I’m sure this isn’t the same room we booked on the net.’

My smile is wearing thin. ‘I’m really sorry you’re not happy with it, but I assure you that it’s the same room.’ And a bloody lovely one, I want to add, which it is. None of the rooms are tiny, all are spacious enough for two people, and tastefully furnished.

He murmurs, ‘Well, I don’t know. I’m really not happy.’

The doorbell is ringing again and I know Ben is upstairs showing another couple to their room. Why does everyone arrive at once? I say as sweetly as I can, ‘Look, if you don’t want to stay, that’s your option. Why don’t you go inside and have a look around before deciding what to do.’ Then on an impulse I add, ‘We won’t charge you if you decide to go.’

I don’t know if that’s what the owners would do; theoretically I suppose we’d be within our rights to charge them for cancelling at the last minute. But it’s a summer weekend and I know that if I change the No Vacancy sign to Vacancy, we’d have someone ringing the bell within minutes. And, quite honestly, I want this couple to leave. I feel very protective of this attractive house, the thoughtful care that’s been given to make it truly comfortable. I don’t want anyone here who cannot appreciate the place.

I leave them inside the room while I rush down to greet others. I hear the door close behind me and the loud voices of the couple arguing, then I forget them while we spend the next couple of hours greeting new guests, answering questions, telling people about breakfast times, and so on. What I hadn’t anticipated was how some people like to chat when they arrive, asking about the town, the sea, the local attractions. To make it even harder, Ben has had to run to the pharmacy to get some medication for an elderly couple who forgot to bring some from home. They were exhausted after their journey, hardly able to walk they were so stiff, so Ben volunteered to collect the medication. I’m happy he did, but it’s even crazier with me here on my own.

Except for the couple that I hope will leave, luckily everyone is very friendly, which makes the afternoon pleasant, if chaotic. One man insists on following me around asking about various pubs in the region; another young couple have spread out maps in the lounge and are calling to me to point out various places on the coastal path. It’s not easy juggling all this while answering doorbells. And then there are the polite requests for extra pillows or a spare blanket. But the pandemonium only lasts a few hours until everything grows quiet. Amy and Will are out again, enjoying this warm sunny evening, and Ben and I slump down in our private quarters at the back with a bottle of chilled white wine. ‘Phew, first hurdle over,’ I say as we chink glasses and take that first relaxing sip. ‘We deserve this.’

Suddenly I jump up. ‘I nearly forgot in all the confusion. That couple in Room 8, up at the top? I haven’t had a chance to tell you about them, how the man complained, didn’t like the room. I told them politely that they could leave if they weren’t happy here. Have they decided to stay? Or did they leave? I hope so. I can put out the Vacancy sign right now if they’re gone.’

‘Oh, I wondered what that was about. I saw them leave about a half hour ago, when you were busy with that young couple. The man said, rather rudely I thought, that they weren’t staying and you knew all about it.’

I stare at him. ‘They’ve only just gone? Half an hour ago? But they got here nearly three hours ago. What’s going on?’

We rush up to Room 8, to find it a complete shambles. The couple had used the bed, the shower with all the soaps and shampoos, and every single one of the towels which are now strewn all over the floor. ‘What a nerve,’ Ben says. ‘Well, we’ve got their address, we’ll charge them for one night anyway.’

‘We can’t,’ I say miserably. ‘I told them they didn’t have to pay if they didn’t stay, said to go inside, have a look around, and make up their minds. I can’t believe they’ve done this.’

Ben shakes his head. ‘I’ve tried to anticipate all the things that could happen while running a B&B, but certainly not this.’

The worse thing is that it’s too late to rent the room out for tonight; it’ll take ages to get it right again. ‘Oh Ben,’ I sigh, ‘my first day as landlady of a B&B and I’ve already blown one night’s profits.’

He puts an arm around me. ‘Only the price of one room, Tessa. Dominic’s parents would have lost seven nights’ profits for all the rooms if they had to close the place for a week. Think of it as a learning curve. I’m sure it’s not the last mistake we’ll make, anyway.’

It certainly isn’t. That night at 10 p.m. we’re searching for a supermarket that is still open, to buy organic bacon. The Blue Seashell is an upmarket establishment which offers organic produce for breakfast, and a thorough search of the supplies the owners left has not revealed any bacon anywhere. Fair enough, the brother and sister were in a state about their ill father and I don’t blame them for not remembering everything. We should have checked breakfast supplies earlier in the evening.

Resisting the temptation to buy ordinary bacon from the all-night Tesco on the outskirts of St Petroc, and hide the label, we phone the B&B’s usual suppliers, a small butcher’s in the neighbouring town, and luckily they’re awake and willing to open up shop. ‘All in a day’s work,’ the butcher says over the phone when I thank him profusely. But it turns out it was their fault in the first place, the butcher and his wife tell Ben cheerily when he goes to pick up the bacon; it should have been delivered that morning. They say they’ll knock something off the bill for their error, but that doesn’t help us get to sleep any earlier, nor get over the panic of not having bacon for breakfast.

The next morning Ben and I are up at six, preparing fresh fruit salad for breakfast which is between seven-thirty and nine-thirty. No one shows up until eight-thirty, and then it seems to be nearly everyone at once. Ben is behind the scenes, doing the cooking, while I’m front of house with a cheery good morning and would you like tea or coffee to start with? I’m bringing the hot drinks while Ben cooks full English breakfasts, scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, defrosts the Deli France frozen fresh croissants, and in general does a thousand things at once. Luckily he’s a great cook and at ease in any kitchen. Will and Amy have offered to help but we tell them it’s best they stay out of the way. I smile and smile, and take orders, but once again the customers, all very pleasant, stop me to chat, to plan their day with maps and guide books, to ask questions. It’s a hard balancing act between being friendly and polite, and needing to get on bringing out more coffee and tea, asking people if they’d like scrambled, poached or fried eggs, brown or white toast, or hot rolls. Then there are more requests, some very strange ones. One woman is allergic to the posh Neal’s Yard organic shower gel we have in the bathroom and could we please put another kind in the room. I’m perplexed; the Neal’s Yard stuff is totally pure, a wonderful product, expensive, too. I ask her what kind she’d like and she shrugs, ‘Oh, any old kind. Just none of that blue organic stuff.’

I’m learning fast how odd people can be. Then Martha and Bertha appear, and together I can tell them apart, which pleases me. I just have to remember that Martha is over six feet tall and her sister is shorter by about two or three inches. They look ruddy and fit, and order, ‘Two full English, two large pots of Earl Grey, and we’ll try some of that fruit salad after muesli, if you please. Oh, and a plateful of brown toast, lightly done.’

They eat and eat. Long after the other guests have left, Martha and Bertha order more tea, more toast. ‘We’re off for another long walk today,’ Martha says as I’m clearing the table. Bertha beams then burps quietly into her napkin. ‘We had a stunning walk yesterday afternoon.’

I’m dying for them to go as I’m exhausted, longing to sit down with Ben over a good strong cup of tea before we get on with the day. But Martha and Bertha, softened now and not so formidable after their huge breakfast, want to talk. ‘Yes, a wonderful walk,’ Bertha goes on. ‘We sat on that rock formation about two miles from St Petroc, a kind of peninsula that goes out to sea. We’d bought sandwiches and ate them on the rocks on the cliff. And you won’t believe what happened.’

Martha takes up the story, ‘It was magical.’ Her serious, stern face relaxes into wonder. ‘We heard the seals singing. I’ve never heard anything like it before.’

I’m totally drawn in now. I have read about the seals’ song, heard the stories of the mermaid legends that came about centuries ago when sailors heard the music of the seals. But not I nor anyone I have met before has ever heard it – we have all heard seals barking, of course, but never that mystical song. ‘What did it sound like?’

The two sisters look at each other. They are at a loss as to how to describe it. Finally Martha says, ‘Like a beautiful girls’ choir – or perhaps a women’s choir, coming from so far away you can’t quite hear the words. It was like music from heaven.’

They look out over my head, through the window onto the cobbled street outside, but they’re back on that cliff top, listening to the song of the seals. I leave them to their reverie, glad that I heard their story. When they leave for the day they give me a big smile, and I know I’m lucky that they chose to share their magical tale with me.

Because all the guests are staying at least one more day, no new ones are arriving, so Ben and I have time to go out at midday and join the holiday crowds. Oksana has been in to make the beds, tidy the rooms, and Ben and I have stacked the dishwasher and cleaned up in the kitchen. We’ve also checked that there is clean linen for the next batch of guests tomorrow, and phoned the laundry to make sure they remember to collect the used sheets and towels on Monday as scheduled.

It’s another warm clear day. The tide is halfway in and the beaches are, as usual, totally crammed. Amy and Will have found friends from school who are staying with relatives in St Petroc for a few days. We know the aunt and uncle, who invite the children to spend the day with them on the beach. Relieved that Amy and Will seem to be set for a great holiday, Ben and I walk out onto the pier. The seaside smells of fish, salt, and spray assail us as we walk to the end. There are fishing boats out at sea, as well as the sightseeing boats and small motorised craft rented by visitors. I glance back at the village; St Petroc looks like a backdrop to some idyllic film, with the wonky fishermen’s cottages crammed together along the harbour and up the hillside. The sea swells and dazzles with reflected sunlight.

‘This is bliss,’ I say, holding Ben’s hand as we amble along.

‘Yes,’ he agrees then adds, ‘but a brief bliss. We’d better get back. We need to buy more provisions for breakfast, check that Oksana has replaced all the soap and shampoos …’

‘Oh, and buy replacements for that woman who can’t use the organic bath products.’ We start to turn back. ‘Still,’ I go on, ‘that’s not much to do. No one is checking out or in till tomorrow; we can come out again later, join Amy, Will, and the others on the beach, swim in the sea ourselves.’

But it doesn’t happen like that. Back at the B&B, we expect the place to be empty, with everyone outside on this lovely day. But the minute we walk in, one of the guests pounces on us. His wife is ill with stomach pains, vomiting and diarrhoea, and he’s blaming it on food poisoning, saying it must have been the smoked salmon and scrambled eggs she had for breakfast. Several guests ate the same thing so I’m envisaging the The Blue Seashell closed and ruined, the tabloids screaming headlines about a B&B in Cornwall poisoning its customers. But Ben manages to find an emergency doctor to come out – the guest is too weak to move – and to our relief the doctor says it’s not food poisoning but a stomach bug. He gives her an injection to stop the vomiting and a prescription to stop her dehydrating, says she should be fine in forty-eight hours.

Our relief turns to concern as now we wonder if the other guests will catch the stomach bug. How unpleasant for them if they do. And us – we simply cannot get ill, whatever happens.

The next day everyone but the sick woman is down to breakfast, a good sign. Her husband says she is much better. Check-out on Sunday morning for the weekend guests is as chaotic as the check-in on Friday, only worse with bills to settle, debit cards which don’t work in the machine, and a thousand other time-consuming irritations. To top it all off, an Italian couple in their thirties who arrived last night, taking the trashed room which had been cleaned and made ready to occupy, appear looking for breakfast a half hour late. They are so crestfallen, so charming, as well as so totally gorgeous, that Ben, who has just come back from the organic veg shop before it closes, takes pity on them and cooks them the big English breakfast they say they adore, while I help Oksana start to make beds and clean the rooms, for there is far too much to do today for one person on her own.