The Little B & B at Cove End. Linda Mitchelmore
‘I’ll say the same to you in case you didn’t hear the first time … buying wine for a minor is an offence. That is all. There are other people waiting to be served.’
Mae looked behind her and saw that three other people had come in, one was stood behind Bailey and the other two were filling up baskets with goods.
‘In that case,’ Josh said, ‘I will part with the readies and we’ll get out of here. And just for the record, this wine is for my old man and my ma. For later. Okay with that, Mrs Smythson? Honest. On the Bible.’
‘You would say that!’ Mrs Smythson said, laughing now. She blushed.
‘I would. Oh, and that turquoise top you’re wearing really suits you, by the way, Mrs Smythson.’
‘Flatterer,’ Meg Smythson said, as Josh turned to go. Mae started to turn, but Meg Smythson reached out for her, and held onto her wrist – just for a second – before letting it go again. ‘You just watch it, Mae. I wouldn’t want my licence taken away. Get my drift? About the wine?’
‘Yes,’ Mae said.
She turned to join Josh, who was already walking towards the door.
As she passed Bailey he said, sotto voce, ‘He got my sister rat-arsed, which wasn’t pretty. Then he did the dirty on her. Just saying. Just so you know.’
Mae couldn’t think of a single thing to say to that, so didn’t. She was so fed up of everyone telling her how to live her life. Fed up with being treated like a little kid, like she didn’t know anything, anything at all. God but she needed that drink now.
The house was quiet now that both Mae and Rosie had gone and Cara was glad of something to do. She went into the hall, picked up the flyer for the art festival and rang the number.
‘Hello, Cara Howard here,’ she said quickly, the second it was answered. She felt nervous, stepping into the unknown as a landlady. Ought she not have rung on a Sunday and waited until the morning? Oh well, it was done now. She’d taken the first step towards her new venture – well, the second if you counted her handmade B&B sign – and there was no going back now. ‘I live at Cove End. I’m interested in offering accommodation to people coming to the art festival. Am I speaking to the right person?’ She knew her words were tumbling out like water over a weir, but that’s what nervousness did for you.
‘You are,’ a friendly voice said. ‘I’m Laura Pearse. What sort of accommodation do you have?’
Cara wondered if she knew anyone called Laura Pearse, but she didn’t think so.
‘Two doubles and a single. One en suite. All with basins. Two with sea views. Oh, and a breakfast room that would be exclusively for guests’ use.’
‘Lovely. Perfect actually. I’ll just take your details. I’ll have to get back to you nearer the date. Oh, hang on a minute. Actually I’ve had a couple of enquiries already from people thinking I’m the Information Bureau taking general bookings, and I’m not. One couple and a single male, wanting B&B accommodation in a few days’ time. Would you be up for that?’
‘I would,’ Cara said with a confidence she didn’t feel because she’d have a lot to do to get all the rooms ready.
‘Great. I’ve still got their details so I’ll get back to you and tell them they can give you a ring. Landline and mobile numbers. Okay with that?’
‘Fine,’ Cara said.
It had been as easy as that. The potential guests had got back to her within half an hour and Cara had booked them in. Three guests in three days’ time. She was well on the way now!
She put the radio on low so as to have another voice in the house. She went upstairs, then down again, peering into all the rooms trying to see them with a stranger’s eye. Cove End had five bedrooms – two en suite, and there were two other bathrooms. Three of the bedrooms had sea views and the other two looked out over fields. There were three reception rooms – one of which Cara had always used as a breakfast room because it faced east and got the morning sun. She thought she could squeeze a couple of small tables with chairs in there and the guests could use that rather than the formal dining room that Cara rarely used because the table in there seated at least eight. Even when Mark had been alive it had rarely been used because Cara always thought it felt too stilted to be eating there, and so cold somehow. The kitchen was large, with room for a table and chairs and a small couch. There was also a downstairs cloakroom. Cara’s head was suddenly full of plans for her new venture. She’d need more tables and chairs for the breakfast room. And possibly some side tables and an easy chair or two for the bedrooms for guests. There was a homes section in one of the charity shops in Totnes that sold furniture cheaply. She’d ask Rosie to drive her over.
‘How much will two tables and some second-hand easy chairs, and a couple of cans of paint eat into my meagre savings?’ Cara said out loud, then clapped a hand across her face.
She was talking to herself now. A sure sign of madness. Or desperate loneliness. But at least she had the house. And she was going to make it earn its keep. One of Mark’s perks as a bank manager had been a ridiculously low mortgage rate. When they’d first married, Mark had accepted every transfer posting he’d been given. They’d lived in just about every town in Devon that had a bank, and in each one they’d upgraded their properties. For one terrible moment after Mark had died, Cara had wondered if he’d embezzled money from the bank. The police had been one step ahead of her, of course, and had got into the hard drive of his computers – home and work. The extent of Mark’s gambling – telephone number amounts – had stunned Cara. The WPC who had been assigned to her after the accident had been very kind and understanding.
‘I knew he gambled,’ Cara had said. ‘I tried my best to get him to stop, but …’ Cara shrugged as if to show how hopeless it had been begging with him, arguing with him, threatening him to face up to his addiction.
‘You couldn’t?’ the WPC said.
‘No. Perhaps he thought he was doing it for the times he did win and he bought a new car, or changed the TV for one with a bigger screen or something, bought our daughter a whole load of new clothes – things to give us a better life.’
‘You are in no way to blame,’ she’d told Cara gently.
But Cara did blame herself because a bank manager’s salary should have been more than enough to send Mae on school trips and she, Cara, ought to have challenged him about his gambling long before she had.
‘These trips aren’t supervised enough,’ Mark had said once when Rosie had offered to pay for Mae to go on a trip to Amsterdam. ‘I’m not allowing my daughter to roam about some foreign city at night, un-chaperoned, while their teachers are in a bar somewhere drinking their heads off, whoever might be paying for it.’
And Cara had given in. But what do you do when you love someone as much as Cara had loved Mark? He’d been a good husband in other ways – a fantastic lover for a start. And on Cara’s birthday there had always been another painting, or some other present that Mark knew Cara would love.
Now Cara knew different. Mark preferred to risk money that should have been spent on Mae in the hope of making more. And with that knowledge, her love for him had dimmed. And the original paintings had only been an investment, hadn’t they? Mark had said as much, wanting her to sell a painting he’d bought for one of her birthdays once he realised the artist was on the up and her painting was making four times the amount he’d paid for it.
It was the car full of paintings, now smashed, and burned, beyond saving, in the back-seat area that had alerted the police to the fact that this was not just another sad, speed-induced accident. Mae had been at school and Cara, unable to bear seeing Mark leave, had walked down the hill to the harbour as he loaded his car with his clothes, his favourite CDs and