The Golden Oldies Guesthouse (ARC) Page 11

  A few extra quid! Just as well the bank manager had liked Simon. But Tess knew that folding doors would look fantastic, no doubt about that.

  ‘They’ll never be cheaper than they are right now,’ Ivor continued. ‘This is the opportunity of a lifetime, Mrs Sparrow! We can offer you a special discount. And if you let us take some photos of the finished job, with your fabulous views, we can use them for advertising and knock a bit more off the price.’

  He was a good salesman and Tess had no way of knowing if what he said was likely to be true but in any case, she was now sold on the idea. They ordered the doors.

  * * *

  Simon’s agent did ring again. They were doing some drama for Channel 4, with a week’s filming on Bodmin Moor. The week after next. They needed Roundheads and Cavaliers. He was to be a Roundhead. No lines to learn but he’d have to shout a lot. And be on site at 5 a.m. every morning for the week.

  ‘Five o’clock!’ Simon spluttered.

  ‘Every morning,’ confirmed the agent. ‘I told them you’d be ideal because you lived right on the doorstep.’

  ‘It’s a half hour’s drive,’ protested Simon.

  ‘The money’s good.’

  ‘Yeah, OK, then,’ Simon agreed.

  ‘How are you going to get there in the middle of the night?’ Tess asked.

  ‘Good question. You either do without transport all day or we go out to look for another car.’

  The very next day they went to Plymouth and bought a second-hand white Fiat 500. It was a few years old but was in good condition (‘one careful lady driver,’ said the salesman), and cost twice as much as they’d intended to spend. Tess regarded it as a very useful run-around, and Simon said it was little more than a mobile shopping trolley, but it would do the job.

  Things were looking up. Three days later the central heating installation was finally complete. One of the guys showed Tess how to press the button and the central heating bellowed into life. An hour later the house was warm! Everywhere!

  Then Tess prepared for more dust as Simon was let loose with the floor sander upstairs. There followed a week of chaos. More dust, more cleaning. Carpets were delivered and fitted for their bedroom and for the stairs and landing. Furniture was arranged in the upstairs bedrooms. The ever-obliging Gideon was dispatched by his father to help move the new beds upstairs, and then Jed appeared, too. They couldn’t risk Simon’s newly healed arm coming to grief again, he said. And, he added, they’d unearthed an old, long bar from one of their sheds which, if painted up, would make a very acceptable reception desk in the hallway.

  * * *

  In the last week in April the folding doors were delivered, just prior to their first guest arriving. It did, of course, decide to rain that day but, never mind, it wasn’t cold and it wasn’t windy so at least the rain didn’t blow straight into the rooms. While they worked Tess added the final touches upstairs. The floorboards looked beautiful, but each room had a large rug covering most of the floor in an attempt at warmth and also to deaden the sound of people walking around, particularly in high heels. She placed large fluffy colour-coordinated towels in each gleaming new bathroom.

  She’d talked Simon out of his ideas for microwaves and the like. Apart from the expense, Tess didn’t really want people to be cooking up here. They had to make money out of this venture and that meant providing lunches and dinners. She decided to do a set dinner each evening and, if they didn’t like it, they could always walk down to the pub. But she’d certainly need help with all the cleaning. She’d ask Gina.

  Hours before the first guest arrived the folding glass doors were finally in place. And they looked amazing, even when they were closed! Then, one flick of the switch, and back they folded. You could barely see them at each side as the wall completely disappeared.

  Simon in the meantime had spent a week as a Roundhead and managed not to break anything. Things were finally looking up.

  The Sparrows were now open for business.

  Part Two

  13

  DOMINIC

  Dominic Delamere hoped he was doing the right thing when he’d chosen to come to the South-West via the M4 and the M5, because everyone said that the A303 became very congested at this time of year. But my God, he thought, it’s a bloody long way! County after county after county.

  Still, it was a beautiful sunny day. As he drove onto the A30 at Exeter and slowed down a little, he began to notice for the first time the abundance of greenery on each side of the dual carriageway: the rough peaks and tors of Dartmoor on the left, the fresh sharp greenness of the spring leaves on the trees, the glimpse of lambs frolicking in a field and wild flowers on the banks. You wouldn’t see frolicking lambs around Hampstead.

  He did occasionally notice the seasons in London, apart from it being warm in summer and cold in winter, of course. He’d fleetingly observed blossom on the trees in the parks and on the heath. Pink usually, like cherry blossom, which always reminded him of Japan. And, later in the year, the dense carpets of gold and amber leaves which left the trees bare and vulnerable again. How often had he and Patrick crunched their way through those leaves! Patrick. He must learn to think of Patrick only in the past tense because Patrick wasn’t coming back. As always he felt his eyes becoming a little misty and then he saw the sign by the side of the road: ‘Welcome to Cornwall’.

  Dominic’s sat-nav instructed him to take the next turning off the A30. He blinked as he slowed down and chastised himself for being a silly old fool. He’d just turned seventy which was why it was entirely possible that Patrick, at fifty-two, had been tempted elsewhere. For someone called Finbar: another bloody Irishman, and the cause of the ensuing disaster.

  Now he was most certainly on a B road, with just enough room for two vehicles to pass each other comfortably and for large juggernauts to inch past each other slowly and carefully. He was stuck behind one that did just that for a good part of the way. And then – for what seemed like hours – he got stuck behind a filthy tractor and trailer, doing about fifteen miles an hour and spewing out dirt – probably cow shit – all over his pristine silver Jaguar. Well, it had been pristine when he set out this morning but it certainly wouldn’t be now. At last, the damned tractor turned into a field and Dominic continued on his way, navigating sharp bends, changing gear as he roared up and down hills. This was a different sort of driving from what he was used to and he was having to concentrate very hard. Then it struck him that he didn’t have to drive at sixty miles an hour simply because that was the speed limit on this type of road, although he noticed that most of the other drivers were driving fast. In all probability they lived round here and knew where they were going. After a Fiat 500 overtook him on one of the only straight pieces of road he decided that he might as well slow down and enjoy the scenery.

  He observed again the plethora of wild flowers lining the road: pinks and whites and blues. Campions, ox-eye daisies and bluebells. And fat brown cows grazing in a field and an occasional roadside cottage with scribbled signs up proclaiming ‘Eggs for Sale’ and ‘Bags of Best Quality Horse Manure – Very Cheap’. How did you grade the quality of horse manure? Dominic wondered. Did you have to dissect it, smell it, or what? Or was it the horses that were best quality?

  The road went on and on. Dominic began to wonder why on earth he’d chosen to come to this remote part of the world. There was still no sign of the sea either. Was he on the right road? You could never be sure; the sat-nav did make heroic boo-boos occasionally.

  Patrick would laugh. He always called Dominic a ‘hopeless townie’ when Dominic shut his eyes and offered up prayers as Patrick roared round blind corners at heaven-only-knows-how-many-miles-per-hour on Ireland’s country roads, not dissimilar to this. Well, Patrick was a country boy and Dominic, born and bred in Chiswick, was not.

  He’d scoured the country looking for somewhere remote, by the sea, to write his book. And, because of the type of book and because of Patrick, it had to be Cornwall. This was certainly remot
e enough, but where was the sea? Dear Lord, how much further?

  And then he passed the sign which proclaimed ‘Portmerryn’ and, from the top of the hill, the view literally took his breath away. Ahead of him was a panorama of blue Atlantic, cliffs descending dramatically into the sea, a scattering of houses, a beach. And now the road was bordered on each side by deep pink rhododendrons, growing wild. It was breathtakingly beautiful. It was the sort of stuff in some of the books that Dominic published that he classed as sugary and exaggerated. If his editors okayed it then that was fine, but it was not his sort of thing. He almost felt the urge to write a description of this himself! He should have come to paint and not to write!

  He’d have liked to pull in to savour the view, but there was no lay-by, only houses lining the roadside, their gardens bursting with colour. And a little shop: ‘Portmerryn Stores and Post Office’. Now the sea was right ahead of him and the road did a sharp turn to the left with only a line of cottages between him and the beach. They must back right onto the sand, he thought. And then a pub – good. He hoped it would be walkable to from where he was staying.

  The sat-nav was now telling him to take the next left, which looked little more than a narrow lane. But the sign said ‘Seagull Hill’ and that was the address of the place, so it had to be right. It was very steep and he swore as he hit a succession of huge potholes. What a treacherous bloody place, he thought, my poor car! Then he saw the sign on the right: ‘The Sparrows’ Nest’ and a driveway leading to it, although he could see no sign of a house through the trees.

  When the house came into view it was exactly like the picture on the website: large and imposing with a steeply pitched roof, lots of chimneys, an open front door, a large parking area. But where was the sea? Just trees all around.

  Dominic unfolded his lanky frame from the driving seat and stretched his aching muscles. He was getting to be too old for these marathon journeys. He stood for a moment gazing at the house. This, then, was where he’d opted to spend the next six weeks of his life. And there certainly didn’t appear to be much to distract him around here, so no excuses for not getting the book written, or at least started.

  Then a lady appeared. Tall, quite attractive and a bit younger than himself, he reckoned.

  She smiled broadly. ‘You must be Mr Delamere?’

  ‘Mrs Sparrow, I presume?’ he replied as they shook hands.

  ‘Call me Tess, please.’

  ‘And I’m Dominic.’

  ‘Come in, Dominic, and let me show you to your room. How was your journey? We’re a long way from anywhere, aren’t we?’

  ‘You certainly are,’ Dominic agreed, impressed with the spacious hallway and imposing central staircase. There was a strong smell of new paint.

  Tess led the way upstairs, along the galleried landing and opened the door at the far end to Room 1.

  ‘I do hope you’ll be comfortable in here,’ she said.

  Dominic found himself in a large airy room, tastefully decorated. He crossed to the double windows and there was that view again – the perpendicular cliff he’d seen from the top of the hill, and a wide panorama of ocean, seagulls circling overhead. For a moment he was speechless.

  ‘You said you were going to be writing,’ Tess said, ‘so I thought this might be useful.’ She indicated a small oak desk in front of the window.

  ‘Oh, how kind,’ Dominic said, ‘but I doubt I’d get much writing done as I’ll be gazing out of the window so much!’

  She laughed. ‘You’ll get used to it. Now, I’ll go find my husband to help you to unload your stuff.’

  ‘Oh, no need…’ he said vaguely, still staring at the sea. Then he turned to inspect the room. A nice big double bed, a couple of easy chairs, a spacious antique-type wardrobe. Polished floorboards with a large pale-coloured rug covering most of it. He wandered into the bathroom. A shower and a bath – good. And lots of fluffy white towels and little bottles of soap and stuff. She’d certainly thought of everything, including a kettle and all the usual tea things including, glory of glories, a cafetière along with some ground coffee, so he could make his own brew. No fridge, but that didn’t matter because he drank his tea and coffee black anyway. It was surely worth every mile and every pothole to get here. He supposed he’d better fetch his luggage.

  When he got down to the front door there was a rather dapper, good-looking man standing there, smiling. Dominic had a vague feeling of having seen him before somewhere.

  ‘Hi!’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Simon Sparrow. Simon.’

  They shook hands. ‘Dominic,’ he said. ‘And what a delightful place you have here.’

  ‘Well, thank you,’ said his host. ‘We’ve only just finished doing it up, hence the smell of paint everywhere, for which I apologise. Hopefully it won’t last long. And do let us know if you think we can improve anything because this is new territory for us. Now, let me help you carry some of these things.’

  After they’d lugged everything upstairs Simon asked, ‘How was your journey?’

  ‘Well, the motorway bit was predictably busy and boring,’ Dominic replied. ‘But the last part of the journey just got better and better. It’s such a glorious day.’

  ‘It is,’ Simon agreed. ‘Now we were wondering if, after your long drive, you’d care to join Tess and I for a cup of tea or something out on the terrace?’

  ‘That,’ replied Dominic, ‘would be delightful.’

  * * *

  Tess Sparrow led him out through a charming sitting room, the windows folded back completely – which gave the appearance of having no outside wall – onto the sunny terrace where there were chairs and sofas and things made of that material you can leave outside in all weathers and which they’d jazzed up with lots of colourful cushions.

  ‘Do sit down, Dominic,’ she said. ‘You’ll need a breather before you start unpacking. And would you like tea or coffee?’

  ‘Tea would be wonderful,’ he replied, positioning himself to best enjoy the view.

  She reappeared shortly afterwards with a tray laden with tea things, including slices of lemon for Dominic’s black tea. There was also a large plate of interesting-looking biscuits.

  Simon joined them and, after a few minutes’ general conversation, Dominic asked, ‘Have I met you or seen you somewhere before?’

  ‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ Simon replied, ‘but I was, and occasionally still am, an actor so you may have seen me in something or other.’

  ‘Ah, that’ll be it.’ Dominic looked around. ‘So, have you given up acting now?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s rather given me up,’ Simon said sadly. ‘But I do get an occasional call from my agent for bits of this and that, mainly voice-overs.’

  ‘You have a very distinctive, attractive voice,’ Dominic said.

  ‘Well, thank you. And it comes in useful for earning some extra cash now and again but, to be honest, I’m really happy to be away from it all.’

  Tess passed the plate of biscuits to Dominic. ‘These are made by a lady who lives up the road,’ she said, ‘and they’re delicious. Made with Cornish cream. Do try some.’

  As Dominic helped himself, Simon said, ‘I understand you’re a writer?’

  ‘Um, no, I don’t think I’d call myself a writer just yet. I’ve been a publisher for the past forty years or so, handling other people’s books, so thought it high time I tried writing one myself. At least I have a fair idea of what’s likely to be acceptable, but I’ll have to take my chance.’

  ‘Good for you!’ said Tess. ‘You should always follow your dream.’

  ‘And this will make quite a change for you after London,’ Simon added. ‘Will it help the creative juices to flow, do you think?’

  ‘My God, I hope so!’ Dominic laughed. He hoped fervently that they would flow. To have come all this way and booked this place for weeks and then have all your ideas dry up! He shuddered at the thought.

  They were a nice couple and he liked the fact that they did
n’t quiz him about his private life, or what the book was about. These things could be mentioned in time if he chose to tell them. He’d never liked people who wanted to know all about you within minutes of meeting.

  ‘Now, feel free to come out here any time you feel like it,’ Tess said, waving her hand around at the terrace. ‘And we’ll do dinner at seven thirty in the dining room next door, if that’s OK? And, as you’re our very first guest, you’re welcome to join us rather than sit on your own. Or we can bring it up to your room if you prefer? We’re trying to cater for our guests’ individual tastes.’

  ‘And we’re here if you need us, but we’ll keep a low profile if you don’t,’ Simon added.

  ‘That all seems ideal,’ said Dominic.

  14

  OPEN PLAN

  ‘I rather like him,’ Tess remarked after their one and only guest had retired to his room.

  ‘Yes, I do, too,’ Simon said. ‘It would be awful if we didn’t, though, wouldn’t it? I mean he’s here for six weeks.’

  ‘No idea what sort of book he might be writing,’ Tess said. ‘And he didn’t say anything about his personal life, did he? Do you think he was…’

  ‘Gay?’ Simon supplied. ‘Yes, definitely. At least you’ll be safe – not that you’re going to have much time for any shenanigans, Mrs Sparrow! I’m keeping you chained up in the kitchen doing breakfasts, lunches and dinners and then collapsing gratefully into my arms at bedtime.’

  Tess knew, of course, that Simon liked to show off his skills in the kitchen and that they’d share the cooking. Only this evening he’d cooked the very delicious chicken cacciatore.

  ‘Well, if that’s the case I’ll be asleep in seconds, Mr Sparrow,’ she said. ‘Anyway, Dominic says he rarely eats cooked breakfasts, just likes a bowl of cereal and a piece of fruit. I don’t expect we’ll need to do many lunches if our guests are out during the day. Mind you, if Dominic’s writing a book he probably won’t be out during the day.’