The Bed & Breakfast Queen

Book 1 of the “Willow Cottage” Series

First published in Great Britain 2018

©2018 Clare Cassy

Chapter One

“What? You’re going to give everything up to run a Bed and Breakfast in the back of beyond? You can’t be serious?” Mac scoffed, as Holly was stirring a Bolognese sauce that evening. “You’re clearly in line to be editor, Hol. You must be mad... Burying yourself in the country, slaving over a pan of bacon and eggs... tripping over bundles of dirty washing!”

Holly sighed. She was losing him. His body language said it all. At one time, he would have his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck as she was cooking. But now he was coming home later and later from the office.

“I’m tired of chasing scummy stories and persuading people to sell their souls for a few hundred quid Mac… Yes, it’s been fun and I love everybody I work with on the magazine but I am tired. I’ve done it since I was nineteen and now I’ve turned thirty, I want to do something else. It’s a fantastic property, at a knock down price, it could be a new start for us both.”

Holly looked at him with hope in her eyes as she re-filled their wine glasses.

“Just come and see it with me. Please Mac?”

Mac pushed his thick mop of blond hair back from his face as he went through the motions of looking at the property details Holly had laid out on their stainless-steel kitchen worktop.

It was obvious he wasn’t interested in going to see it with her. Holly sighed sadly as she turned her attention to serving their food. They ate in silence. An awkward, heavy presence hanging in the air.

Both worked hard and were successful in their respective careers. He was Creative Director of one of the most successful advertising agencies in London, while Holly was Features Editor for a well-known women’s weekly magazine. They went away for week-ends to Paris, Florence, Barcelona and Rome. Ate at the best restaurants. Drank in all the well-known media drinking bars. Life had been good until Holly accidentally became pregnant.

It was a shock to them both as she’d been having regular contraceptive injections for the past three years and had never missed an appointment for a top-up treatment. Until last month. Mac was furious and blamed her for their predicament.

“How could you have been so irresponsible? he’d shouted at her, that awful night in the restaurant. Didn’t you note down the date of your appointment? How the hell could you have missed it?”

“I had a deadline Mac and couldn’t leave the office. Work took over and I just forgot to go. I didn’t do it on purpose if that’s what you are thinking.”

“I don’t know what to think,” he’d hissed at her.

The sad thing was that she’d been so excited when the line turned blue on the pregnancy test and was sure he would come around; after all it wasn’t as if they were in the first flush of youth, they were financially secure – living in Mac’s spacious, ultra-modern, high tech apartment in London’s fashionable East End and had been together for five good years.

“Things worked out for Abigail and Pete,” Holly added in a softer tone. “Look how devastated he was when she told him she was pregnant.”

“True, now he’s an even bigger baby bore than she is. Don’t you remember that awful night we went out with them and all they talked about was liquidizing baby food? I’m sorry Holly, I’m just not ready to be a father.” Avoiding her eyes and fiddling nervously with the cutlery in front of him, it was clear that the subject wasn’t up for further discussion.

“So, I’m good enough to sleep with for five years but not good enough to have your child… is that it?” She was starting to shout and Mac was looking mortified as the couple on the next table were clearly ear-wigging.

“If this child was the result of a one night stand I could understand Mac.”

Unable to bare his callous attitude any longer, her eyes had filled with tears as she flung down her napkin, marched out the restaurant and hailed a cab home.

“You alright luv?” The kindly cabbie had asked.

“Yes, fine thanks,” she stammered, choking back huge, thick sobs that strangled her voice. Then to her amazement she told him everything.

“Don’t worry, he’ll come ‘round luv, that’s men for ya. See these?” he said, proudly pointing out five or six pictures of children of various ages pinned around the inside of his cab, “They’re me pride and joy, all five of ‘em. But when the missus told me she was first expectin’ I thought me world ‘ad come to an end. You’ll see luv, he’ll come ‘round. Five years you’ve been together? Course ‘e will…”

But Mac didn’t. When he came back later that night they slept as far apart from each other as they could. He undressed in silence as Holly sobbed into the sheets. The silence between them was deafening and two weeks later, she had a miscarriage. Mac was foul and his distant and uncaring attitude to her distress was proving to be the death knoll for their relationship.

But someone or something, was tweaking Holly’s destiny.

She was recovering at home when her mother rang.

“Holly darling, I have a letter for you. Looks like it is from Auntie Maud. Shall I forward it, or will you get it when you come down?” she asked hopefully.

Holly wasn’t in the best frame of mind to visit her parents. She was so miserable she could hardly bear her own company let alone be around anyone else.

“Do you mind reading it to me Mum?”

There was a rustle of paper as her mother opened the letter.

“God, her writing. I can barely read it... right...” Holly’s mother took a deep breath.

Dearest, darling Holly,

I don’t think I have long for this world. Don’t be sad, I have spent too long on this earth.

“Oh, my goodness,” Holly’s mum gulped…

I would like you to buy yourself a house with whatever is left of my estate once the nursing home where I have resided these last few years has been paid. Your mother and father worry about you, as do I.

Get out of London dear. Buy yourself a house in a proper part of England. Somewhere where the air is fresh and you can find yourself a good man, who will love and cherish you and your children. Don’t leave it too late like your old Auntie Maud.

I have instructed my solicitor accordingly.

Your loving,

Great Auntie Maud

“Oh my God Mum!” Holly burst into tears.

“Dear, Oh, dearie me,” her mother repeated in between sobs. It was a full five minutes before either of them could draw breath. It was as if the old lady knew what had happened between Holly and Mac.

But she couldn’t possibly have known because Holly hadn’t even told her mother about her miscarriage.

The day after they received her letter, Auntie Maud died a spinster. Colin, her childhood sweet heart, who she called out for on her deathbed, was killed in the Second World War. Shot down with his crew in their Lancaster bomber, somewhere over Germany. He’d just turned eighteen and was the rear gunner. He’d lied about his age to join the Air Force.

“No one could match Colin,” Auntie Maud would say, adding wistfully, “Besides, after the war there weren’t enough men left to go around. I wasn’t the only girl never to get married. There was a whole bunch of us.”

So she ended her days in a nursing home in Eastbourne after a life looking after other people’s children. Holly had many happy memories of spending time with her. Looking at faded old photos of Colin; baking or sewing in her house which smelt of cats and mothballs.

“Auntie Maud would have been a wonderful mother,” Holly’s mother used to say, “She just had that way with children.”

She gave Holly the letter at the old lady’s funeral and Holly re-read the feminine, spidery handwriting at her graveside.

“Thank you, Auntie Maud,” she whispered, placing Colin’s photo and a bouquet of violets - her auntie’s favourite flowers, on her grave. She could picture her in her bed at the nursing home; propped up like a little bird in her nest of white pillows; clad in a pink, winceyette nightie, her long, thin, grey hair neatly styled into a bun at the nape of her neck. The faded photograph of her beloved Colin, on her bedside table. Life could be so cruel, Holly reflected sadly; so many of Auntie Maud’s generation were denied the chance of

marriage and a normal, family life, as were a lot of women in Holly’s generation now; albeit in a different way because Holly wasn’t the only one of her friends, itching to hang up her corporate suit and have a baby. Then, when and if they became a mother, they had to rush back to work to pay the mortgage with constant feelings of guilt that they couldn’t spend more time at home. Women like her friend Maggie, who was dreading going back to the job she hated after the birth of her baby, but had no choice. Maggie’s husband had also made it very clear that they could never afford to have another child either.

“I’d have loved to have had more children,” Maggie had said, wistfully, adding: “What I’d do to stay at home and make playdoh and jam tarts.”

In many ways, Holly’s mother and her generation who married and had children in the l950’s didn’t know how lucky they were. As much as Mum moaned about having to be a ‘stay-at-home mother,’ she never battled with the exhaustion and guilt that so many of Holly’s generation of young working mothers faced every day.

Maybe the old lady was right and Holly would be happier in a ‘Proper part of England,’ the idea of moving out of London and finding a husband who could cherish her and their baby would be wonderful.

Yes, Auntie Maud, I am going to leave London and start a new life, somewhere where the air is fresh and clean… Rest in peace, with your Colin.

Holly was just reading the cards on the flowers when her mother came hobbling over in her high heels, dramatically holding on to her hat.

“Holly darling, there you are. We’re making our way to the hotel for drinks. Dad’s just getting the car,” she said, getting all motherly and linking arms with her only daughter. “You are looking a bit peaky dear.”

“I’m alright.” Holly lied.

“Good, now you must talk to your cousin Grace. Did I tell you she’s pregnant? My sister’s going to be a grandmother! I always thought it would be me first.” she sighed, holding tighter on to Holly’s arm.

Chapter Two

‘You have reached your destination.’

Thank God for my Sat Nav, Holly mused as she saw the impressive iron, black and white Bed and Breakfast sign gently swaying in the West Sussex wind. She’d never been any good at reading maps and was sure she wouldn’t have found her way without it.

Indicating left as directed, she drove slowly down the long, sweeping, tree-lined driveway into the ‘Willow Cottage Bed and Breakfast’ establishment. Her car tyres slowly crunching over the pearl-grey coloured gravel.  Then, carefully parking her pink Volkswagen Beetle and switching off the engine, she checked her hair in the car’s mirror, put a dab of powder on her nose and re-newed her trade-mark, cherry red lipstick. Not bad timing; she’d driven down from London in just over an hour and a half and was five minutes early for her appointment with Mrs Baxter, the vendor.

The word ‘Cottage’ was misleading, to say the least, as there were sixteen bedrooms. Built in the classic Elizabethan ‘L’ shape, it was painted an attractive shade of green. Roses clustered around the door way and Hollyhocks and Delphiniums vied for attention with Lilac, Marigolds, Daisies and Sweet Peas in the long front garden. Oh, this was a real olde-English country-cottage garden.

How clean the air smelt after London, the sky was a bright blue and Holly could swear she hadn’t seen such white, fluffy clouds in a very long time. Two sweet, little robins were pecking excitedly at some breadcrumbs scattered on a windowsill.

Holly’s high heels sank into the gravel as she made her way down the side of the house to the front entrance.

A massive dog with a very loud, deep bark bounded to the front door as soon as she rang the bell. A moment or so later, it was answered by a small, fresh faced woman carrying a chunky baby. She looked around thirty, the same age as Holly, with unkempt, shoulder length hair. As her eyes scanned Holly, her face dropped. Somehow, she couldn’t see such a ‘girl about town’ in her pencil skirt and tasteful silk blouse turning out plates of eggs and bacon every morning.

Christine Baxter sighed to herself as she invited her in. She was bound to be another time waster, traipsing through the house making infuriating comments about all the improvements she would make.

“Miss Bradbury?”

“Yes, that’s me,” Holly answered brightly.

“And you must be Mrs Baxter?”

“I am. And this is Tess,” she said wearily, indicating the dog, to assure Holly it wouldn’t eat her for breakfast.

“Her bark is a lot worse than her bite, don’t worry.”

Thank God for that, thought Holly. She liked dogs but this one was huge – an English Bullmastiff apparently, and she wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of it.

“Your baby is lovely, how old is he?... She?”

“He. Bobby, five months.” Mrs Baxter answered proudly, jiggling him on her hip. He was so perfect with his little rosebud mouth and shock of dark hair. Holly’s breath was momentarily taken away as she felt a surge of longing, crossed with a familiar, stabbing loss. What would our baby have looked like at this age? She would have liked to have held little Bobby but Mrs Baxter kept him protectively tucked under her ample arm.

Tapestries and pictures of various country scenes adorned the walls of the entrance hall. A small table by the front-door was crowded with business cards and tourist guides of every shape and size. Following Mrs

Baxter, baby and dog, Holly made her way past a large kitchen and laundry room into a spacious back sitting room with a very attractive, open brick fireplace.

“Sit yourself down,” Mrs Baxter gestured politely, indicating the sofa, the majority of which was immediately swiped by the dog. “Don’t mind Tess, she’s an asset in a place like this, you never know who is going to turn up at your door.”

Still cradling her baby, she explained that they lived in this part of the house while the rest of the property was set-aside for guests. A small bathroom and box-room for the baby led off from the sitting room, while the Baxter’s’ bedroom and adjoining store room were more modern additions to the house. Holly had the feeling this wasn’t going to be a very long tour of the house; Mrs Baxter seemed tired and was obviously pre-occupied with the baby. Where was her husband? Shouldn’t he be showing her around as the poor woman was obviously so exhausted?

Holly was dying for a coffee but she didn’t really blame Mrs Baxter for not offering her one. It couldn’t be much fun having people tramp through your house especially when it was so large and you had to lug a chunky baby around.

The kitchen was a million miles from the high-tech minimalist, chrome one Holly and Mac shared in London. Holly loved the long, scrubbed, pine trestle table and matching, impressive dresser, cluttered with brightly coloured china.

A welcoming warmth and smell of baking emanated from the Aga cooker as Mrs Baxter led Holly through to the dining room. About half a dozen little tables sporting yellow and white checked table-clothes were covered with an assortment of stainless-steel teapots

and little jugs. The table cloths would have to go, they must be white linen, Holly mused.

Used, individual tubs of butter, marmalade and jam were piled in pyramids on empty plates.

“Haven’t had a chance to clear up yet what with the little one and all.” Mrs Baxter apologised with a soft Sussex burr. The dining room also had a large open fireplace complete with brass bellows, pokers and decorative, iron kettles. An attractive arrangement of dried hops and various brass pans and iron ornaments hung on the walls and a nicely worn Persian carpet added a bit of colour and style to the practical beige carpet. Nice rug but the carpet’s worn and grimy…

“Guests tell me what time they want breakfast the night before and if they want a ‘Full English.’ Boiled eggs are the worst,” Mrs Baxter smiled, “Some want ‘em soft, others ‘ard. People gets very fussy about their eggs.”

Baby Bobby’s eyes studied Holly’s face over his mother’s shoulder as they left the dining room and mounted the wonderful, sweeping staircase with its wide, shiny, mahogany banister to the bedrooms. There’d be no need for Pilates classes after a daily workout like this. Suddenly, Mrs Baxter stopped in her tracks and doubled back to a room she had seemingly forgotten.

“Now this be the Dame School,” she said, as they stepped into a huge musty smelling room cluttered with stepladders and old paint pots. Apparently, it had been added to the house in the latter part of the nineteenth century.

“Them that could afford it, paid a penny a week to ‘ave their kiddies learn to read and write and there be the picture to prove it,” Mrs Baxter gushed, pointing to a faded old photograph hanging perilously on the wall by a rusty nail.

“That there, be the dame, their teacher, a Miss Gibbons I’m told.”

Spellbound, Holly studied the faces of the ragged looking little Victorian children, standing to attention next to the fierce old woman who was clad entirely in black save for her white bonnet.

“Buried in the churchyard, she is… and probably along with some of them little nippers as well.”

Reluctantly, Holly tore herself away from the picture as Mrs Baxter called her over to a door, which opened out to an outside staircase. Its crumbling, moss-covered, steps descending right down to the back garden.

“See that there oak tree? The family that owned this ‘ouse hid King Charles in it when he was fleeing from them Roundheads…”

How could Mrs Baxter bear to leave this house? It was wonderful.

The baby was starting to get a bit tetchy and Holly sensed his mother wanted to get the rest of the viewing over.

The bedrooms on the next two floors were named after flowers. There was the pink ‘Wallflower Room,’ the blue ‘Delphinium’, white ‘Heliotrope’ and the mauve ‘Lilac Room.’ And that was just for starters. Holly’s favourite was the yellow ‘Primrose Room’ at the top of the house with its sloping ceiling, charming window seat and pretty, stained-glass window.

Um, maybe that could be mine… All had their own little sinks, television and tea and coffee making facilities. I’ll have to invest in new bed linen, Holly mused. People don’t like sleeping in flowery bed sheets any more. It had to be white, crisp Egyptian cotton… and the televisions looked a bit old fashioned as well. Everyone expected flat screen, wall mounted TVs now.

“Now this be our Honeymoon suite,” Mrs Baxter laughed, a twinkle in her eye, as they walked up to the third floor.

“It’s lovely.” Holly remarked truthfully, eyeing the Victorian style cherub above the huge four-poster bed and nicely faded tapestries adorning the walls.

“You have to watch wedding parties tho,” Mrs Baxter added, “They can get a bit boisterous some-times! The last lot smashed all me champagne glasses. Nice little money earners tho’... right, I’ll show you the Brewery next,” she said, shifting baby Bobby on her hip.

“Oh, that sounds interesting.” Holly said brightly, following her gingerly, down a perilous, creaky little staircase.

The Brewery, Mrs Baxter explained, was the oldest part of the house. It had originally been a coaching inn and this was where the horses were rested and beer was served to passing travellers. An attractive modern-day mural of Tudor wenches pouring beer inside a rowdy inn, with boys brushing horses and feeding dogs outside, was painted on one of the walls in the little entrance hall...

“My friend’s daughter, painted that when she was fresh out of art school.” Mrs Baxter said proudly. It was exquisite.

Holly was enthralled as Mrs. Baxter pulled back the corner of an old Persian rug revealing a rusty metal plate embedded in the floor.

“There’s a secret tunnel under ‘ere,” she said, tapping it with her foot, “Goes straight out to Fishbourne Creek it does… used by boot-leggin pirates doin’ their business right ‘ere in this brewery with the inn-keeper.”

“Oh my god, have you been down there?”

“My hubby tried. Was a helluva job getting this lid off, but the ‘ole had all closed up… ‘e did a bit a diggin’ - mess everywhere there was, but he soon gave up.”

Holly could just picture a bunch of rag-tag, Johnny Depp, look-alike, pirates jumping up and out of the tunnel. They probably stood right where she and Mrs Baxter were now. All wiping sweaty brows after the exertions of rolling and heaving up heavy barrels of booze. Candles would be flickering, a mouse scampering here and there along the dusty, flag stones on the brewery floor. The atmosphere would be tense as the inn keeper inspected the barrels. Then after greedily, gulping a beer they’d count the coins they’d been given and beat a hasty retreat down the tunnel to their boats in the harbour.

This house was steeped in history. Holly had never bought a property before but she knew she wanted this one. It had a warm, almost humbling presence and she knew she could be at home here. Forcing herself to go, she thanked Mrs Baxter for her time and said she’d contact the agent to make an offer.

Mrs Baxter didn’t look convinced.

“Mac, the house has so much potential. It’s all beams and creaky staircases, the bedrooms need updating but with a few changes here and there, it could be a gold mine. There’s even a secret tunnel running out to Fishbourne Creek. No wonder it’s a favourite with the Americans… You’ll love it. Let’s

talk tonight, I’ll be back around seven. Just going to do a little shopping in Chichester…”