Chapter Four
Monday morning at Boomerville was a hive of activity and the hotel buzzed with life.
For the tutors, the beginning of a new week meant an early start and they were busy in the studios preparing courses for the days ahead.
Guests, rested from a relaxing Sunday, had risen promptly to make their way to breakfast and now chatted over bowls of cereal and fruit followed by a substantial Westmarland breakfast from the buffet.
Sausages sizzled in warming trays, alongside locally cured bacon and freshly prepared eggs, and waiting staff worked hard to ensure that everyone had their breakfast on time, ready for the day ahead.
In the reception lounges, non-residents, excited at the prospect of a stimulating and fulfilling day, gathered for coffee and shortbread.
As they introduced themselves, they discussed which of the day’s activities they’d be participating in.
The creative writers listened with interest to the would-be clairvoyants, whilst prospective potters anticipated elaborate creations and dreamed of TV appearances on The Great British Pottery Throw Down.
The laundry was bustling and two housekeepers gossiped as they loaded their trolleys with fresh cotton bedding and thick fluffy towels.
Miniature bottles of luxury toiletries were piled high alongside complimentary biscuits, fresh from Sandra’s kitchen and stacked in pretty tins.
With the hotel fully occupied the ladies were keen to make a start and discover what shenanigans had taken place over the weekend.
No doubt Sir Henry had concealed a stash of cigar butts and his suite would need fumigating.
Lucinda would still be asleep with an empty bottle of wine under her pillow, snoring loudly beneath her quilt with a chaotic assortment of sketches, paintings and artist’s paraphernalia scattered untidily around her room.
In the kitchen, Sandra was busy. As head cook at the hotel, she’d worked with Jo for more years than she cared to remember and was delighted that the old place had re-opened.
She’d had the pleasure of training Jo’s youngest son, Zach, who was always in the kitchen when he was growing up, shadowing Sandra as she prepared time-honoured recipes.
Zach had gone on to catering college and spent stints abroad at Michelin-starred restaurants, returning to Kirkton House to work alongside Sandra and gain stars of his own.
She was intensely proud of her protégé who was now paving a successful career as a celebrity chef in London.
Sandra smiled as she thought of Zach’s handsome young face.
He was the image of his father, with dark Romany looks and mischievous twinkling eyes.
Zach combined entertaining cooking skills with a cheeky charisma and it was no wonder that his TV career was booming.
Sandra was proud of the new menus that she’d helped him create and, as she sat at her table, she wrote out orders for the forthcoming week while two young commis chefs set to work.
Occasionally, Sandra looked up as pots and pans rattled in the stillroom where Gerald, the porter, ran his dishwashing facility with military precision as waiting staff emptied trays of clutter from the breakfast service.
‘Have you got your TV set up for later?’ Gerald called out. Zach’s cookery show had a regular slot on a prime-time channel and an episode was due to screen that evening.
‘Aye, I’ll be glued as usual,’ Sandra said and, easing her weight off her stool, set about her day.
* * *
As the hotel hummed with life and occupants began their day, Hattie and Jo sat in reception with a tray of coffee and biscuits beside them. Hattie dunked shortbread into her drink and bit into the soft buttery bake, while Jo studied the bookings on a computer screen.
‘Every place is taken on the courses,’ Hattie said. She peered over Jo’s shoulder and studied the packed timetable. ‘Some guests are extending their stay for another week or booking to come back in the spring.’
‘This is far more lucrative than I imagined.’ Jo sipped her coffee and smiled. ‘The courses sell easily, there’s such a large demand.’
‘Aye, you wouldn’t think us old ’uns had the energy. I think your boomer brainwave is going to pay off.’
‘As long as everyone benefits from their time here, it’s not about the money. I want them to leave with energy and enthusiasm for the years ahead.’
‘Oh, what does that matter?’ Hattie said. ‘As long as they leave and your bank account is bulging.’
‘That’s not what Boomerville’s all about.’ Jo frowned. ‘I don’t want our age group to think that they’re past it with nothing to look forward to and no purpose in life.’
Hattie yawned. She let Jo drone on about the merits of opening the doors to a middle-aged audience and the benefits to be had.
If Jo wanted to polish her halo and be nominated for a sainthood from her boomer brothers and sisters, Hattie would let her, but there were far more important fish to fry.
Hattie’s fingers were itchy. It was ages since she’d had a bit of fun and she didn’t hold with Jo’s nonsense that it was hard at their age to find a bit of nookie.
On holiday in Barbados the previous year, Hattie had enjoyed a glorious fling with a local, Mattie, who was equally enamoured with Hattie, and had been there to tickle her fancy whenever she felt the need.
But Mattie was four thousand miles away.
Hattie thought of her handsome island man.
She’d experienced pleasures far beyond anything that murky old Marland had to offer and one night with Mattie was worth all the months of missing him.
But the flames of passion still fuelled a glowing ember in Hattie’s heart and she didn’t intend to let it go out.
Boomerville for Hattie was fun. Never mind all the energising and restorative courses that were booked up for weeks, it was the people that made the place and Hattie loved being involved.
Since they’d re-opened the doors, she’d never once thought about her age or worried about getting older.
The job provided her with an ample income but more importantly, it kept her young.
There was nothing better than being amongst folk and enjoying yourself and if it happened that a bit of bedtime action came along, then Hattie was all for it.
It was as good as any tonic wine or live longer, life-enhancing potion.
Nothing put a spring in your step faster than a romantic tryst or two and Hattie’s antennae were tuned to all possibilities.
‘I wonder what James Bond got up to last night?’ Hattie said as she checked application forms into a folder.
‘If you’re referring to Andy Mack, I’m sure he was early to bed; he’d had a long walk with Kate during the day.’
Hattie rolled her eyes heavenward. She sometimes wondered what planet Jo lived on and wished that she didn’t see the world through rose-tinted glasses for the majority of her day.
‘Judging by the look on his face when I last saw them, I’d say he didn’t get a great deal of sleep.’
The previous evening Hattie had enjoyed chatting to guests as they sipped their after-dinner coffee.
She’d kept a wide berth from Andy and Kate, who were snuggled on a sofa by the fire, only interrupting to replenish their drinks.
Hattie knew when to let well alone and could see that there was enough passion smouldering between them to launch a rocket.
She’d discreetly said goodnight and had no doubt that housekeeping wouldn’t need to make the bed in Andy’s room that morning.
‘We’ve a new guest checking in and I’ll go to the station to pick him up this afternoon,’ Jo said.
‘Why don’t you send a taxi?’
‘It’s Bob Puddicombe and I want to meet him myself.’
Hattie nodded her head. Bob was Zach’s London agent, heading to Boomerville for a short break. Hattie quite understood why Jo would want to lay on VIP treatment for her son’s boss.
The women looked up as guests wandered by and, as Hattie drained her coffee, a tall man with a distinguished wave of thick dark hair, greying at the edges, stopped at the desk and leaned in.
‘Morning, James,’ Jo said.
‘Good morning, I wonder if I could have a word?’
Hattie stood up. She had a feeling that she knew what was coming.
James Bryne taught creative writing. He was a likeable and talented teacher, popular with his students.
Hattie thought James attractive too, in a studious sort of way.
The previous week, Sir Henry and Lucinda, fresh from a morning of wine tasting, had rolled into an afternoon session and caused mayhem in James’ class.
Hattie gathered a clipboard and eased out of the office. ‘I’ll go and gather the strays,’ she mumbled as she heard James ask Jo about the house rules on sobriety during classes.
Closing the door, Hattie bustled into the hall.
Jo could mop-up Sir Henry’s mess. Hattie decided to have a quick check around the place to make sure that everyone was where they were meant to be.
With only a few arrivals that day, Hattie could leave reception duties with Jo until the day team turned up but first, she’d go and say hello to Sandra.
Finding the kitchen door open, Hattie stepped in.
The commis chefs were busy chopping vegetables and didn’t look up.
In the stillroom, Sandra was deep in conversation with Gerald, discussing the merits of an HD screen to view Zach’s TV show, and on a stainless-steel table, within arm’s reach, a row of freshly baked shortbreads sat in a neat pile.
The delectable smell of crisp buttery biscuits was irresistible.
Hattie licked her lips and dived in.
* * *