“Flights.”

  Joe frowned. “What about them?”

  “They’re flying to the Maldives for their honeymoon early doors Saturday morning. They have to be at Manchester Airport for stupid o’clock: about half past five in the morning, and it’ll take ’em, what, an hour and half to get from Windermere to Manchester. They couldn’t have the wedding on a Saturday if they’d wanted.” Alec grinned again and finished his tea. Handing the beaker back to Joe, he went on, “Sorry, Joe, but Wes wasn’t about to change his plans to accommodate you or the Lazy Luncheonette.”

  “No, no. Course not. So how long has he known this girl?”

  “Kelly? About three years, I reckon. They’ve been living together for the last two.”

  “And suddenly decided to waste half their savings on a wedding?” Joe sounded incredulous. “They must have more money than sense. Coining it, is he? Your Wes?”

  “Making more than I am.” Alec nodded. “Him and his mate, Rott. You remember him. Paul Drummond. Him, our Wes and your Lee were big mates when they left school.”

  “I remember Rott,” Joe said, grimly. “Bad tempered so-and-so, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s the Irish in him, Joe. Always was a hothead. That’s why they called him Rott. Short for Rottie, as in Rottweiler.”

  “Ah. Right. He’s calmed down a bit, I take it.”

  “Not so’s you’d notice,” Alec replied. “Still a snapper. Put a bit of weight on though. Too much beer, not enough weightlifting.”

  Joe nodded. His problems were the exact opposite: not enough beer and too much exercise chasing after customers and suppliers. “And they’re working together?”

  Alec blew out a cloud of smoke. “Him and our Wes set up in business together. What with all the holiday places in the Lake District, there’s plenty to do during the summer. Repair work and stuff. And off-season, there’s a lot of refurbishment work to be done. According to what Wes told me, they could do with another pair of hands, but they can’t find anyone dumb enough to work for a nutter like Rott.”

  “I seem to remember the only ones who could take Rott down on the field were Wes and Lee,” Joe said.

  “Correct. Wes and Lee were always the more focussed. They were training with the Sanford Bulls, so they kept off the beer. Rott liked his ale too much.” Alec laughed and took another pull on his cigarette. “Rott is Wes’s best man.”

  Joe’s imagination ran riot with the prospect. “That should be fun. Best man gets tanked up, makes a pass at the bride by mistake and all hell breaks loose. Remind me to duck.”

  Alec took a final drag on his smoke and crushed it out on the wall-mounted stubber.

  “According to my information, Rott has promised to be on his best behaviour, so you shouldn’t need to duck. Listen, Joe, I’ll have to shoot off, but you know, if it’s difficult for you tomorrow. Give it a miss. I’ll explain to Wes and it’s not like he’ll burst into tears. He’ll have more on his plate.”

  “Nah, mate, like the girls said, it’s too late now. All the arrangements are made. If I opened the café, no one would turn up. They all know we’re shut. Besides, we’ve booked the hotel for the weekend.”

  Alec gave him a mock-suspicious gaze. “Oh, aye? You and Brenda in one room, Sheila in another, Joe bedhopping between the two.”

  Joe laughed. “Chance would be a fine thing.”

  “I thought you had Brenda sorted.”

  “Dying off.” Joe, too, stubbed out his cigarette as three women ambled along the parade from the direction of the retail park. “It was never anything serious, you know.”

  “It never is with Brenda, is it?”

  Joe refrained from making the obvious comments, and nodded at the three women coming their way. “This lot look like customers. I’ll see you in Windermere tomorrow, Alec.”

  Chapter Two

  With fine views of Lake Windermere through the tree line, The Lakeside Manor Hotel stood on a rise at the end of a narrow, twisting lane, off the main road between Bowness and Windermere.

  But as Joe grumpily pointed out, it could hardly be said to be at the side of the lake.

  “I wouldn’t like to walk it,” he grumbled as he climbed out of his car. “It must be nigh on half a mile.”

  Joe’s irritation had been a feature of the journey all the way from Sanford. He had led the way, and eager not to lose Lee, Cheryl and their son, Danny, in their car, Joe had taken it easy across the Pennines and round Manchester. But that had cost them time, and it was 9.30am when he finally pulled into the Lakeside’s busy car park.

  The heat, too, had added to his displeasure. Dawn had broken just before 5.00am and by the time they left the Lazy Luncheonette just after six thirty, the temperature was already in the low twenties. Reaching the other side of Manchester an hour later, it was climbing towards the thirty mark, and even with the sunroof open, the interior felt like a steam room.

  “We’ve both spent a fortune at the hairdresser’s,” Sheila said, pooh-poohing his idea of opening all the windows, too. “We don’t want it spoiled by hurricanes coming through the windows.”

  “It might help if you bought a new car,” Brenda pointed out. “One with air-conditioning.”

  “How often do we need air-con in this country? And besides, have you seen what it does to fuel consumption? You need a bloody petrol tanker following you.”

  “According to motor manufacturers, the effect is minimal,” Sheila said.

  “Yes, and according to Sid Snetterton, his sausages are the best in Sanford, but that doesn’t make it true. Try reading What Car instead of Hair & Beauty and you might know what you’re talking about.”

  But in deference to their expensive hairdos, he kept the windows closed and vented his anger on other road users, the worst of his vehemence falling on lorry drivers.

  “Not only do I have to serve them six days a week, but when I do get a day off, they’re in my way.” He whined as two lorries blocked the inner and middle lanes, and heavy traffic prevented him getting into the offside lane to overtake.

  The final sixteen miles from leaving the motorway to arriving in Bowness on Windermere, travelling along wooded lanes, with occasional glimpses of the surrounding hills and moors, took the better part of thirty-five minutes, and they were almost in Bowness before they caught their first sight of the lake. By that time, Joe’s temper was on the point of eruption.

  It was exacerbated by the difficulty in finding the Lakeside Manor. The lane which led to it belonged to the hotel and as a result was badly signposted. Joe passed it twice, once in each direction before Sheila finally spotted it.

  It was with some relief that they finally got out of the car, and took the luggage from the rear.

  “Sort yourselves out,” Joe ordered. “I’ll go check us in.”

  Wearing only a T-shirt, shorts and trainers, he felt the stress leaving him as he walked towards the main entrance. It was, he told himself, always the same. He disliked travelling whether he was driving or not, but he enjoyed arriving.

  The Lakeside Manor had been a manor house at one time, built of local stone, its façade recently cleaned, it gave the impression of a miniature castle sitting in a couple of acres of finely manicured lawn and garden. Although Joe could see only part of the surrounding land from the tarmac of the car park, its ordered, yet casual furnishings appealed to him. He had an instant and pleasing vision of sitting by one of the tables enjoying the sun, and watching the boats on the distant lake.

  The temporary hiatus to his mood did not last long. He stepped through the main doors, into the lobby’s plush interior to find an officious woman, immaculately attired in a dark skirt and pale blue shirt, haranguing a tall man in overalls who carried a small toolbox.

  “You use the tradesman’s entrance,” she barked. “You’ve been here often enough to know that.”

  “I’m servicing these phones,” the man grumbled, and waved at the telephones on the highly polished counter.

  “Nevertheless, you do not walk through those doors and present yourself here,” said the receptionist, pointing to the entrance through which Joe had just come. “Now go back out, left, left again, and report to Mr Prosser, our duty maintenance supervisor.”

  Chuntering audibly but incoherently, the man turned and marched irritably past Joe, who turned to watched him leave, then approached reception.

  Her name badge identified her as Harriet Atkinson, Receptionist. Stocky and broad shouldered for a woman, her chubby face reminded Joe of a teacher from his years in primary school; one that would brook no argument or impertinence. Steely eyes impaled him from behind tiny glasses.

  “And you are?”

  Joe, who had long been used to dealing with irritable customers, was not fazed. “Yes. I am.”

  Harriet, whom Joe guessed to be about his age, was momentarily perplexed. Recovering her severe composure, she demanded, “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “I’m Joe Murray and if you’ve got a minute, I’d like to check in.”

  The frown did not recede. “You’re a guest?”

  “I have three rooms booked. A single for me, a twin for my two friends, Mrs Riley and Mrs Jump, and a double with child bed for my nephew, Lee Murray, his wife and son.”

  Harriet looked him up and down. “The Lakeside Manor Hotel prefers its guests to be properly dressed at all times.”

  “And the Lazy Luncheonette prefers its patrons to eat up and get out of the way sharpish, so that others can sit down, but we don’t always get our own way.”

  Joe’s irascible announcement created more perplexity. “What?”

  “Who’s paying the bloody bill?” Joe snapped. “I am. And I’ll dress as I see fit. As long as I’m not mooning you, it’s no business of yours.”

  Harriet pointed to a small brass plaque, which declared, The Lakeside Manor Hotel reserves the right to refuse admission. “I think you’ll find that it is our business, and if you read our brochure, you would see that we stipulate proper attire at all times. Not…” She trailed off and waved vaguely at his shabby clothing. “…tatty shorts, dirty trainers and a grubby shirt.”

  “Are you booking me in or not, you snooty cow?”

  Obviously feeling she had the upper hand, Harriet waved at another sign, a printed notice this time, pinned to the rear wall. The Lakeside Manor Hotel will not tolerate aggression or abusive behaviour towards its staff.

  “I don’t have to put up with that,” she told him.

  Never one to back down easily, Joe retaliated, “And I don’t have to put up with this crap from you. Get the manager out here.”

  “Mr Nelson doesn’t come on duty until one o’clock this afternoon. At this moment, I am in charge.”

  “So what will you do for an encore? Release the hounds. Now, are you gonna book me in or not?”

  “Dressed like that, I should—”

  “No problem,” Joe interrupted. “I’ll change… on your car park.”

  Horror spread across Harriet’s face. “You can’t do that.”

  “Watch me. And if it’s caught on your CCTV, maybe I’ll send it in to You’ve Been Framed. The two hundred and fifty quid would just about cover the cost of this weekend.” Joe turned to leave, and as he did so, Alec Staines appeared from one of the two lifts.

  Dressed in a grey morning suit, white shirt and cravat, his thinning hair slicked down with gel, Joe did not register him until he spoke.

  “Hey up, Joe. You made it then?”

  It was with a feeling of relief that Joe turned to shake hands. “I almost made it, Alec.” He jerked a thumb at Harriet. “Unfortunately, Atilla the Hen here is insisting I get changed, so I’m going to do a strip in the car park. Wanna come and watch?”

  “I resent that—”

  Alec cut her off. “Ms Atkinson, Joe is with our party.”

  “We have standards, Mr Staines. And by the way, it’s Mrs Atkinson. I’m a married woman.”

  “Your husband must have serious bottle to climb into the same bed as you.”

  Joe did not mean to say it. The thought was at the forefront of his mind, and slipped out before he could stop it. His comment sparked another round of bitter recrimination between him and the equally bad-tempered Mrs Atkinson before Alec calmed things down and persuaded her.

  “Mrs Atkinson, Joe is one of Sanford’s most important businessmen. He’s had a long, and I should think a hot and uncomfortable journey. If you let him and his party check in, I’m sure he’ll be happy to change once he gets to his room. Isn’t that right, Joe?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Sure. Whatever you want, Alec.”

  Mrs Atkinson huffed and puffed. “This is very irregular.”

  “Old fashioned is what it is,” Joe argued. “And I mean your policies, not my dress. Now, can we get on with the job?”

  He completed the registration card, handed over his credit card so it could be scanned, and Mrs Atkinson rang the bell on the counter. A moment later, a young man emerged from the room at the far end of the lobby. “Show this gentleman and his party to their rooms. Ten, eleven and twelve.”

  “Yes, Ms Atkinson.” The young man took the keycards from her.

  They took the lift up to the first floor where the porter opened each of the three rooms in turn, letting Sheila and Brenda into room ten, Lee, Cheryl and Danny into twelve, and Joe between them at number eleven.

  Joe fished into his pocket for a pound coin and handed it over. “There you go, lad.”

  “Enjoy your stay, sir.”

  Joe closed the door behind the porter, turned to throw back the curtains and looked out.

  That sense of peace, of which he had had an inkling before events in reception, flooded over him again, and this time, it was for real.

  His room looked out over the lawns to the side of the hotel, and over the tree line to Lake Windermere, where he could see crowded boats, some small, others not so small, plodding across the blue waters. A path led down the hill towards the high railings and a black, stone wall on the roadside. Further down, it disappeared behind a small copse, and over the treetops, Joe could see the square tower of a small church. Turning slightly to his left, on a narrow angle through the trees, he could see Bowness boat station and queues of people waiting to board the steamers for one of the several trips around and across the lake. Nearer to him, tables and chairs spread on the lawns of the Lakeside Manor were mainly occupied, and in the heart of the lawns stood a giant marquee, its entrance decorated with statues and white planters filled with flowers. The wedding venue, Joe guessed; or perhaps the reception venue.

  Thoughts of the wedding prompted him to check his watch. Time was moving on. The fiasco with Ms Atkinson in reception had taken longer than he imagined, and his watch read nearly ten o’clock. He hurriedly unzipped the travel carrier, took out his suit and shirt, and hung them on the wardrobe door. Opening up his suitcase, he removed his shoes and put them beneath the table under the window, then, taking out clean underwear and his shaving/bathing travel bag, he made for the shower.

  Twenty minutes later, Room Service delivered a tray of tea while he checked his appearance in the mirror. Pristine, was his opinion. His black tie tucked neatly under his Adam’s apple, gold cuff links gleaming in the morning sunlight, crinkly hair brushed into position, he lacked only his jacket to complete the picture of sartorial perfection.

  At 10.45am, he met Sheila and Brenda in the bar, and ordered himself a beer.

  He eyed the barman’s name tag. “Storm. Unusual name.”

  The young lad, a pencil thin, dark-haired individual, smiled good-naturedly. “You wouldn’t believe the grief I got at school.”

  “You mean it’s your real name?”

  Storm nodded and Joe’s astonishment settled to a cynical yet sympathetic chuckle.

  “Parents, eh? They don’t always think about the consequences. Why did they give you that name?”

  Storm smiled again. “It’s all to do with my birthday.”

  It was obvious he did not want to talk about it, so Joe changed the subject, concentrating on the young man’s accent. “You’re not from this area originally?”

  “No, sir. Londoner. Life’s a bit more pleasant in these parts.”

  Ordering Storm to add the cost of the drink to his bill, Joe joined his two companions by the exit.

  Both women had opted for conservatism over flamboyance, yet chosen colours of summer freshness. Sheila wore a skirt and blouse in pale lemon, Brenda had opted for lively, knee length dress in pale blue. To one side, Lee and Cheryl sat playing with their son, Danny, Lee looking out of place in his dark blue suit, Cheryl perfectly at home in a dark, flowery dress, while Danny revelled in his smart, new short trousers, white shirt and bowtie.

  Sheila and Brenda were checking their watches nervously when Joe stepped out of the lift.

  “Pushing our luck,” Brenda grumbled. “It’s quarter to eleven. The bride will be here soon.”

  Joe had noticed her mood deteriorating on the drive over from Sanford.

  “Yeah, well, it can’t be happening too far away, can it? Gimme a minute.” Ambling out of the bar, he approached the counter where Harriet Atkinson was busy with the computer. He rapped on the laminate top. “Excuse me?”

  She peered at him over her glasses. “Yes?”

  Joe swept his hands down from the shoulder. “Is this acceptable.”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good. Only I’d hate to go into this wedding without passing your inspection first.”

  “Mr Murray—”

  “Where is the wedding?”

  Mrs Atkinson pointed along the entrance hall to a set of double doors where two burly ushers stood in attendance. “In the Beatrix Potter Room. Reception is in a marquee on the lawns. You’re not the groom, are you?”

  Joe frowned. “No.”

  “Thank heaven for that. Another poor girl saved.”

  ***

  Joe, Sheila and Brenda had been seated towards the rear of the room less than five minutes before Kelly arrived, dressed in flowing white and looking suitably radiant, to Handel’s Arrival of the Queen of Sheba.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18