Page 13 of Boomerville at Ballymegille

‘I expect you feel exhausted.’ Instinct told Hattie that Melissa was in no condition to talk. Whatever had happened had shattered her and if Boomerville was the place where she sought shelter, then Hattie would do all she could to help. ‘Why don’t you relax and have a warm bath and, when you’re ready, I’ll arrange for some food to be brought up to your room?’

Melissa nodded and Hattie went into the bathroom to run hot water into the bath. She added scoops of scented crystals and placed a fluffy towel nearby.

‘All ready and I’ll look in shortly,’ Hattie said. ‘You might prefer to slip into bed when you’re done; there’s no reason to come down today.’

Without a word, Melissa stepped hesitantly forward and disappeared into the bathroom.

Hattie watched the door close and shook her head.

What on earth had this woman been through? Melissa was a wreck. Hattie gritted her teeth as she busied about the room, closing the curtains, pulling down bed covers and plumping up pillows. She remembered how Melissa had flinched when she’d touched her arm and wondered if there were bruises beneath her clothing. No doubt there was a man behind it all, Hattie would bet her life on it. She dimmed the lights and, satisfied the room was comfortable, crept out. Locking the door behind her, Hattie ran down the stairs. She’d ask Sandra, the hotel cook, to make something light and appetising for their guest.

Bloody men! Hattie cursed as she went about her business.

6

The following morning was full of sunshine with blue skies that gave promise for the summer to come and, as Bill sat in the Rose Room restaurant and looked out, his eyes wandered over the climbing plants on the garden walls. Buds with tiny green shoots were sprouting in the warmth of the April day, reminding Bill of his home in Amberley Place. There was no garden at the Victorian villa, only the basement courtyard where a few straggling branches from old climbing plants hung limply. Withered shrubs in cracked earthenware pots, lifeless from lack of water, lay abandoned from years of neglect.

Like his mother, Bill had no interest in gardening. His father had been keen and Bill had vague childhood recollections of pots of pretty flowers in a colourful courtyard, where climbers burst garlands of vibrant blossoms and hanging baskets trailed sweetly scented blooms. But his father had died when Bill was a teen, his death sudden and violent. The man had fallen from the pavement, down steep steps, to lie broken amongst the plethora of plants that he’d so lovingly nurtured.

‘Would you like more coffee?’ a waiter asked and Bill nodded for his cup to be filled.

He remembered his mother’s screams, as she ran out of the kitchen door to find her husband lifeless on the courtyard floor. She’d implored Bill to do something to help, as her son slowly descended the steps in a trance-like state. He’d reached down to feel for a pulse, but his father was as dead as a doornail.

Bill sipped his coffee and, pushing his plate to one side, thought about his father. His death had meant nothing to Bill, in fact he’d been pleased that the man who’d shown no affection or love to his only son had died. Throughout his life, Bill had kept out of this father’s way, for fear of being beaten with the heavy leather belt that hung on a hook in the hallway, his father’s hand never far from reaching out to thrash his son for the slightest misdemeanour.

Bill shook his head to rid himself of the memories.

His breakfast of fried eggs, crispy bacon and juicy Cumberland sausage was filling and Bill felt stuffed. Rubbing his stomach, he contemplated the day and picked up a neatly-typed itinerary, placed in a folder that had been pushed under his door that morning, that listed his courses for the week. He scanned the pages and saw that the day would begin with an hour of one-to-one contemplation in a tepee with a resident Shaman.

Bill sighed. It seemed like a load of old nonsense.

Hattie the manager had suggested this addition to Bill’s schedule and assured the new guest that it would ‘set him up nicely’. Bill didn’t agree. He would prefer to go straight to the mid-morning silver class and get stuck into something that might be useful in the future, but he’d been too timid to change Hattie’s plan.

He pushed the paper to one side.

Sunshine poured through the window, latticing the room with bright light. A woman stopped at his table and Bill looked up. She was tall and thin and stood in shadow and he squinted as he peered at her face. Silhouetted, it appeared dark and stern and Bill wished that she’d move away, but the woman, dressed in a paint-covered smock, stood firm.

This must be Lucinda Brown, Bill thought, the resident artist whom he’d heard other residents discussing.

‘My art class begins on Wednesday evening,’ Lucinda said. She held a fountain pen in one hand and a leather notebook in the other. ‘What’s your name? I’ll put you on the list.’

‘No thanks, I don’t want to do art,’ Bill said. He stared at her vivid red hair, piled high, and her pointed features; she reminded Bill of a crow.

‘Nonsense, it will bring out your creative side. Now spell out your surname.’

‘Bradbury, with a “b”. My first name is Bill.’

‘Bill Bradbury,’ Lucinda said. ‘Six o’clock sharp and don’t be late.’

Bill cursed the woman as she walked away and wondered why on earth he’d let himself be bamboozled into agreeing to everything that the women at Boomerville suggested. His mother had always bossed him and Bill felt disgruntled that it was continuing.

You’ve no guts, Bill Bradbury. You’re a wimp and always will be, as long as you walk on this planet.

Grabbing a napkin, Bill wiped his mouth and, crumpling the crisp linen into a ball, flung it across the table. He pushed back his chair and stormed out of the dining room.

As he went past reception, Hattie looked up. ‘Looking forward to your session with the Shaman?’ she asked.

‘I’d sooner stick pins in my eyes.’

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