Page 5 of Boomerville at Ballymegille

‘B…but,’ Kathy said as she grabbed her cash and stared at Bill with fresh eyes.

‘Enjoy your break,’ Bill said. He held her coat and bag and, before she had time to digest his news and protest, Bill had guided her to the door. ‘I’m sure you’ll like having some time off.’

He ushered Kathy out and slid the bolt into place, then, pleased that his home was secure, stood and watched her trudge reluctantly up the basement steps.

Bill smiled. His case would soon be packed and he’d be on his way.

‘I won’t be seeing you for a while,’ he called out to the house as he made his way through the kitchen and into the gloomy hall. The long and narrow corridor led him past doors shielding equally dismal rooms, cluttered with heavy dark furniture, reminding Bill of silhouettes in a black and white movie.

As uninteresting as his life.

Upstairs, the door to his mother’s room was open and he looked in. Everything was in place, exactly as it had been when she was alive. Faded old tapestry panels hung on the walls. The muddy brown carpet was dingy and worn. By the side of a candlewick-covered bed, a pair of discoloured slippers lay and Bill visualised his mother’s ugly feet, the skin yellow and scaly, scrabbling about for the comfort of the only footwear she’d worn in years. He turned away and, gripping the handle, closed the door. ‘And I won’t be seeing you either, you old bat.’

With a smile, Bill began to prepare for his trip to Hotel Boomerville.

3

The road heading to Marland was clear of Saturday traffic as Hattie turned off the motorway and drove her Mini Clubman towards her old home. Her previous vehicle, which was battered and well-used, could have made the journey on its own, so accustomed was it to the familiar route. But Hugo had insisted on buying a new car for Hattie and now she was pleased with his choice. She’d been able to pack most of her belongings into the Clubman when she’d left Hereford that morning.

Not that her belongings at Hugo’s home amounted to much.

When Hattie married Hugo, she’d left behind a house full of furniture and stored any personal possessions. She didn’t think her pottery creations, lovingly made in the workshop at Boomerville, would fit in with the precious antiques at Raven Hall. A colourful homemade clay pot was no match for a rare Japanese cloisonné vase, nor were her tired old garden gnomes suitable for the landscaped acres of Hugo’s magnificent home. The only items she’d returned with were a collection of colourful clothes, bought for the cruises.

Hattie glanced at the clock on the dashboard. She’d made good time. Her plan was to go straight to her house in Marland and drop off her things, make up a bed and settle back in. Later, if there was time, she’d head over to Boomerville and catch up with Jo. Hattie’s house had been rented out while she lived with Hugo, but the tenants had moved out a couple of weeks ago. They hadn’t completed their tenancy and, keen to know why, Hattie needed to speak to Alf, who’d been managing things on her behalf.

Alf and Hattie went way back, to the days when they’d both started work for Jo at her hotel in Kirkton Sowerby. Alf had stayed on as handyman when the hotel became Boomerville and assured Hattie that he would take care of her property too. She’d asked Alf to meet her and, as she headed into the familiar cul-de-sac, was pleased to see his tall, well-built figure leaning against an old four-wheel drive parked outside.

‘Now then, Alf,’ Hattie said, ‘what have you done to my tenants?’

Alf touched his cap and nodded. He wore moleskin trousers and rocked on the heels of sturdy boots. Placing two fingers to his lips he let out a sharp whistle and smiled when a dog came hurtling through the open gate of Hattie’s house and onto the path, to skid to a halt by her master’s feet. ‘There’s my beauty,’ Alf muttered and he scratched the dog’s head.

‘I was hoping you’d leave the mutt at home.’ Hattie scowled.

‘Wouldn’t dream of it, where Ness goes, there go I.’ He reached behind his ear and produced a roll-up, then struck a match and began to puff.

Hattie had no time for pets, least of all an old black and white sheepdog who looked like she could do with a hot soapy bath.

As Alf looked away from the dog, his expression changed and, frowning, he announced, ‘Things aren’t looking good.’

‘Eh? What do you mean?’

‘The folk who were renting have done a bunk.’

‘Aye, you said on the phone.’ Hattie waited for Alf to continue. In truth, she was secretly pleased. No tenants meant she could have her house back straight away.

‘Aye, well, I think they may not have left it quite how they found it.’ Alf inhaled deeply then pinched the butt and put it in his pocket. ‘Best brace yourself for the worst.’

‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll soon have it back to normal.’ Hattie dug in a pocket for her keys and, striding ahead, made her way to the front door. ‘There’s nothing a bit of soap and hot water won’t sort out.’ But as she thrust her key in the lock and turned, Hattie hardly had time to step into the hallway when the devastation hit her.

The house had been trashed.

What was left of her furniture was broken and piled into heaps at the sides of the room. Walls that had been neatly painted in plain soothing colours were scrawled with graffiti and in both the dining and living room, the fireplaces had been ripped out. In the kitchen, a new double-drainer had gone, together with the cooker and dishwasher. The utility room was bare, with gaps where a washing machine and tumble dryer had once stood.

‘Don’t go upstairs,’ Alf said and, taking Hattie’s arm, opened the back door and led her out into the garden.

‘Did you know?’ Hattie was trembling as she sat down on the wall.

‘No, of course not.’ Alf shook his head. ‘If I did, I’d have been around here with my shotgun.’

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