Page 18 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
Mike Slade sat at his desk, staring at his computer screen. The news was unwelcome, but not unexpected. Nordicote Asset Management, of which the Carleton Hotel was a very minor element, had been taken over by a larger investment fund, Lytcott Capital Management.
Another takeover, another owner who knew little about the hotel industry and probably cared even less. In the thirty years he had worked at the Carleton Hotel, the past twenty-two as manager, the chain that owned it had changed hands more than half a dozen times.
At least the first couple of times it happened it had been taken over by hotel groups, who’d at least had some knowledge about the business. There’d been some strategic planning and money spent on it.
But since then there had been a series of investment funds, and now this latest one. As soon as he’d heard the rumours that this company might be planning a takeover, he’d looked them up and read every online report he could find.
It didn’t look good. They seemed to have little tolerance for any element which wasn’t making what they considered to be a significant profit. Those elements would be sold off or closed down in short order to raise the bottom line for the rest of the group.
And Mike had to admit that the Carleton hadn’t made a significant profit for years.
It had just about kept going, mostly on the Stay’n’Play golfers who came to play on the course on the rising ground behind the hotel, or the occasional amateur tournament, and return visitors who had been coming for many years, often to celebrate birthdays and anniversaries.
The local people were fond of the old place — it had stood here above the bay for more than a hundred and fifty years, through many different incarnations. And it was a traditional treat to come up for a Devon cream tea on the terrace with home-baked scones, or for a meal in the restaurant.
As for him, it had been a major part of his life for all those years. And since his wife had died, almost two years ago, it had been his whole life. If it was sold off, would anyone actually want to buy it? Or would they just close it down, leave it derelict, or even demolish it to build a hideous concrete block of holiday apartments?
He rose to his feet and walked out of his office to reception. The new girl was on the desk, and he forced a friendly smile to greet her.
“Hello, Jessica. How’s it going?”
“Fine thanks, Mike. Mr and Mrs Wright have booked in. They’ve got their dog with them — a little spaniel with the cutest face. I upgraded them to suite ten, like you suggested. They were delighted.”
“Good, good.”
“They’re a really sweet old couple. They were showing me pictures of their great-grandchildren. They said they’ve been coming here for nearly sixty years.”
“That’s right. They came on their honeymoon, and they’ve been coming back on their anniversary every year since then.”
“So they said. Isn’t that lovely?”
He nodded, and strolled over to the ballroom. Memories — the place was full of them.
The ceiling in here had been blue at one time, now it was white. Well, it could do with being painted again. There had been wallpaper on the walls back then, with tiny blue flowers, but it hadn’t worn well; now they were painted a rather dull beige.And the brown carpet that covered the parquet dance floor was wearing thin — he remembered when it had been laid.
Soon they’d be dressing it up for Christmas. For the Turkey-and-Tinsel groups, the mainstay of their winter bookings. Hard work, but a lot of fun, everyone fizzing with Christmas spirit and determined to enjoy themselves.
If Lytcott were going to close the hotel down, he could only hope that they would wait until after Christmas.
He wandered out into the conservatory, a large airy space around two sides of the building that caught the sun. On hot days in the summer it was almost tropical, a lush green jungle of kentias and arecas, strelitzia and aechmea and natal lily, with cane trellises smothered in hibiscus and bougainvillea which, in season, were bright with vivid red and purple flowers.
His wife, Sarah, had loved gardening, had loved to spend time in here, plucking off any dead flowers, tugging up the odd weed that had dared to show its head. She had loved to watch things grow, from tiny shoots to thriving pageants of colours and greenery.
And then there was the terrace, paved in old York stone with a stone balustrade around it, and a spectacular view over the wide sweep of the bay. The sky was pale blue, streaked with drifts of white cloud like the sweepings of a lazy broom, and a cool breeze was blowing in from the sea.
He loved to stand out here and just gaze at the ever-changing panorama. It was wonderful first thing in the morning, when the beach was empty and the horizon was veiled in a lilac mist, the sea shimmering like mother-of-pearl, ruffled with lazy, lace-edged waves that whispered halfway up the sand.
It was still beautiful in the heat of the afternoon, when the laughter of children building sandcastles rivalled the squealing of the white seagulls dipping into the waves. Or even late in theevening, when the sea lay tranquil beneath a dark velvet sky spangled with stars.
It was fascinating to watch when a winter storm was blowing up the English Channel from the wild North Atlantic, whipping the waves into a fury as if there were dragons dancing just beneath the surface, throwing up fountains of white spray as they thumped against the sea wall.
“Ah, Mr Slade. How nice to see you again.”
He turned as an elderly couple came out onto the terrace, a small King Charles Spaniel trotting happily at their side on a red leather lead. “Hello there.” He recognised them at once — Mr and Mrs Wright — and greeted them with a welcoming smile. “It’s Beryl and George, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. And this is Tansy.”
“Well, you’re cute, aren’t you?” He bent and tickled the little dog’s ear. “Did you have a good journey down?”
