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Her abstract expression paled. ‘Yep, wish I had.’ She handed me a key.Mrs Dyllis Bartholomew wasn’t a sleazy Meg. The frankness might have similarities, but the reason for it was very different.
‘I will, you know, check.’
‘Comfortable bed.’ She gestured without touching it. ‘His and mine, but after he went, I couldn’t bring myself to sleep in it. He died in it. I got a new one.’
A dead man’s bed. I wished Dyllis was better at filtering out the personal stuff. What could I possibly say to that snippet of grief?
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said. ‘Bathroom’s down the hall. There’s always hot water.’ She hovered by the door with her back to me. ‘Um. You’re welcome to join me in the lounge. I usually watch Emmerdale, then I can cook us a bit to eat. Would that be all right with you? I’m partial to sausages and mash. I do onion gravy too, if you like.’
I usually preferred staying in the room, but something about Dyllis lured me into needing an inconsequential chitchat.
‘Sure, that would be lovely,’ I said, and smiled.
Later, having unpacked and plugged the batteries into recharge – ample sockets – I joined Dyllis in the lounge. She was curled up like an armadillo at one end of a black leather sofa, the television in her direct line of sight. I perched, uncertain as to the formalities of being a guest in the host’s private space.
I wasn’t a fan of soaps. As soon as I arrived in the lounge, Dyllis started a lengthy run-down of the storyline, which had been going on for years. Or so it felt. Each thread was dissected until my head buzzed with over-the-top plot twists and a cast of forgettable characters. Throughout, Dyllis paid no more than the slightest interest in the current episode.
I unhooked my gaze from Dyllis long enough to glance around the room. I saw ordinariness, except, from my perspective the absence of pictures, especially photographs. Where were the portraits of her late husband? Banished out of sight? If Dyllis was my friend, I might have asked, but instead, I nodded and smiled at her monologue, aware of the aching rumble of my stomach, the droop of my eyelids. Finally, the programme ended and Dyllis switched the TV off.
‘Just enough time to cook something.’ Dyllis uncoiled, forming limbs out of nowhere, and rose. ‘Then, it’sNew Trickson. I do like a good bit of detecting, don’t you?’
The bangers tasted delicious. I made sure to compliment the onion gravy. Conversation during the meal was stilted and awkward. We sat across a tiny kitchen table and our toes constantly bumped into each other.
‘Busy this summer?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘Better than the winter. What brings you to these parts, a woman travelling alone? Are you in sales?’
I rolled out the postcard excuse and kept it simple.
‘Bamburgh is lovely. The beach... We had many a picnic on that beach.’ Dyllis’ trembling finger traced the outline of the plate. She sighed, heavily, and ducked her eyes down.
All the crockery was plain white. Plain was a major feature of the interior of the house. I rotated the mug.
‘If they crack, I chuck ’em,’ she said, examining her mug.
I removed my hand. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘We had a different set. Royal Doulton; fancy bone china. His sister gave it to us as a wedding present. He fussed over them and always insisted on washing them by hand and not in the dishwasher. Bloody palaver. I sold them on eBay. His tastes weren’t always mine. I’m a purist when it comes to decorating; he liked a splash of this and that on things. All the same.’ She looked out of the window, avoiding my searching gaze.
I offered to help wash the dishes.
‘Ah, don’t trouble yourself. Dishwasher.’
Faced with an evening of watching more television, I made excuses.
Crestfallen, a meek expression slipped across Dyllis’ face. ‘I can open a box of chocolates. Dairy Milk.’
It wasn’t that her company was unwanted or unpleasant, I hadn’t the energy to stay awake. I hesitated on the threshold of the lounge. Dyllis, however, had happily curled up on a nest of cushions and was already focused on the television.
‘No, no. I’m fine.’ I yawned, stretching my mouth as wide as possible. ‘I’m beat. Goodnight.’
I stood at the bottom of the bed. Which side had he slept on? I lifted the covers. Was there a man-sized dimple somewhere? Why it bothered me probably had something to do with the hotel. Two weeks before I finished work, a guest had died of a heart attack during the night. The undertakers quietly came and left through a rear fire door. Two days later the room was back in use. Nobody, not even the cleaners, said a word about it.
A bed was a bed. All the same, I was shivering just thinking about Mr Bartholomew. There wasn’t a single photograph to remind Dyllis of her absent husband, and yet the woman spent a lot of time remembering him. If her grief was fresh, perhaps she was in denial, refusing to move on. Wouldn’t it have been sensible to remove the bed altogether? Then I understood what she wanted. When she was ready, Dyllis would use it again. I was optimistic for her. Dyllis was pretty, and deserved having company at the kitchen table. Then, she could give up the B&B. Strangers were no substitute for a husband.
It was nearly ten o’clock. Back at home, one of my parents would be up and we usually would drink soothing hot chocolate together before going to bed. I missed Mum and Dad. Far away from them, I had underestimated the importance of those little daily rituals. Regardless of how boring and reliable their routines were, stability was important for their happiness. The problem was that I had relied on my parents’ habits and they were woven into mine, glued in place by time. By ignoring my ambitions, I had used their choices as a crutch, another reason to avoid striking out on my own.
Remembering a promise, I sent Mum my usual one line report and, for the first time, received an immediate response. Mum had been up waiting for it.
