The Hawkshead Hostage

The Hawkshead Hotel does not exist in reality. Ann Tyson's B&B is real, and recommended. Some minor liberties have been taken with the structure of actual buildings in Hawkshead to serve the purposes of the story.

The tourist season had been in full swing for some weeks by mid July, bringing a strong sense of not quite keeping up with all the opportunities that came with it. Persimmon Petals, the Windermere florist shop, was not an obvious destination for any of those who came to the Lake District for their holidays. Where any outlet providing food, sweets, clothes, games or maps was kept fully occupied, the flower shop was doing rather badly. For various reasons, many of the ideas for additional profitable sidelines that had floated up during the spring had not been followed through. Simmy (officially Persimmon) Brown had been distracted by her father’s abrupt decline into a worrying loss of capacity, along with her own mild depression induced by the departure of her more than capable assistant for a proper job in a hotel. Melanie Todd now had her foot on the first rung of a real career, often working fifty hours a week and loving every minute of it. Another of Simmy’s
young friends, Ben Harkness, had been immersed in exams for many weeks, and had then gone off on a fell-walking holiday with his brother and some friends.

Which only left Bonnie Lawson. And Bonnie was a distraction all by herself.

It was a Monday, cloudy and cool, with a threat of rain. ‘Great weather for shops,’ said Bonnie. ‘All except ours, of course.’

‘There are still quite a few weddings and funerals,’ Simmy argued. ‘Not to mention birthdays.’

‘Yeah. Shall I have another go at the window? It needs more red in it.’

‘If you like.’ Bonnie had created one of her trademark displays in the shop window only two days ago and there was absolutely nothing wrong with it as it was.

Bonnie was missing Ben even more than Simmy was. The two youngsters had established a bond a few months earlier, when Bonnie first arrived at the shop, and were now well known around town as an item. It was either a highly improbable or completely predictable relationship, depending on the level of understanding in the observer. A specialist in couplehood might demur that they were too alike for it to succeed. Casual acquaintances might conclude that they were ludicrously different. The truth was a complicated amalgam of the two.

‘How’s your dad now?’ Bonnie called from the cramped window space. ‘Did you see him yesterday?’

‘He’s not too bad, really. If you stick to conversations about the correct use of English and quirky aspects of local history, he’s just the same as always. But underneath, he’s
still scared. He thinks people are conspiring to attack or rob him. He hates to let my mother out of his sight. She’s convinced it’s a weird form of Alzheimer’s, but can’t find anyone who agrees with her.’

‘Sad. Not much you can do about it, either.’

‘I did go there yesterday, even though they were terribly busy. There was a family with three children under five, and a yappy Jack Russell. My mother’s thinking she won’t let people bring their dogs any more.’

‘Does she still let them smoke?’

‘In theory, yes. But hardly anybody wants to these days. They automatically go outside, without even being asked.’

Angie Straw, Simmy’s mother, ran a B&B that was almost the last of its kind. She kept rules to a minimum, enforced no schedules on her visitors and gave them a generous amount of space both upstairs and down. When it was raining, people might stay all day, playing games, chatting and smoking. Word of mouth ensured a healthy stream of customers who knew what to expect. Those unwary enough to call in on the off chance, with no pre-knowledge of what was on offer, could find themselves shocked by the many deviations from the usual. Angie had at one time compared herself to the famous Baron Hotel in Aleppo, which visitors either loved for its nostalgic lack of luxuries or hated for the same reasons. Now Aleppo lay in ruins and she could hardly bear to think of it.

It was half past ten when the shop door flew open and a whirlwind figure came in.

‘Hey, Mel,’ said Bonnie, who was idly arranging gerberas according to height. The excitement on the older girl’s face elicited little reaction. Bonnie was used to drama.

Melanie threw a grin at her, but headed purposefully for Simmy in the back room of the shop. ‘Sim! Quick – I’ve only got a few minutes. I was going to phone, but came instead. Listen – I’ve got you a job. Lots of work. A contract for the summer. And I’m not even going to ask for commission.’

Simmy pulled off her rubber gloves and made calming motions. ‘Slow down,’ she begged.

Melanie took a breath and leant her solid body against the doorpost. ‘The hotel wants you to do their flowers, right through to the end of September. They should have thought of it months ago, but they never got around to it. I’ve been nagging them for weeks. Now they’ve decided to give it a try. You have to take enough for big displays in all the main rooms – that’s three or four, and two more for the upstairs places. Change them twice a week. That’s good, isn’t it?’ She fixed Simmy with her distinctive stare, enhanced by an artificial eye. ‘Tell me I did good.’

‘That’s a lot of flowers. How much are they paying?’

‘That’s for you to negotiate, not me. I can’t do
everything
.’ She threw out a hand in a sweep of exaggerated impatience. ‘They’ll pay the going rate. Business is booming out there. You’d be amazed.’

‘Thanks, Mel.’ Simmy’s smile was slightly forced. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘You
are
doing without me. This is just a little bit of networking. If it works out, I’ll get a star for putting you together.’

Simmy tried to see the positives, but mostly failed. Melanie’s hotel was in Hawkshead – a tortuous drive from Windermere, unless you took the ferry, and that was still not entirely straightforward. The new commission would
consume almost half a day, twice a week. Bonnie would be left in charge of the shop rather more than Simmy would like. ‘When do I start?’ she asked.

‘Soon as you can. Go and see them today, if you’ve got time. They’ve not got much idea what they want, so you can do whatever you like. Tell them it’ll have a subliminal effect on the guests and raise their TripAdvisor ranking considerably. They’re obsessed with that.’

‘Who should I speak to?’

‘Dan. He’s the under-manager. Next up from me. Sort of. He’s mostly okay, anyway, if a bit smarmy sometimes.’ She flushed slightly.

‘Goes with the job,’ said Bonnie, who had listened quietly up to then. ‘Bet you’re not smarmy, are you, Mel?’

‘Can’t seem to manage it,’ laughed the girl.

It had been of some concern to Simmy that Melanie’s outspoken attitude might not fit too well with hotel work. Suffering fools was not her strong point. But she had been astutely accommodated in the less public aspects of the job, as an administrator. Taking bookings, ordering food, making sure the laundry was done and the carpets kept clean – a multitude of tasks that fell well within her capabilities. ‘I don’t have to be. Anyway,’ she went on, ‘I can be perfectly polite when I need to. I was all right here, wasn’t I, Sim? Nobody complained.’

‘You were great,’ Simmy assured her. ‘It’s good to see you again. I’ve missed you.’

‘But Bonnie’s okay, right?’

‘Bonnie’s amazing,’ said Simmy with a smile. Bonnie was like a puppy, blooming under approval.

‘That’s good.’ Mel hurried to the street door. ‘I have to
go. Pop in and see me when you bring the flowers. Take samples – pictures – give them the hard sell. They can afford it.’

‘Thank you,’ said Simmy. ‘Thank you very much. It’s brilliant of you to organise it.’

‘I know,’ said the girl and disappeared.

‘Wow. That’ll do the finances some good,’ said Bonnie, watching the place where Melanie had been. ‘She’s really something, isn’t she?’

Simmy was looking thoughtfully at the same empty space. ‘That was so kind of her,’ she murmured. She looked at Bonnie, who had been introduced to her by Melanie. ‘I owe her a lot.’

‘She does it instinctively. She likes to bring people together and sort things out.’

‘I’d better follow it up, then.’

‘Don’t you want to?’ Bonnie’s small face, surrounded by a halo of fair hair that was almost white, looked up at her, eyes wide.

‘I do, of course. It’s just such a commitment. It’s going to change all our routines and squeeze other things out. What if we get a funeral and a wedding in one week? And three or four anniversaries? It’ll be bedlam.’

‘I can do loads more than you’ve been letting me. When Ben comes back, he’s going to get Wilf to teach me to drive. That’ll make me more useful.’

‘Isn’t that against the law? Wilf’s not old enough to be an instructor. Besides, I wouldn’t let you use the van. I only let Melanie do it for a couple of weeks, and then cancelled the insurance again. It costs too much to keep up permanently.’

‘Oh. Well, anyway, I can do all sorts of other things.
And it’s only for a few months. Once the tourists slow down, the hotel won’t want you any more.’

‘They might. The season never completely stops. And that would be just as difficult, in a way. All that money for three months, and then it just isn’t there. It’ll cause havoc with the books.’

‘Worry about that when it happens,’ said Bonnie, with an air of having said this before, a few too many times.

The hotel was on the outskirts of Hawkshead, barely half a mile to the south. It had been a sixteenth-century manor house, on elevated ground above Esthwaite Water, remaining in the same family for centuries. It had grounds that sloped down to the very edge of the gentle little lake. After a period of decline and neglect it had been sold and gradually transformed into a hotel. The story was only sketchily understood by Simmy, gleaned from brief conversations with Melanie since she started working there. The first attempt at providing accommodation had fallen foul of bad plumbing and a curmudgeonly proprietor. The next people cleaned it up but gained a reputation for poor food and high prices. Finally, the third attempt struck lucky, with a flair for characterful furnishings and inventive promotions. Added value was provided in the quieter seasons in the form of ghost walks, local history talks, writing workshops, painting classes and bridge weekends. It accommodated twenty-five guests, thanks to the conversion of stables and barns. The presence of a chef capable of working miracles with locally caught fish ensured a high level of success. Bookings were healthy for the next several months, according to Melanie. And well
deserved it was too, thought Simmy, recalling all the efforts that were being made to capitalise on the building and its beautiful surroundings.

As she approached it, Simmy’s first impression was of a modest building of considerable age, comfortable in its setting. White-painted, two-storey, with a stone wall marking out the extent of its grounds, the sign announcing The Hawkshead Hotel was of unpretentious lettering and size. No mention of weddings, banquets or conferences. A shrubbery on the left and a car park on the right. On a sunny day, it would look lovely. Even under clouds, it was more than attractive. She might enjoy coming here after all, she decided. The contact was a precious one, with a variety of opportunities leading from it, if she could only be clever enough to exploit them.

Inside, the reception desk was angled across one corner of a good-sized hallway. Already, she could see a place for a floral display, a few feet inside the door. Something subtly scented, in warm colours. She paused, peering round a solid-looking door into a lounge with a bay window, where another arrangement of flowers might be positioned to catch the sunlight, when it came. The window faced south-east, she calculated, with a view of the lake. Any flowers should be muted, to avoid distracting attention from the outside vista, but rather bringing echoes of it into the room.

She should make notes, she realised. Ideas were erupting faster than she could register them. Would Dan, the hotel man, want to provide some input as well, or would it all be left to her?

There was nobody on the desk. It was four o’clock in
the afternoon – a time when guests might be expected to start to arrive. But perhaps everyone was already in, or had given later times. Perhaps it wasn’t the sort of hotel where a girl sat idly waiting twenty-four hours a day just in case she was needed. There were voices not far away; quite loud voices, Simmy noticed. A woman was audibly shrill, a murmur of men joining in.

Simmy decided to investigate. There was a door beside the desk, leading into a short corridor with toilets on one side. Opposite them a staircase led to the upper floors. At the end were three further doors, left, right and straight ahead. The last was standing open and people were to be seen on a paved area just outside it. There were tubs containing lobelia and pansies and other unimaginative things.

‘We have to call the police,’ the shrill woman was saying as Simmy approached.