unexpectedly busy for a Monday, which was great, except that she wanted to get away early to go and see her grandmother.
She always liked to take Monday afternoons off, after the chaos of the weekend. The Horse and Groom now did a roaring trade for Sunday lunch, since Mayday had introduced a magnificent carvery boasting ten different vegetables, all you can eat and children free. It was always packed to the gills, and by the time the lunchtime crowd had faded away, people began to trickle into the bar for the Sunday evening pub quiz. Mayday compiled, compered and judged the quiz each week, brooked no arguments as her decision was final, and presented the winning team with a much-coveted trophy. Competition was cut-throat and alcohol-fuelled, the competitors sustained by plates of free sandwiches and bowls of crisps. As a result, Mayday was always exhausted by Monday and longing for an afternoon away from the hotel.
The bill paid, Mayday went into the kitchen and plated up three portions of leftovers that Elsie could pop in the microwave. Then she ransacked the fridge for the remains of the puddings from Sunday lunch, which the chef always kept for her.
‘There’s nothing wrong with any of it,’ he said, ‘but I can’t serve it up again, so you might as well make use of it.’
She appropriated half a bowl of sherry trifle, sticking it in the cool box she had bought specially to transport her Red Cross parcels. It was the best way she knew to help Elsie, for Mayday couldn’t cook to save her life. And she knew her grandmother loved traditional food - roast dinners and proper puddings. There was no point in stocking up on ready meals from the supermarket. Elsie was suspicious of anything pre-prepared. Mayday looked upon it as one of the perks of being the manager. It wasn’t pilfering, because it would all go in the bin if she didn’t have it.
She lugged the box out to her old 2CV. Bright green with a striped roof, it scraped through its MOT year after year, but she adored it. Today was cold but bright, and she needed no encouragement to fling the roof back and let the sky in. She drove off, singing along to the B-52s at the top of her voice, earning herself bemused glances as she bowled along Eldenbury high street out of the town and onto the road to Honeycote.
She loved going to her grandmother’s house. When she wanted comfort, or reassurance or advice - which wasn’t very often, for if Mayday knew anything it was her own mind, but she was only human - then she slipped into the kitchen by the side door and hugged the little figure who would usually be sitting by the old range. The kettle would be lifted off its hotplate, and the stout brown teapot filled. Mayday’s special cup - pink flowers with a gold rim - would be plucked down from its shelf on the dresser, and two custard creams placed ceremoniously on the saucer.
Her grandmother’s face was incredibly lined now, her bones frail, her hair thin and white. Mayday knew this deterioration had come about because of the pain. Elsie had aged ten years in two, and seemed to become smaller and more wizened each time she came to visit. But in defiance of her suffering shone a pair of sparkling eyes that held within them such love and wisdom that Mayday felt sure her gran would be there for ever.
She parked on the road outside and walked up the path, noticing with pleasure the joyous ranks of daffodils. She’d have to see about a gardener soon. Elsie had kept on Bill’s legacy as best she could, but there was no way she would be able to maintain a full-to-bursting cottage garden in her condition. Mayday was sure there would be someone at the brewery who would be glad of some extra cash, either one of the young lads or one of the old codgers who’d been at Honeycote Ales since the dawn of time. She’d get Patrick to ask around, maybe stick a notice up in the staff room.
In the kitchen, her grandmother was sitting at the table, looking rather dazed, and there
She always liked to take Monday afternoons off, after the chaos of the weekend. The Horse and Groom now did a roaring trade for Sunday lunch, since Mayday had introduced a magnificent carvery boasting ten different vegetables, all you can eat and children free. It was always packed to the gills, and by the time the lunchtime crowd had faded away, people began to trickle into the bar for the Sunday evening pub quiz. Mayday compiled, compered and judged the quiz each week, brooked no arguments as her decision was final, and presented the winning team with a much-coveted trophy. Competition was cut-throat and alcohol-fuelled, the competitors sustained by plates of free sandwiches and bowls of crisps. As a result, Mayday was always exhausted by Monday and longing for an afternoon away from the hotel.
The bill paid, Mayday went into the kitchen and plated up three portions of leftovers that Elsie could pop in the microwave. Then she ransacked the fridge for the remains of the puddings from Sunday lunch, which the chef always kept for her.
‘There’s nothing wrong with any of it,’ he said, ‘but I can’t serve it up again, so you might as well make use of it.’
She appropriated half a bowl of sherry trifle, sticking it in the cool box she had bought specially to transport her Red Cross parcels. It was the best way she knew to help Elsie, for Mayday couldn’t cook to save her life. And she knew her grandmother loved traditional food - roast dinners and proper puddings. There was no point in stocking up on ready meals from the supermarket. Elsie was suspicious of anything pre-prepared. Mayday looked upon it as one of the perks of being the manager. It wasn’t pilfering, because it would all go in the bin if she didn’t have it.
She lugged the box out to her old 2CV. Bright green with a striped roof, it scraped through its MOT year after year, but she adored it. Today was cold but bright, and she needed no encouragement to fling the roof back and let the sky in. She drove off, singing along to the B-52s at the top of her voice, earning herself bemused glances as she bowled along Eldenbury high street out of the town and onto the road to Honeycote.
She loved going to her grandmother’s house. When she wanted comfort, or reassurance or advice - which wasn’t very often, for if Mayday knew anything it was her own mind, but she was only human - then she slipped into the kitchen by the side door and hugged the little figure who would usually be sitting by the old range. The kettle would be lifted off its hotplate, and the stout brown teapot filled. Mayday’s special cup - pink flowers with a gold rim - would be plucked down from its shelf on the dresser, and two custard creams placed ceremoniously on the saucer.
Her grandmother’s face was incredibly lined now, her bones frail, her hair thin and white. Mayday knew this deterioration had come about because of the pain. Elsie had aged ten years in two, and seemed to become smaller and more wizened each time she came to visit. But in defiance of her suffering shone a pair of sparkling eyes that held within them such love and wisdom that Mayday felt sure her gran would be there for ever.
She parked on the road outside and walked up the path, noticing with pleasure the joyous ranks of daffodils. She’d have to see about a gardener soon. Elsie had kept on Bill’s legacy as best she could, but there was no way she would be able to maintain a full-to-bursting cottage garden in her condition. Mayday was sure there would be someone at the brewery who would be glad of some extra cash, either one of the young lads or one of the old codgers who’d been at Honeycote Ales since the dawn of time. She’d get Patrick to ask around, maybe stick a notice up in the staff room.
In the kitchen, her grandmother was sitting at the table, looking rather dazed, and there
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