Page 8 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay (Sturcombe Bay Romances #3)

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 the evening, 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?”

“Not too bad. The roads get busier every year, of course.”

“Of course. Are you having coffee?”

“Yes. Your girl’s bringing it out to us.”

He nodded, smiling. “I’ll join you, if I may.”

“Of course.”

They settled at one of the white-painted bistro tables. George sighed contentedly as he glanced around. “It’s good to see the old place still going. I was just saying to Beryl, I bet it’s seen some things in its time.”

“Ah, yes indeed. It has quite a history. This main part was built in 1862, you know.”

“Oh yes?”

“It was built by a man called Edmund Bould, from Staffordshire. He owned an iron smelting works, and was pretty well-to-do. He built it as a summer retreat for his family, away from all the smog of the Midlands.”

When he’d first come to work here, all those years ago, he’d been fascinated by the hotel and had spent time tracing its history, but he hadn’t really thought about it much until the prospect of seeing it demolished had brought it to mind.

“He was from the Midlands, eh? I don’t blame him,” George remarked. “Who wouldn’t want a summer retreat down here?”

Jess brought out their coffees, and Mike thanked her with a smile. “You’ve met our Jessica, haven’t you?” he said to the guests.

“Oh yes, of course.” They both smiled up at her. “She booked us in.”

“She’s quite new. Her sister lives just round the corner, and she’s come down to visit for a while. Which was lucky for us. We have a few university students come down over the summer to work here, but of course they’ve gone now. She’s fitted in very nicely.”

Beryl was stirring a generous swirl of cream and two of the paper sachets of sugar into her coffee. “Why did this Edmund choose Sturcombe for his house?” she asked. “Wasn’t it an awfully long journey from Staffordshire in those days?”

“Ah, well, the railways made a big difference, you see. By the 1850s there was a regular train service coming down to Plymouth. It would only take a few hours, instead of days by the old stage coaches. We even had our own train station then. Sadly, it’s been closed for many years now.”

He stirred his own coffee before continuing.

“I believe his wife chose the location. She was from Plymouth. He met her when he was trading with the dockyard at Devonport, supplying iron for the new iron-hulled ships. Ah . . . I hope I’m not boring you?”

“Not at all,” Beryl insisted. “It’s really interesting. Did Edmund and his wife have any children?”

“They had three girls and two boys, but the boys both died in infancy.”

“Oh . . . That’s sad.”

“The daughters all married, and rarely came down here.” Encouraged by their interest, he plunged on with the story.

“The old house began to fall into disrepair. Then in the First World War it was requisitioned by the War Office as a recuperation centre for soldiers who’d been gassed in the trenches.

That was when they built the extra wings — they needed more accommodation. ”

“Didn’t I hear that at one time it was a sanatorium for tuberculosis patients?” George asked.

“That’s right. They didn’t have any antibiotics then for treatment, so it was all about sunshine and fresh air and exercise. That was when they added the conservatory and the indoor swimming pool.”

“Oh, yes. I remember the swimming pool. We haven’t used it for years. Is it still there?”

Mike smiled sadly. “I’m afraid it’s closed. It’s rather too expensive to heat.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.”

“Anyway, by the 1930s the tuberculosis cases were beginning to decline, with better general health and hygiene standards. The sanatorium was closed in 1934. That was when the place was first opened as a hotel . . .”

“Mike? I’m sorry to bother you.” Jessica had reappeared in the doorway. “The council are on the phone. Something about the potholes on Church Road?”

“Oh . . . Yes, thank you, my dear. If you’ll excuse me,” he added to the Wrights, “I need to take this call.”

“Of course. It’s been really interesting talking to you.”

“I’ll see you later.”

He hurried through to his office to take the call. The council were supposed to have repaired those potholes months ago, but it had been put off and put off until there was more pothole than road. Not a good impression for visitors coming to the town.

Not that he was going to have to worry about that for much longer. As he ended the call he swung his chair round to gaze out of the window at the blank whitewashed brick wall opposite.

Chatting to Mr and Mrs Wright had reminded him that this place was more than just a hotel. It was history. Part of the fabric of this small town, part of people’s lives.

What would people like the Wrights and their other loyal repeat visitors do if the place was closed down?

In just another couple of years it would be the Wrights’ diamond anniversary, and they had already expressed their wish to spend it here.

It would break their hearts to learn it wouldn’t be possible.

And then there were the staff. They weren’t a large group, but several of them had worked here for as long as he had himself. Tracey, the housekeeping supervisor, was almost sixty — it would be difficult for her to find another job. And Pete, the night manager, would be in the same situation.

It would be nothing short of criminal to let the place fall into ruin, but if that was what the new owners chose to do there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Shaking his head with a sad sigh he turned back to his desk to finish checking through the pile of invoices, his least favourite task.