The Little French Guesthouse by Helen Pollard

Author:Helen Pollard [Helen Pollard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781910751879
Publisher: Bookouture
Published: 2016-04-28T04:00:00+00:00

The meal that evening was a huge success. We had a full house, and the atmosphere was relaxed and jolly. The Stewarts, noticeably more animated this evening without the overbearing input of the Hendersons, told us about their newfound love affair with the Loire, an area of France they’d never tried before. The Kennedys arrived just in time for the meal and happily gave in to the food and chatter.

Mum defrosted again with the aid of several glasses of wine and complimented the food at every opportunity. No one knew better than my own mother that I had never been a natural cook, so she was somewhat taken aback that I’d contributed in any way whatsoever to the gastronomic delights on the table.

My father’s tired lines were smoothing out, and I was glad. What with his demanding job and my demanding mother and worry over his abandoned daughter, the stress had been clear to see when he arrived, but now he leaned back in his chair, smiling.

It was dark outside. Rupert had turned off the harsher spotlights around the kitchen units, cleverly hiding any detritus from the meal and leaving us in the mellow glow of the overhead light and wall lamps in the dining area.

He was on top form, with plenty of tales to tell and an easy way of telling them. A natural raconteur, his stock supply of anecdotes was brought out, but there were others I hadn’t heard before and I laughed helplessly along with everyone else.

‘If you lovely people are wondering why I don’t supply candlelight to add to the ambience, then I shall tell you,’ he announced over coffee. ‘I used to do all that, when we first started up the business. Thought it added a touch of class. And so it did – until one of the guests had their fiftieth birthday here. The woman’s husband had paid serious money to a pâtisserie in town for an absolutely fabulous cake, which he placed on the table in front of his wife. He’d also spent serious money on the gift, by the looks of it, all decked out in fancy tissue paper and ribbons. He handed it over with the flourish it deserved, she opened it with the flourish it deserved, the wrapping paper dangled in the flame of one of the candles...’

There was a collective gasp around the table.

‘In her panic, she started wafting it about, which of course only made the flames spread up towards her hand. The smoke alarm got itself in a tizzy, deafening us all, and I was hopping about, desperately trying to grab it from her before she dropped it – I had visions of the whole table going up in flames!’

‘Did you get it off her?’ Mum asked, eyes wide.

‘Couldn’t get near the bloody woman – she was hopping about too, and of course the more she moved, the more the flames grew.’

‘So what on earth did you do?’

Rupert gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Chucked the water jug over it.

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