Chapter 1: St Valentine’s Day Evening

I approached the brightly-lit Moulsthorpe Restaurant with some trepidation. I was feeling somewhat self-conscious, completely out of my comfort zone wearing a borrowed ill-fitting suit. Though I was extremely hungry, my stomach was full to the brim of butterflies. Usually, particularly lately, I tend to eat alone, mostly a meal that I have cooked myself, often made in large batches which I split into meals-for-one for freezing to be warmed-up as convenient in the microwave.

I parked the borrowed car in the car park and approached the restaurant entrance. I could see through the windows that the place was absolutely packed to the gunnels with diners, intimate diners at small tables for two lit by candles. I wasn’t surprised, of course, it was a cold, wet Friday night and if you had worked hard all week and could afford to splash out and enjoy a classy night out in the small settlement of Lesser Moulsthorpe, this high class and expensive restaurant was really the only place in town.

Looking at the diners, all smiling and enjoying happy company in this cosy and welcoming hostelry, I honestly couldn’t blame them; if I could afford it I would consider dining here too. On first impressions alone, this seemed to be the perfect place to dine.

I stopped at a glass fronted frame to look at the illuminated menu sealed within, immediately under the proudly highlighted red Two-Michelin Star plaque. There were probably mouthwatering starters, exquisite main courses and delightful desserts fantastically described upon that packed menu, but they were all listed in French, which I could only guess at the meanings of. I looked for but could see no pound signs and adjacent numbers in evidence indicating prices for any of the items listed. I guess if you can afford to step into such an establishment you don’t need to worry about the prices. Unfortunately I had to watch every penny.

Actually, I already knew I didn’t have to worry about the cost of tonight’s meal, that was already apparently paid for, I was told. I had already thanked her Ladyship but, although she was a dear old lady and in the brief conversations I’d had with her she seemed as sharp as a tack, she was pretty old. Guessing the age of ladies was nt my forte but she seemed in her 80s at least, and I wondered, not for the first time tonight, if I would end up with a bill at the end of the evening that I couldn’t possibly pay for in a month of Sundays.

Who am I kidding? Even leaving a tip using the only banknote I had, a “spare” tenner that I had folded intonation deep pocket in my wallet for emergencies several months ago, would be a problem. I know, because I counted it twice, that I only £3.78 in loose change in my pocket, enough for a pint of milk and a sliced loaf from the village convenience store for my weekend breakfasts on Saturday and Sunday.

I stood still, not really focusing on the menu, just contemplating whether I could abandon the embarrassment of entering the restaurant and simply go home hungry. I did have a couple of cold left-over sausages in the fridge, some raw potatoes and carrots in the veg rack and, as a last resort, a couple of frozen dinners which I hoped would keep me going on Monday and Tuesday until the fortnightly Giro in the form of my Job Seekers Allowance came through to my new bank account on Wednesday.

As I dithered, with my back to the doorway, I heard an “Ah-hem!,” voice immediately behind me. I turned to be faced with a smartly-dressed and rather distinguished looking man in his 50s/60s judging by his greying temples, dressed in a penguin suit complete with perfectly-tied bow tie. He looked me up and down, increasing my anxiety ten-fold, before speaking to me again.

“Do you have reservations, Sir?,” he asked.

“Er, well...” I started.

He impatiently interrupted my stuttering attempt to reply, “Because, otherwise we are fully booked this evening.”

“No, I er, sort of...” I stuttered, “I er believe er that Lady Moulsthorpe said she was the owner of the restaurant and that she had booked me in for a meal for one and that you’d er take care of the er bill, etcetera, etcetera.”

The man bowed his head ever so slightly, “Mr Jolly is it by chance?,” he asked.

“Yes, that’s me,” I replied, “John Jolly.”.

“And what is your association with her Ladyship, Mr Jolly?” His face looked stern and clearly didn’t trust me even though he had already admitted he was expecting me.

“Well, I’m sort of her handyman, gardener, on a purely voluntary basis, not actually in her employ ... and she has kindly put me up in one of her old cottages...” I replied, as he continued to stare silently at me and I felt pressured to continue my job description, such as it was, “and I’ve been pruning her roses all week until about an hour ago ... and she sort of asked me what I was having for tea ... and I said I was going to buy some bread and milk and have a sausage sarnie and a pot of tea for tea ... er and Her Ladyship said that ‘that wouldn’t do at all’ and ordered me, yes, ordered me to come here ... er then she made me shower in one of the bathrooms and to put on this suit, shirt and tie ... I think it must be her late husband’s clothes ... and she has allowed me to borrow one of her cars to drive down here ... er and return the car to the garage when I’m ready ... and I was to work at the Manor again next week pruning her fruit tree orchard. Well, er, she’s a force of nature she is ... her Ladyship ... So here I am considering whether to come in and embarrass myself or bugger off home. Then I wondered what I’d say on Monday when she asks what I thought of the place.”

His stern countenance softened a little and he held the door open and ushered me by a wave of his hand into the light and warmth within.

“His Lordship was indeed a large man when in his prime, not so towards the end, sadly,” he said, “what are you, 42 long?”

“Er, not sure, my ex- used to look after my wardrobe and she sent me into the outfitters’ changing booths with a couple of suits to try on whenever she thought I needed one, which wasn’t often.”

“Quite,” he said, before turning to one of the waitresses or a hostess, not sure who, who was hovering nearby, “Karen, would you fetch this gentleman a jacket, blue, 42 long, please?”

The young girl grinned and turned away, saying, “Certainly, Mr Carroll, on my way,” and flittered away swiftly.

“Please hand me your jacket, Mr Jolly, a loan jacket will be here shortly,” the smart restaurant manager, Mr Carroll, I now knew, said to me.

I reluctantly removed the oversized jacket, revealing the waist of an over-large pair of trousers pinched rather untidily into my much narrower waist with my cracked and worn but reliable belt that normally holds up my rough working jeans. I had lost a lot of weight since the divorce proceedings started and I was noticeably thin and, I must admit, a tad undernourished.

“I was hoping that I could keep the jacket on to hide these trousers, but Her Ladyship insisted,” I lamely apologised, “I was sort of stuck at her place and well, she has that manner that sort of must be obeyed, if you know what I mean.”

His stern face cracked a barely discernible smirk, “Her Ladyship is indeed ‘to the manor born’,” he admitted, “we do keep a few jackets on hand but not trousers I’m afraid,” just as the replacement jacket arrived borne by the young girl Karen.

Mr Carroll took the jacket, dismissed the girl with my recently removed borrowed jacket and held the replacement open for me to put on. It was a perfect fit.

“That’s better, Mr Jolly,” he almost actually smiled but immediately checked himself, “Lady Moulsthorpe has indeed booked you in for a complimentary meal for one. Her Ladyship slightly misinformed you about owning the restaurant, but we can forgive her that little slip. She owns the building of course but the leaseholders who own the restaurant business hold the lease with a proviso that her Ladyship may dine here gratis as often as she likes and we hold back a table for two persons every night of the year, but she rarely visits nowadays, especially since his Lordship passed. Your table awaits.”

“Thank you, Mr Carroll, for your assistance,” I smiled gratefully back, “and the loan of the jacket, I confess I was worried about coming here as I am not at all used to fancy cuisine, I’m more a frozen beefsteak pie, mashed potato and gravy person and I feel a little out of place here.”

“We can’t have you here as a reluctant diner among a host of keen participants in the delights we provide. I hope you will be as comfortable as you can be during your evening here. You were perusing the ‘fancy’ menu earlier, do you know what you fancy?” That slight smirk had returned, but with a little softening around the eyes which I interpreted as the nearest Mr Carroll ever got to a smile.

In for a penny in for a pound, I thought, “I’m afraid my schoolboy French lessons have completely disappeared from my brain box and I couldn’t work out a single item on the menu. I may have to put myself in your hands.”

“Mmm, fine. Firstly, do you have any food allergies, Mr Jolly?” Mr Carroll asked and I shook my head in lieu of ‘no’. “Then I suggest one of our signature main dishes, in simple English, it is tender slow-cooked lamb and mussels pie, with a light onion gravy and creamy butter mash with grated truffle; for a starter, as this is the night of lovers, we have oysters or you may prefer mussels cooked in a creamy garlic sauce...”

“Night of Lovers!” I exclaimed, “of course, it is Valentine’s Day, the fourteenth of February, no wonder you are so busy.”

“I assure you, Mr Jolly, we are always busy, but I do admit that tonight we are absolutely packed, with most tables booked for at least two sittings. Your table, of course, is yours for however long you want tonight.”

“No, that’s fine, I’m not a big eater,” I assured him, “I’ll just have the pie and mash you suggested and get out of your hair, so you can fit someone else in.”

“We cannot possibly do that, Mr Jolly,” he actually smiled. It was so brief a change of countenance that I almost persuaded myself that I was mistaken.

He continued, “because you have a dining companion this evening who is seated already and waiting her appetiser. The lady may well wish to enjoy your company for far longer than than just the main course. You may not be a consumer of large meals, Mr Jolly, but our courses are extraordinarily good at invigorating our diners’ appetites.”

“Oh, I’m sharing! Has her Ladyship decided to dine tonight?” I asked, continuing, “she must’ve made good time as she waved me off from the front door and she didn’t appear to have her chauffeur or her car standing by.”

“No, the lady is not Lady Moulsthorpe, Mr Jolly, but a lovely young lady more your age, a Miss Milly Sangster, will be dining with you; do you know her at all?”

“No, never even heard of her,” I replied.

“Milly is quite a regular, she dines with us several times a month, although usually on her own in recent months, but she visited us a lot more often with her husband in years past. I noticed that she doesn’t wear her wedding band on her ring finger any more and so I assume she is either separated or divorced. Perhaps, her Ladyship is playing matchmaker on such a night as this? Or perhaps Miss Milly is here in her role as food critic for the local newspaper and doing a review of how we’re handling Valentine’s Day diners?”

“A food critic?” I said, “I doubt we will have much to talk about. I’m even more certain that I’ll be just one dish and done. I’ve got to get my daughter’s bedroom in the cottage tidied up to the court’s satisfaction as soon as poss, so I can get her to stay with me when it’s my turn to keep her overnight, and I need to spend as much time as I can on it before I start pruning apple trees all next week.”

“Mmm, Mr Jolly, I do not wish to pry, but we at Moulsthorpe Restaurant like to consider our diners as friends who we want to see return to us time and time again. Now, you say you are working for her Ladyship voluntarily and she is allowing you to stay in one of her cottages gratis. Plus she is feeding you gratis tonight. Could I enquire about your circumstances without prejudice of your position as an honoured guest diner and therefore friend of this establishment?”

“Um ... I am recently divorced,” I said resignedly, “the decree nisi came through at the start of last week and I was forced to leave what is now my ex-wive’s home where I’ve slept in the spare bedroom, more an office really, for the previous three months or so. I’m on Job Seeker’s Allowance of £90 a week, payable fortnightly, and I can’t get a job of any kind anywhere locally because my wife’s lover was my boss and he sacked me with prejudice as soon as I started divorce proceedings.”

“Very good, Mr Jolly...”

“John,” I said with a sigh, “everyone calls me John; I’ve not been very Jolly for a while.”

“Ok, John,” he almost smiled again, “I wonder, though, where does Lady Moulsthorpe come into your story?”

“I was looking in the Greater Moulsthorpe newsagent’s window at the postcard ads for digs, having removed myself from the marital home. The decree came through much quicker than I thought and I’d hope to find a job and get my share of the savings before I had to leave. I found a room I could afford and stayed there for a few days. However, I had also noticed a poster for volunteers to run classes for U3A based at both the Moulsthorpe Primary School and the Village Hall. I checked with the Job Centre to see if I could run a free course on DIY for the U3A. They’ve virtually given up getting me a job as my sacking has blacklisted me from anything local and I can’t travel to work without a car as I lost the company van as soon as I was sacked. I would need a vehicle to get to work and yet I need to stay living nearby so I can see my 9-year-old daughter. So I started doing a couple of basic DIY courses for the U3A to help keep me sane and also did some volunteer repair jobs for some of the members who needed help. Lady Moulsthorpe is Chair of the U3A local branch and she has given me two weeks of gardening work and then completely out of the blue has given me one of the tied cottages to stay in, in exchange for trying to make the row of three cottages habitable again.”

“The cottages in Ludlow Lane?” he asked.

“Yeah, those,” I admitted.

“They’ve been empty for ten years at least!”

“They are dirty and have clearly been neglected, but they are sound, quite solid, mostly needing some elbow grease to clean up the mould and mildew. Then I’ll PAT-test the electrics, check the plumbing for leaks and air bubbles, and next payday I will try and gradually replace the rotting fabrics as long as Lady Moulsthorpe lets me stay on.”

“Okay, John, thanks for your honesty. Where did you used to work and what did you do before?”

“Swinleys kitchens and bathrooms, worked there man and boy for 19 years as estimator, basically as a quantity surveyor. Once the salesman makes the sale and jots down the outline of the job to a basic price list, I would go in, measure up, look for any making-good issues, calculate costs of removing what’s there, before installation that needs doing, work out and order all materials, what skilled and less skilled operators we need and timings, schedule the unit build and installation teams, all entered on CAD and spreadsheet to work out profit margins and that the price quoted meets what we are prepared to do the job for.”

“Swinleys, eh?” Mr Carroll said, “They have a great reputation for the quality of their work locally. How did they get you out, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Never had a complaint before, until I found my boss screwing my wife about four months ago. She works there still, in accounts and has done for years, except for maternity time off when Cassie was born until she started play school. Mr Groater the boss called me into the office three days after I found him and Katie, my ex-, in fragrante delicto when I came home early from work with a migraine. He showed me printed out ‘evidence’ of three drastically wrong estimates and forged three letters to me dated a month apart warning me of losing my job if I didn’t improve, and before I could take it all in Security escorted me off the premises. No payment in lieu of notice, no holiday pay, no redundancy, just instant dismissal based on false evidence. The Citizens Advice in Gravesport managed to get my accrued holiday pay owed and wages for the days worked during the calendar month before the sacking, but that took weeks to come through. The divorce judge at the hearing ruled that I had to allow Katie to stay in the house until Cassie finishes her education, continue to pay the mortgage and maintenance as well as child’s allowance, leaving me completely broke. I’m supposed to have been given half the family savings after the divorce was granted but, because I defaulted on the first mortgage payment while I was still trying to set up a new bank account with no money, that the judge ruled Katie could control my half of the savings to ensure keeping up the payments.”

“Aah, that’s bad luck. What time were you going to start cleaning up your cottage, John?”

“Well, I was going to make a start at first light but then I have a U3A home improvement course to run from 10 to noon...”

“You will have five or six cleaners at your cottage at 8am, John, they are trusted friends of this restaurant who owe me favours. They can be safely left to carry on cleaning your place and the other two cottages if they’ve time while you are out. If they decide a skip is required, it will arrive and be taken away at no cost to you. You know what this means though, don’t you John?”

“That I will owe you favours which you will call upon at some future date?” I replied.

“Indeed,” Mr Carroll stated.

“Like ... what for example?”

“The beer garden has rose bushes and a crab apple in the corner, for example.”

“I’ll fit that in sometime next week. I’ll have to inform the Job Centre in Gravesport, so they may call you to check that I’m not doing paid work.”

“That will be no problem, Mr Grimshaw the manager of the Job Centre is a regular diner,” Mr Carroll said, “now, let’s escort you to your table.”

He walked off and I followed behind. I had noticed that, while he had been conversing with me, the hostess Karen had been greeting the three or four couples who had arrived and shown them to their previously booked tables. It seemed a very efficient set-up. I had no doubt that I was going to get help cleaning the cottage tomorrow. Something magical was happening to me on St Valentine’s Day. For what divine purpose I knew not and felt that questioning anything good happening to me would be counter productive.

My table was towards the back of the restaurant close to the kitchen and positioned in a relatively private alcove. This old inn had been here since at least Tudor times and had gone through many changes of layout, so there were isolated vertical beams holding up the first floor everywhere, probably indicating where walls and doorways once were. As we rounded the corner and Mr Carroll moved out of my line of vision, I could see my possible dinner companion.

She was a smartly dressed young woman in a reasonably modest blue dress, about my age, early to mid-30s. She wore her light brunette hair tied up in a bun on the top of her head. Her neck was long and graceful. She looked up, as we got near and Mr Carroll stopped by her chair, and smiled up at the gentleman. It was an attractive smile who clearly regarded the manager as a familiar friend. I felt even more shabby than I felt possible in my borrowed clothes, it being a day and a half since I last shaved and was at least four weeks’ overdue for a haircut.

“Miss Sangster,” Mr Carroll addressed the woman, with a slight stoop to his posture, “May I present Mr John Jolly to you? He has been invited by Lady Moulsthorpe to share your table this evening, if that is acceptable to you, of course?”

Her warm smile broadened even more and she nodded slightly in agreement to his request. “I have heard as much directly from her Ladyship, Mr Carroll, and been expecting, no, looking forward to the arrival of Mr Jolly, being much intrigued by her call. I’m sure that Mr Jolly and I can find plenty to talk about during the meal. I have held off ordering anything until his arrival so the order for us both could be made at the same time.”

“Ah, very good, Miss Sangster, I believe that Mr Jolly has expressed an interest in the Lamb and Mussel Pie as a main course and I have suggested the mussel starter, they are very different yet go together well,” Mr Carroll said as he expertly seated me into the narrow space opposite the woman. The alcove was certainly an intimate setting, but uncomfortable for me especially tonight, sharing between complete strangers.

She gave Mr Carroll her choice of selected starter and main course, so full of my own thoughts that I didn’t register at all what she was having or even in what language she had conveyed her desires. Without need to make a written note of our requirements, Mr Carroll headed for the nearby kitchen.

She extended a hand to me across our table, one decorated with each nail painted different complicated designs and colours. “Hello, Mister Jolly, I’m Milly. I’m here on last-minute orders from my editor to do a food review of the restaurant with a particular slant on how it copes with what is probably the busiest night of the calendar for couples dining. Then, shortly after arriving here, I received a call from Lady Moulsthorpe advising me that you will be joining me and I was to help you relax and entertain you in conversation. Now why is that, Mister Jolly?” She asked me with raised eyebrows but an encouraging smile did appear to play on her lips.

Those lips were full and probably kissable lips of a natural pale pink colour; she seemed to be wearing only a touch of mascara on her eyelashes, and any eye shadow, if applied, must be of a very subtle shade. She looked reasonably attractive with minimal make-up, not knock-out beautiful, but now I was seated I could see reddish highlights in her hair in the warm candlelight. She was blessed with a lovely warm inviting smile, deep brown intelligent eyes and her voice had a classy accent with perfectly spot-on diction.

I tried to reply without my usual lazy and mumbling strain of speech, as if replying to a strict school-marm but was uncertain if I managed to pull it off. However, she kept smiling during my little speech so I gradually relaxed.

“Please call me John, Milly, not used to being called ‘mister’. I am at a loss as to why I was invited to dine here and with a companion too, I haven’t any concrete reason, except that she is a very generous person who has taken pity on me. I have been pruning her Ladyship’s roses for the past week and only a hour ago was informed that I will be working in her apple orchard for the next week.”

“You’re an in-demand gardening contractor, then, eh, John?” she asked.

“No, not at all. Shortly after we were introduced at a meeting in the village hall, she asked me if I was willing to help her by pruning some of her garden roses on a voluntary basis,” I answered, “Of course I was totally unaware of the extent of her rose garden, it took me all the hours of daylight all week. She invited me to dine here tonight as some sort of ‘thank you’, I guess. She suddenly sprung it on me as I finished work late this afternoon. I didn’t have time to go home and change and, while I showered in one of her bathrooms, she looked out one of her late husband’s old suits.”

“Yes, Uncle Jules was bed-ridden for several years and passed just over a year ago,” she said, musing, “I think he was a little miffed that he reached 99 and didn’t quite make the century.” Her smile saddened and then brightened towards the end, “I’m sure her Ladyship will get there, though.”

“You’re are probably right,” I smiled, “she’s an energetic force to be reckoned with all right, which is why I’m here.”

So, I thought to myself, this Milly Sangster must be her Ladyship’s niece, or more likely grandniece. I better be on my best behaviour, I can’t afford to lose the cottage or I will surely lose my daughter too.

“So, if you are a volunteer at the Manor, what do you do for work, normally?” she asked.

Ahh. The truth revealed by innocent unwanted questions can be cruel at times, but I have more to lose than gain by any pointless dishonesty. My dignity had been crushed at every turn over the last few months, more crushing disappointments couldn’t sink it any lower. “I am presently unemployed, Milly, well basically unemployable, if I am honest.”

“Well, you don’t look unwell or disabled and if you are prepared to tackle pruning Aunt Maureen’s orchard in just a week, you must be relatively fit, so why do you feel unemployable?”

“Firstly I need to be close to my daughter, who’s nine years old,” I replied, thinking I was digging a hole for myself that I will be forever stuck in but I pressed on with my ‘confessional’. “I’m very recently divorced, my ex-wife is trying to spite my best efforts at every turn. I’m both jobless and homeless because my wife’s boyfriend is my ex-boss who has ensured that I am blacklisted locally among potential employers. Your Aunt heard of my plight through the U3A and she has offered me a little unpaid work to keep me occupied and generously given me access to a rent-free cottage, which I want to clean up so I can take up the court-allowed visits by Cassie once the family services team at the court check out and approve the safety of my new accommodation.”

She reached a hand across the compact table and patted the back of my hand. Her hand felt warm and comforting while mine was still cold from the walk from car to entrance.

“So you are a man of principle and you have personally suffered because of your choosing to divorce your unfaithful wife?”

“Yeah. Katie actually wanted to keep the marriage going while still keeping up with her boyfriend, otherwise she threatened me with losing my job, my house and my daughter,” I said. “My wife had become unrecognisable in her selfishness. How did I fall in love and marry a woman who would blackmail me like that and actually carry through her threat to conclusion? It has been tough but I wouldn’t, couldn’t live any other way. But just today alone, even in just the last hour or so, things seem to be looking up at last.”

Just then, a waiter showed up with a small silver tray containing two filled champagne flutes, setting the glasses before us. “Good evening, Madam, Sir, the champagne is a first course appetiser, would you like anything else to drink?” He looked to me first.

“I’m driving, so just some still tap water for me, please” I said and looked over to my companion.

She smiled and turned to the waiter, “I think I’ll have a glass of the house Rioja, please.”

The waiter nodded and left.

“Have you dined here before, John?” she asked.

“No, not since it became a restaurant. I used to come in fairly regularly when it was simply a pub, the Red Lion. Back then they did basic pub chicken-in-a-basket stuff. I was only 16 to 18 but all of my workmates came here. I even brought my wife Katie here for our first date, ending up at the mobile chippy that used to stop in the Village Hall car park after the pub closed. When the pub closed down about 17-18 years ago we moved to the White Swan in Greater Moulsthorpe.”

“Well, ever since it became a restaurant, in a small village a long drive from any large towns and cab companies or even Uber services, the management here have provided two circulating minibuses which leave on the hour and half-hour and will get you home for just a fiver, so you are able to leave your car here to collect at your leisure. The cars are protected by CCTV. It is a service that I myself have used and on Lady Moulsthorpe’s request have already reserved a space for you on the 10.30 bus.”

“I am so close to home that I could walk back in ten minutes if I had to,” I said, “as it was raining and I was wearing one of her husband’s suits, her Ladyship insisted that I use one of her cars rather than take 20 minutes to walk here. I wouldn’t want to abandon that car here overnight, even though it is only a 20-year-old Rover, just because of being selfish over a pint of beer or two. So you’ve been coming here to dine regularly?”

“Yes, pretty well since they opened. I even worked part-time as a waitress for a while until I married. Her Ladyship must know you pretty well, John, that she trusts you with not only clothes that she would consider very personal and rent-free use of a cottage as well as the loan of a motor car too.”

“I really don’t know why she has been so thoughtful and generous, I only met her a week ago through the U3A. Perhaps she just took pity on me once she found out my circumstances.”

“I must say you look much too young for third age activities, John.”

“I like to keep busy, especially after moving out,” I said, “and the U3A gave me an opportunity for some social interaction after the Job Centre had basically given up finding me a job. So long as I keep them informed what I am doing and am prepared to drop everything to attend any interviews they find for me, they let me do whatever voluntary work I can find. So I run a couple of DIY courses for the U3A. I’m doing plumbing demonstrations tomorrow for a couple of hours at the village hall.”