The ‘ladies’ was a small panelled alcove in the luxuriously carpeted lobby behind Anna’s room.  It was carefully screened from the diners’ view by prettily patterned curtains and in the corner was a small Victorian sink and mirror.  The ‘gents’ could be found after a longish walk across the courtyard garden, through the outbuildings housing the potato pile, and then on past the scullery. 

Arthur Mullard, the comedian, had once poked his beaming face through the scullery sash window, and spoken to the girls who were washing up.  ‘What a lovely drop o’ grub,’ he’d said generously and Elsie and Jane hadn’t stopped talking about it for weeks.

The kitchen was the hub of the place, a warm, welcoming hive of activity.  During the busy lunchtime period it was ’all hands to the deck’ and family members would remain stationed at their various posts; either plating up from the oven, replenishing the vegetable pots, dishing up the desserts, or arranging crisp fresh salads, each had their own area of responsibility.  Precision timing was of the utmost importance so that all food was ready for that first customer to arrive and place their order. 

Dougie Fordham, the third born of the four sons, was the vegetable chief and could often be seen surrounded by great clouds of suffocating steam as he poured large tubs of hand chipped potatoes into vast vats of hot oil.  As the wet potatoes hit the heat a deafening roar would crescendo, becoming quite frightening in its intensity, as bubbles massed from within taking on a life form of their own.  Eventually after several moments the temperature would regulate itself inside the vat and the sound subside reassuringly to a slow simmering sizzle. 

George and Winifred Fordham, ‘Win’ for short, were the owners of the restaurant and together they ran the Fordham family firm. 

A formidable pair, the two of them took charge of the hulking great joints of meat which they always managed to cook to perfection in the large blackened heavy duty oven. 

The oven itself was a magnificent industrial antique with five separate shelves, each shelf having its own thick metal door with large ornate handles.  These handles could be lifted slightly to release the catch enabling the door to be lowered and then lie flat so that anything inside could be manoeuvred forward easily for checking or basting. 

During most mornings, when the restaurant area was quieter with just a few people in for coffee and cake, Jean and Susan, the daughters in law, would beaver away either side of the large kitchen table.  Their white heavy-duty cotton aprons covered in flour as they worked and kneaded their nimble fingers into the sweet and savoury pastry waiting to be transformed into the mouth-watering meat and fruit pies.  And also, of course, the famous mince pies which every year caused a crazy customer ‘stampede’ during the run up to Christmas. 

Out of the most basic ingredients, they would also create the famous ‘Pilgrims Rest’ rock cakes which were highly sought after for their delicately crisp outside and soft, fluffy centre.  Within each rock cake was found plump round raisins, spread evenly throughout, and each melting mouthful was ‘heaven’ on the tongue. 

Every day, mountains of mince pies, scones and rock cakes were piled on to plates ready to be displayed in the shop window and, once in place, the queue of people who had been patiently waiting outside would be let in.  The cakes would be carefully counted for each customer; half a dozen or a dozen even, and then placed into white paper bags, either, small, medium or large.  Once safely inside, the bag would be flipped over and the corners twisted to hold in the goodness.  

A limit had been set, long before, on the number of cakes that could be bought at any one time to ensure there were ample supplies for everyone.  In the early years there had been many disappointed customers who’d arrived at the front of the queue only to find that all the cakes had gone.

The Fordham family were extremely proud to advertise that all their meals were home cooked, their menu prices couldn’t be beaten anywhere in the town and customer complaints were very rare, in fact regulars would return again and again, on a weekly or even a daily basis, to savour what was on offer.  The reputation of The Pilgrims Rest was renowned ensuring it was full to bursting every single day with barely a table free in any of the dining rooms.  Into this busy, hectic, daily routine Dougie and Jean’s eldest child, Fiona, was born. 

Once out of the pram, Fiona would often be relegated to sit on an old stool in the corner of the kitchen, tucked in the alcove between the cutlery trays and the shelves of crockery, where she would contentedly observe the comings and goings of waitresses and visitors alike, always remembering to keep well out of the way of the important business to hand… making money! 

Anna, known fondly as the ‘German waitress,’ was an adoring semi-surrogate mother to Fiona and, about eighteen months later, her younger sister Caroline.  Anna was married to Fred, a good humoured gentle man, often seen loitering around the drinks area while he waited for Anna to finish work.  They had no children of their own, whether by design or just bad luck no one had ever ventured to ask, but both had served the family well for many years.  Anna was a loyal employee and hard worker, enjoying generous tips from her regulars. 

Her attire was more often than not a lightly patterned cotton dress, navy being her favoured colour, with a white lace collar and short sleeves.  Her hair was light brown and brushed back off her face with a soft natural wave.  She was formidable in her pursuit of tips and would allow nothing to stand in her way, particularly other waitresses and there was always noisy competition verging on battle whenever the plates of food were ready for delivery as to whose order it was!  

She would amuse Fiona with her arrogant lunchtime antics by charging bullishly into the crowded kitchen, barking her food orders at Jean or Susan, or whoever happened to be plating up that day, penetrating the gentle din with her clipped German accent.  Her customary American tan tights were baggy all the way down until they spurted out at the end of her size ten feet ensuring a constant flip flop noise as she walked.  Her sprawling toes hanging over the front edge of her ill-fitting men’s sandals completed the comic look. 

The menu choice was always kept fairly minimal; Chicken, Pork, Beef, Lamb or Pie and on Fridays there would be fish and chips and of course in the middle of the week Grandad George’s special of the day; a Chicken Fricassee perhaps or one of his special curries with ample measures of currants or sultanas thrown in, whatever he had to hand! 

In the hot summer months, a cool crisp salad would be on offer; mouth wateringly good; using the freshest ingredients, sliced beetroot on top, a boiled egg halved and always two triangles of bread and butter on the side.

Jean normally typed the menus on an old black Smith Corona typewriter.  The keys would noisily repeat clackety clack as the metal fingers drummed against the carbon ribbon and Fiona would watch in awe as her mother’s fingers flew across the keys at such a speed completely entranced as words appeared on the page as if by magic.  Most of the time her mother made no mistakes but if she ever did she would tear the paper out of the gripper in annoyance and once again carefully place carbons between each small sheet of white paper, feeding them around the drum, to start all over again.  

When Jean had accomplished the task to her satisfaction she would whip the menus out, separating each paper copy from the carbon sheets and pass them to Fiona, whose job it was to carefully position these thin, flimsy sheets behind the clear plastic of the menu holders ready for the customers to contemplate. 

The various rooms downstairs and the living quarters on the upper two levels were brimming with history.  Built in the sixteenth century the building had slightly sloping floors, uneven walls and cracked ceilings.  A red brick facade had been added to the frontage of the property during the Victorian era but underneath was the original timber construction of medieval times.  It contained many passages, connecting rooms, and corridors, a spooky attic on the top floor and a dark, dingy cellar which could be found at the bottom of 13 wooden steps.

The cellar housed a vast number of cash and carry boxes of various shapes and sizes, all piled higgledy-piggledy on top of each other, containing all types of tinned food and packaged products, filling almost every square inch of floor space, with hardly any room to move between them. 

One small bulb hung down from the middle of a low ceiling always draped in dusty cobwebs.  It lit the cellar, dimly, casting long dark shadows towards the recess at the far corner and it was here that Fiona had first seen the tunnel.   

She had been sent down to the cellar by her mother to fetch some paper napkins for Anna and also to help her fold them ready for the onslaught of the lunchtime customers.  In the past Fiona had always made excuses not to go down to the cellar.  She didn’t really know why she should be anxious but she just didn’t like the feeling of being alone down there, cut off from the rest of the house, the noise and laughter upstairs would become more subdued and distant making her feel a little vulnerable but on that particular day her mother was insistent.

‘Go and help Anna’ she scolded ‘and stop being so silly.’ 

‘Ok,’ Fiona replied reluctantly, not feeling very brave. 

She realised her mother thought she was just being lazy which wasn’t true at all.  She didn’t mind helping Anna and always liked to feel involved and useful rather than being sent upstairs to look after her little brother Danny and two younger sisters, Caroline and Helen. 

Realising on this occasion she had no choice Fiona sloped off towards the cellar.

On reaching the cellar door at the end of the passageway she lifted the latch and leaned forward to switch on the light.  Peering downwards she held on to the rail for support negotiating the wooden spiral steps slowly and carefully one by one.  At the bottom step she looked around searchingly amongst the myriad piles of boxes and tins spread haphazardly across the floor and crammed into every square inch available.  Eventually she spied the crisp white serviettes; cellophane wrapped, and perched quite high and out of reach on top of a pile of boxes.

Catching sight of an old wooden wheel-back chair leaning against the wall she quickly grabbed it and pulled it into position so she could stand on it to reach one of the packets.  As she teetered precariously on the chair she accidentally knocked the bulb which started to swing from side to side casting eerie shadows.  She caught hold of it gingerly trying not to touch the matted grey cobwebs which adorned it lifting it aloft to see a little more clearly. 

Her attention was drawn to the shadowy darkness at the back of the cellar almost sinister as it lurked in the corner in sharp contrast to the old whitewashed brick wall.  Curiously, as she shone the bulb towards it, she noticed the bricks at the far end of the wall seemed to melt away and there appeared to be a long dark gap behind them. 

There was no possible way she could get across the cellar to investigate because there were so many boxes and large heavy tins piled up in front of her.   It was strange, she thought to herself, that on the few occasions she had visited the cellar before, she had never noticed it? 

She shivered in the cold stillness, her heart beating loudly and matching the ticking tone of her wrist watch. She glanced down at the time and realised she needed to get a move on, the lunchtime customers would be arriving soon.

She quickly grabbed the packet of napkins and clambered down from the chair, scraping it back clumsily to its original position, before racing up the cellar stairs.  She flicked off the light switch at the top immediately shrouding the cellar in darkness and quickly exited through the black wooden door pulling it firmly shut behind her. 

She was constantly being lectured to make sure the cellar door was shut securely because of the steep drop behind it and so after making sure the latch was tight she turned the key in the lock before making her way back along the side passage. 

As she entered the passageway she almost collided with Alf who was just coming around the corner.  

Alf stopped abruptly and gave her a withering look as if to say ’you move’ and so she awkwardly reversed into a small gap between the boxes to allow him to pass.  She hugged the box of serviettes tightly to her and waited as he shuffled past.  He didn’t look at her again but did lightly touch the front of his flat cap in brief deference to her presence, muttering a gruff platitude under his breath.

Alf, a reclusive character who worked at the restaurant, lived upstairs in a small room on the top floor opposite the attic.  His gloomy expression was a permanent fixture on his somewhat craggy face and there appeared something odd about him that Fiona couldn’t quite fathom; he definitely seemed a bit shifty, almost as if he was up to something, but Fiona effortlessly shrugged off her suspicions and ran forwards once again through the passageway.

At the end of the passageway she did a quick U-turn to the right and rushed through the heavyweight curtains into Anna’s room.   Anna was sitting at the small table for two immediately to the left of the curtained doorway and tucked against the wall. She plonked herself down opposite Anna, and tore open the packet of napkins, her heart was still thumping from her earlier exertions and her breath came in short bursts.  

‘Well, there you are at last’ Anna exclaimed looking up.  ‘I was beginning to give up hope.  I thought you must have found something better to do with your time!’ 

Fiona smiled up at the familiar face of her old friend but she could sense Anna was not very pleased about the delay and was becoming agitated.  Time was moving on and Anna was always anxious that everything should be ready before the first customers arrived.

She tutted and clucked like a mother hen as she sorted the pile of napkins, pushing half towards Fiona.  ‘Hurry now Fiona, we must be quick, we’re a bit late today. What took you so long anyway?’

Fiona was curious about what she’d seen in the cellar and wondered if she should mention the tunnel to Anna.  As she looked up at Anna’s bowed head, she ventured a question;

‘Anna, did you know that there is some sort of tunnel in the cellar?

Anna continued with her folding and did not look up. She was focused on the job in hand and would not be distracted. Fiona repeated her question and paused in her folding duties, finally earning her a taciturn response;

 ‘Tunnel, what tunnel?’ Anna replied in an exasperated tone.  ‘Come on now quickly, do you remember how to do the folds?’

‘Yes, I think so’ answered Fiona, ‘you fold it in the middle like this and then the corners fold in backwards like this.  Well it’s not difficult is it Anna?’ she answered facetiously and with a wry grin.

Anna’s furrowed brows became smooth again and she responded with a broad smile showing her new dentures in all their glory. 

‘Your teeth look really good Anna, so shiny and clean!’ remarked Fiona as they laughed together relaxing in each other’s company once more.  Having taken the advice of her long term dentist, Anna had decided to have her few remaining teeth removed all in one go and in order to ensure a good fit the new dentures had been pushed into her sore gums before they’d had a chance to heal.  This theory had worked remarkably well and Anna’s new pearly whites had bedded in to her gums nicely. 

Anna smiled as she watched Fiona working the folds of the napkins, as instructed, holding many treasured memories of her as a small child sitting opposite her just as she was now with her golden ringlets and adoring eyes looking up at Anna, full of trust and love. 

As she studied her now, her little ‘kleine’, all grown up, her hair a tawny brown colour, now grown long and thick, she blinked and cleared her throat as nostalgia threatened to engulf her.  The moment passed and Anna swallowed hard quickly becoming brusque and businesslike as she hurried her along, ‘Good girl, that’s right but try to be quick, I need to have one hundred serviettes ready by noon.’ 

Fiona sighed cheerlessly, ‘Ok Anna, but truthfully, I did see a tunnel, in the darkness, right at the far corner of the cellar.  Do you know where it goes?’

Anna paused for a moment and gave Fiona her full attention.

‘Hmm, well, since you ask, I did hear that there was a tunnel there once but it was all blocked up years ago. I don’t think there’s anything there now.  The monks from the old monastery used to use it, so I believe, they stored their wine down there in the cellar probably hundreds of years ago, hmm yes’ she nodded, ‘well that’s what I heard anyway.’

‘Really’, encouraged Fiona animated, as Anna then leant forward and whispered almost conspiratorially;

‘I also heard that a number of catholic priests might have used it as an escape route during the dissolution of the monasteries. There now Fiona, are you happy with my little stories’, she chuckled and sighed,

‘Aaah, my little liebchen, I’m sure there are many stories to be told about all sorts of ‘goings on’ in this place over the ages.  This building probably holds many secrets!’

Fiona gave a wide smile of pleasure at this new found discovery and felt quite excited by these possible explanations.  She decided there and then to delve a little deeper into the mystery of the monks and the catholic priests.Start Writing!