The Road to Happiness - Book 1 The Highwayman

[Lucy Falconer]

The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy.

John 10:10

Chapter One - The Chef 

To thine own self be true. And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. Shakespeare, Hamlet.

A famous Chef once said to turn every disadvantage to your advantage. It was the same Chef that stood before me now at the entrance of Bodkin House Hotel, a 17th Century Coaching Inn and former 12th Century Priory in Petty France, on the edge of the Badminton Estate. We had just had a busy Sunday lunch service, and I was still hungover from the night before. I wondered if I was hallucinating or whether Gordon Ramsay was standing in reception. I said a silent prayer and did my best to maintain my professionalism. My parents bought Bodkin House a few years ago now, at the turn of the 21st Century; I was away travelling at the time with my then-boyfriend, having just graduated from Manchester University. Despite everyone expecting us to announce our engagement upon our return to the UK, I broke the relationship off not long after we had bought a flat together in Bristol. Something was missing from the relationship. I was looking for something more—a significant meaning to life, pursuing my purpose, dharma, and destiny. A voice was screaming inside me, and I could ignore it no more. The only problem was I needed to figure out what my purpose was. Despite travelling the world for a couple of years, in the words of U2, I still hadn’t found what I was looking for. 

The Huguenots found refuge at Bodkin House when they fled France in the 16th Century, persecuted for their religious beliefs; they settled in the area and formed the hamlet of Petty France. King Henry VIII destroyed the central part of the building with the dissolution of the monasteries; however, part of the priory remained, particularly the secret passageways within the cellar. Once a nunnery, it now serves refreshments to guests and travellers. It is an impressive Grade 11 listed building on the Fosse Way, a Roman Road, and a major route from Bath to Gloucester. Jane Austen visited the Inn as a child and is reputed to have written her first novel while staying there. She wrote about "the tediousness of a 'two hours' bait at Petty France, in which there was nothing to be done but to eat without being hungry and loiter about without anything to see" (Northanger Abbey Chapter V) when Catherine travels from Bath with the Tilneys, stopping off at the Inn for some sustenance.  Situated in an area of outstanding beauty, it is a testament to the place's creative inspiration. 

There is no doubt the place is haunted, with many stories and sightings of various ghosts reported by reputable members of society and guests alike. Many mention the headless Highwayman who haunts the King's Highway and visits the Inn. There are also regular sightings of a Victorian woman dressed in a white lace bridal gown roaming the corridor by the restaurant alongside the road. Legend has it that the notorious Highwayman held up a mother and daughter at gunpoint one night along the King's Highway en route to the Inn. Mounted on horseback, he took all their possessions, money, and expensive jewellery—a dashing-looking man with seductive dark eyes smouldering through his black mask. Dressed in an elaborate jewelled overcoat, he looked suave and sophisticated. The mother and her daughter handed over their valuables. The daughter was mesmerised by this dangerous character demanding their money or their life. Known to have an eye for pretty ladies, the Highwayman was attracted to the beautiful young woman. The following day the now unmasked Highwayman went to the Inn to find her. He claimed to have discovered their valuable items on the side of the road. The mother recognised him as the robber and raised the alarm. He was shot outside the Inn by officials, taken to Gloucester jail, and later hung. His spirit now roams the Highway, and his presence is felt at the Inn when he returns to Bodkin House looking for his lost love.

"Good Afternoon! "How can I help?" I inquired. I turned to Chef Ramsay as I stood up from behind the hotel reception desk and greeted him, doing my best to remain calm and professional, despite my knees wobbling and my heart beating faster. 

"Hi," He said as he stood in the doorway, casually removing his sweatshirt and ruffling his hair, looking very relaxed.

 "Are you still serving lunch?" He asked. 

I couldn't help but notice he had a charming sex appeal. It felt surreal, like he was a familiar old friend, feeling very comfortable as he stood in the doorway of my family home, albeit an Inn open to the public. 

"I'm sure we can sort something out. Let me check with our Chef," I said, still doing my best to maintain my professionalism and not appear hungover while treating him like any other guest. Fuck! I thought. I was sure Ronnie, our lovable rogue of a Chef, had just had a line of something exotic, as he usually did after service, and was spinning around the kitchen. Fuck! Fuckity Fuck Fuck! Stay calm, I thought as I walked into the kitchen. Sure enough, our Chef was spinning his arms as he stared up at the ceiling, with flushed cheeks, having just snorted what I would imagine a line of his finest produce.

My parents were very fond of Ronnie; he had a chequered past and had spent various visits at her majesty's establishment, AKA done plenty of time. According to our Head Housekeeper, the rumour was that he had killed a man. He was intelligent, and one would be wise not to let the slightly spaced-out and stoned demeanour mislead, for he had a great mind. He was loyal to my parents and had never let them down. He only once had not shown up for his shift when he had been arrested with a car boot full of cocaine, having been pulled over by the police on the motorway, travelling from London to Bristol, or the country lines as the Police call it. He claimed he was unaware of the cargo in the boot and had borrowed the car. It suited my parents to believe him, they needed him to work the evening shift, and they put up bail as they were promoting an Italian night in the restaurant, and Ronnie had put himself up as the expert. As I walked into the kitchen, I focused on the task at hand and did my best to ignore his flushed cheeks and the fact he was completely high.

"Ronnie, I'm pretty sure Gordon Ramsay has just walked in!" I said, slightly bewildered.

Ronnie staggered over to me. "Let me see!" he said, doing his best to wade past me like he was wading through water in what seemed like a wildly exaggerated manner.

"I know Gordon; I used to work with him in London," he tells me. 

Ronnie reminded me of Keith Richards from the Rolling Stones and spoke with the same effect. He sounded like he had just taken a long drag of a potent joint and was taking it all in as he contemplated life and reality. 

Good God, no, I thought.

"No, it's fine, Ronnie, it's OK…I just wanted to check if we were still OK to do food?"

"Absolutely!" he answered very confidently, his cheeks still flushed and his stoned demeanour inviting.

"Have we still got everything on the menu?” I inquired.

"Sure," he said, "I'm a little low on roast beef, but other than that, we should be fine." He turned and shimmied up the kitchen back to the Pass.