Let me take you there now........
 

THE EXMOOR WHITE HORSE INN

– 2 –
 

My wife and I take a short break here about twice each year. We discovered this oasis of calm purely by chance on the way back from a journey further north. I was too tired to complete the drive and we dropped into a Tourist Information Centre, searching for a place to stay for one night. We were directed to The Exmoor White Horse Inn at Exford. I am certain it was meant to be. We have found a place that we would rather keep for ourselves, but it seems far too many people are already party to the secret.

Located in the village of Exford, not far as the crow flies from Dunkery Beacon, The Exmoor White Horse Inn may be found. This jewel is 26 miles from junction 25 of the M5 motorway. It can be found by following the A358 from Taunton towards Minehead for about 3 miles and then turning left along the B3224. After about 10 miles, at Raleighs Cross (pub) the route takes a right turn, following the B3224 which changes course here. After about 6 miles Wheddon Cross appears and the signs to Exford are picked up. They take the traveller straight across the crossroads and onward for the final 5 miles to Exford.

The inn nestles by the bridge on the River Exe, and is a traditional 16th century building, festooned in Virginia Creeper. Inside there are log fires and a fine restaurant which uses locally sourced produce. The Head Chef produces a menu replete with meats from rare breed cattle, west-country seafood and moorland game. Another compelling feature is the bar, which boasts over 150 malt whiskies. So much to do; so little time! There are 28 bedrooms, each with its own plethora of stories and anecdotes. Have you ever wondered who has stayed in your hotel room whenever you check in? Which room did you stay in? If only it could speak!

In the same way that rooms have histories, so the people who stay in them also carry personal baggage as well as their luggage. Have you ever thought that you become part of that history from the moment you make the booking? Each and every visitor has tales to be told, but most prefer to keep them to themselves. What about you?
 

HAYLEY THE RECEPTIONIST

– 3 –
 

Haley, Receptionist at The Exmoor White Horse Inn, was well liked both by customers and staff. She was petite, pretty and had a certain way about her; perfect credentials for the job. She had been there for a few years and was efficient and friendly. Although not originally from the area, she had grown to love and become part of it. Her boyfriend, a local man, doted upon her and would move heaven and earth to grant her every wish. They had been together for about two years and had reached the stage of their relationship when decisions would soon need to be made. Marriage? Babies? See the world? Start a business of their own? Carry on, happy as they undoubtedly were?

Haley’s main love, apart from her boyfriend, was her horse. She had inherited him from her sister when she decided to go travelling abroad. His name was Hal, or to give him his full title, Prince Halberad theThird of somewhere or other. He was a thoroughbred Arab stallion, had a glossy pitch black coat and stood proud and tall, as if he knew of his lineage. His manner was haughty and he could also be temperamental. Hayley wished she could have ridden him in The Golden Horseshoe, but he wasn’t an endurance horse. He was, to put it simply, just a magnificent specimen.

Her boyfriend did not share her love of the magnificent animal. He resented the time required to look after him and the love she invested in him. In short, he was jealous. He knew it was stupid to be jealous of a horse, but he couldn’t help it. He was a rival; there was no other way to dress it up. He was also afraid of the beast. In his mind it was decision time about the horse as well as anything else.

They say that you should be careful what you wish for. Hayley tested that maxim one evening as she indulged her other love: fast cars. She had treated herself to a hot car, and loved giving it the beans and testing her driving skills. She still had the metal pins in her right arm as evidence of the passion. The accident happened on the A396 near Bampton at the Black Cat junction. They were returning to Exford at the end of a good night out and Hayley was showing off her skills to her new boyfriend. The road was wet and muddy. Landslips were common there and works were in progress to construct a wall, with rod insertions, at the junction. Three-way traffic lights were in place to control the flow of vehicles bound for Bampton and Dulverton. The lights, however, failed that night and Hayley ploughed her speeding pride and joy straight into the partly constructed wall, in order to avoid an oncoming heavy lorry. The thought flashed through her mind that it was the lesser of two evils. She was probably correct, even though she broke her arm in two places and suffered some nasty cuts and bruises. Her boyfriend was luckier and escaped with a cut to his left leg, badly torn jeans and heavy bruising to his gentleman’s private area. She needed surgery, whilst he needed tender loving care and plenty of ice. Thankfully, she had not been drinking that night, even though the police suspected she had. They argued that there was no reason for her to have gone through a red light unless she had been influenced by drink or was otherwise distracted. It didn’t take long to prove the lights were faulty, but the argument about admission of guilt by the contractor or local authority was an entirely different matter. In fact, it still hasn’t been resolved after two years.

Hayley had omitted to include something in her account of the accident, because she couldn’t believe it herself. In the instant before her car had hit the wall she thought she saw a man dressed as a highwayman. By the time she gathered her senses after the smash, she doubted whether she had seen anything at all. She had also omitted something else. She knew she had not swerved to avoid an oncoming heavy lorry. She knew she had swerved to avoid what she now knew was a stagecoach. She had only ever told her boyfriend about these two mysterious facts, and was upset when he dismissed them out of hand.

As proof of her popularity her boss at The White Horse, Linda, was constantly offering to let her drive her own car. The Scooby was, as far as Hayley was concerned, lightning fast. It was recognised throughout the locality, and Linda’s speed was also well known and feared by all around. Indeed, when Linda declared her intention to take a drive somewhere, most sensible people studiously avoided being anywhere near. This made the roads even clearer for her, apart from unwitting visitors, many of whom had a close shave as they felt the rush of her passing. Linda was becoming a legend on Exmoor. Hayley would have loved to give it a go, but didn’t trust herself with it and now contented herself with adrenalin fuelled rides in the passenger seat from time to time.

Hayley was a model employee. She was always punctual and stayed late when needed, often without being asked. She was pretty, neat and trim. She had been a hit with the customers from the day she walked into The Exmoor White Horse. In short, she was perfect.

Hayley’s boyfriend also understood that the time was coming when they would need to make choices. They had been together for two years and he thought he loved her, but wasn’t sure what love actually is. He couldn’t define it; he only recognised when it was not there. He knew he had never been so content and in an ideal world, his world, things would stay just as they were. The trouble was that she seemed to be itching for something more. He didn’t mind her love of fast cars, despite the fact that it had almost killed the pair of them. He knew she was happy in her job. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that the problem was her damn horse. He believed she loved it more than she loved him. It took up a disproportionate amount of her time.

Her daily routine was to get out of bed at five in the morning and make a cup of tea for herself. She tried not to disturb him, so he didn’t warrant a cup of tea in bed. She then took herself off to the stables, where she spent at least two hours doing whatever was needed to make sure the beast was fed, watered and groomed. She may have done other things there, but it was all a mystery to him. He once threatened to accompany her to help, to take an interest, but she flatly refused his offer, saying it was her horse, her responsibility and anyway she knew he hated Hal. It caused tension in the house for over a week, so he withdrew the offer and the climate warmed again. Her routine continued with a rushed breakfast, again without a thought for him, and a rapid exit and fast drive to work. At the end of her shift she went straight to the stables and exercised her beloved Hal for at least an hour before bedding him down for the night. By the time she arrived home, she was already dead beat and usually prepared a hurried meal for the two of them, before collapsing into a chair in front of the TV and promptly falling asleep. He usually had to rouse her to make sure she went to bed rather than sleeping there all night. He had offered to make the evening meal, to take the pressure off somewhat, but he was a useless cook and it didn’t work. Now whenever she complained of being exhausted, he told her in no uncertain terms that it was her fault because she chose to lead her life like that. He had no sympathy; she could change things but chose not to.

It was the little things. He assumed it was the same in most relationships; always the little things that were the clues. He knew Hayley was a fast driver and could get home from the stables in about 20 minutes, but now took about an hour. What did she do in the other 40 minutes? Where did she go? Then there were the phone calls. He’d sometimes come home and find her on the phone. Admittedly she’d smile and blow him a kiss, but it seemed that the tone of her voice would change as soon as she saw him and she'd hang up soon after. So he would take a shower and pretend to forget a clean towel and call for her to get one for him, and when she disappeared into the laundry room he'd go into the kitchen and debate for a few seconds but then he'd go ahead and hit redial on the phone. Sometimes it turned out to be a neighbour or her mother; sometimes nobody picked up. He remembered seeing a film about spies or something, in which one person would call somebody else and they'd let it ring twice then call back exactly one minute later and he knew it was safe to pick up. Hayley’s boyfriend tried to work out the numbers she was calling from the sound of the dialling but they went too fast. He'd be embarrassed because he was acting so paranoid, but then there'd be another little thing and he'd get suspicious again. Lately he thought she’d been coming home with the smell of wine on her breath and he tried to snatch an unexpected kiss just to make sure, but she would pull away. It was as if the spontaneity, the passion, had gone. He tried to put a finger on it but couldn’t explain it.

His suspicions smacked of midlife crisis, but he knew they were too young for that. Sometimes in life you have to be smart. He hadn't really found any proof. He really thought her commitment to the horse was wearing her out and there was no more to it than that. And yet the doubts would not disappear. If she was straying he wondered where she found the time or energy. Her life revolved around her work and her horse, and it seemed to him that he was no longer an important part in it. He’d always thought of her as absolutely loyal; sin free, but the thought nagged at him that even saints sin sometimes.

He maintained his checks on her, looking for the little things until one day he found a big thing.

It was five-thirty and Hayley had phoned to say she was going to be late because she was going shopping after dealing with the horse. He told her not to rush, to take all the time she wanted. He didn’t tell her he was going to go through their bedroom, searching for something that had been bothering him all day. That morning he had walked quietly past the bedroom where she was getting dressed and peered in. He saw her take an object out of her bag and hide it in the bottom drawer of her dresser. After half an hour of ransacking and prowling through every conceivable hiding place in the room he found what he was looking for. It was a sealed red card envelope, but there was no name or address on the front. He didn’t know what to make of it and the more he held it, the heavier it seemed to become, almost like a physical burden. He turned it over and over in his hands and studied it carefully. She hadn’t licked the flap completely so he could pry most of it open but he couldn’t get at it fully without tearing the paper. He found an old razor blade and spent an age carefully scraping away at the glue on the flap.

At six-thirty, with the last little bit to go, the phone rang. It was Hayley and, for once, he was relieved to hear her say that she was going to be even later than she thought because she’d met an old school friend and was going to stop for a drink with her on the way home. She asked if he wanted to join them, but he said he was too tired. He hurried back to finish his project. Finally, he scraped off the last of the glue and with shaking hands opened the flap. He pulled the card out. On the front was a picture of a Victorian couple, holding hands and looking out over a snowy backyard as candles glowed around them. He took a deep breath and opened the card. It was blank. He knew at that moment that all his fears were true. There was only one reason to give somebody a blank card and that was the fear of being caught.

It wasn’t the little things any more. He knew without doubt that she was seeing someone and probably had been for months. He tore the card into little pieces, flung them across the room and fell back on the bed. He stared at the ceiling for a full half an hour trying to calm himself, but the rage would not abate. He knew where she was likely to be for her drink with ‘an old school friend’ so he set out to find them. It didn’t take long. He found them at the first attempt. She was sitting there with her lover and he tasted the familiar metallic flavour of his anger. He wanted to scream.

He spun away from the window and strode through the front door. There was a man sitting with her at a table.

Hayley saw him and with a sharp intake of breath, gasped, “what are you doing here?”

He muttered, “When you cheat on somebody there are consequences.”

“What do you mean, cheat?” she said, aghast at the suggestion.

There was movement to his left and he spun to meet it. He recognised Hayley’s old school friend immediately as she sat beside the man and kissed him on the cheek. Both wore wedding rings.

“You didn’t think...?” said Hayley.

Her boyfriend said nothing. He was too embarrassed to speak.

“You idiot!” Hayley said. “I was out tonight buying you a birthday present. I’ve been rotten to you lately and I wanted to show you I still love you.” She pointed to a shopping bag at her feet.

“Did you buy me a card as well?” he asked.

“Of course,” Hayley was fighting back tears.

“Is that the one in your drawer at home?”

She blinked. “Yes, it’s for you.”

“Then why is it sealed and blank?”

Her tears stopped and her face blossomed with anger. “I didn’t seal it. The flap got wet in the bathroom and I put it away to sort out later. I didn’t want you to find it.”

It was as if somebody had flicked a switch. He towered over the table and landed and huge blow on the man sitting there. Twenty minutes later, and after much cursing and a sprawling fight, he was arrested by two burly policemen who had reacted swiftly to the emergency call. There was a good deal of blood on the floor.

He was charged and found guilty of GBH, Assault and several other lesser offences. Hayley gave evidence and her account of life with him made harrowing listening. His long history of depression, paranoid behaviour and uncontrolled temper came to light. The court sent him to a secure hospital to serve his sentence.

She only sent him one letter. To be more accurate, it was a card. The only words it contained were “It’s not just the little things.”

Ironically her boyfriend had been correct. She had been seeing somebody else. His name was Philippe and he worked at the White Horse with her. 

BILLY’S HOSPITAL RECOLLECTIONS SENT TO JOHN LOMAX FROM AUSTRALIA UPON HIS RETURN. THESE ARE NOT RAMBLINGS; THEY HAVE A POINT.

At the tender age of ten I had to go into hospital in London. In those days children were often parked amongst adults and I ended up in a men’s ward. My appendix was removed and so was some of my innocence. At the time we lived quite a way from the hospital, so visits were difficult, especially as I had a younger sister who wasn’t allowed in. I remember being torn between thoughts of relief because I wouldn’t have to tolerate her constant chatter and homesickness because I loved her and missed being at home. I didn’t think it usual to be in such a place for something as mundane as an appendectomy, but I had had a heart problem from birth and thus it was deemed necessary to place me in a specialist hospital on a men’s ward.

Not unnaturally my fellow patients all seemed ancient to me and loneliness gripped me very quickly. I felt small and vulnerable. That feeling was certainly not eased when I looked around the ward and took stock.

Directly opposite was a grey haired individual who hawked, hacked and spat his way through my first day. Granted he used a receptacle, but I’d never seen nor heard anything like it in my life. On his left from my viewpoint was a thin bony skeleton which hardly seemed to move. His eyes, which were sunken into his completely bald skull, also never seemed to move. He had a sort of fixed, glazed stare. I did spot him move his arm once, but that was just to pick his nose.

To the right of the hacking man lay a grizzly bear. He was massive and had tubes and pipes appearing from every conceivable orifice and wires strapped everywhere else. I remember he moaned and groaned a lot, but nobody seemed to take any notice, so he just continued anyway. Looking back, I think he gained some relief just by doing that.

Beside me in the bed to my right there resided a most peculiar person. Or so it seemed to me. I couldn’t keep looking at him because I was old enough to have learned not to stare for fear of giving offence or causing trouble. However, it is human nature to take in one’s surroundings and I wanted to make sure I was safe! He was probably not very old and may have been a perfectly nice man, but he unsettled me by staring back. Surely, I thought, he must know it is rude to stare, but he just kept doing it. His eyes were a piercing blue; he had a mop of jet black hair on his head and much more of the same on his chest. He had no tubes or wires and so could move freely whenever the fancy took him, which it did quite often. I noticed that he visited every patient that I could see from my bed and talked in hushed tones to each. After such a visitation each bedbound recipient would be agitated and call for urgent assistance. Thankfully he never visited me, presumably because he thought it not so much a challenge to upset a small boy, but I kept an eye on him.

Immediately to my left was a middle aged chatty man. He was quietly spoken, read his newspaper and his book and offered me sweets. I liked him.

The first night was very frightening and I tried not to sleep until I was sure everybody else was asleep first. I reasoned I would be safer that way. The plan didn’t work. The hacking man did not sleep at all; he just carried on with his noisy, juicy expectorations and nobody came to check on him. The nurses had no need of a bedside alarm for him because they knew that if he went quiet they should come running. Skeleton Man, to his credit, moved even less at night. I think he was rehearsing for the time when he would close those staring eyes for the last time. However, he woke on my first morning, picked his nose as usual, and just lay there waiting patiently for the day to unfold. Grizzly actually slept all night, although I still don’t know how. He snored and roared his way through the night, with his tubes and wires bouncing around and upon him. Again, the nurses paid him no heed, presumably employing the same principal as they did for Hacking Man. Old Blue Eyes was actually strapped to his bed at night. He had obviously made too many visitations and the nurses didn’t want to be disturbed. Actually, I realise now that the way each patient was treated at night was individually tailored to ensure the nurses were not needed at all. Very clever, I thought. My chatty, book reading friend to my left was the man who discovered the real reason for this and shared his secret finding with me. He had, he told me before lights out, discovered that the doctors and nurses were playing a real life game of the same name during the wee small hours and made every possible arrangement not to be interrupted. Why my newly found friend should think a ten year old would be enriched by this knowledge I couldn’t say, but it had a profound effect for years to come.

My operation took place on the second day of my stay. I don’t remember much about it as I was asleep at the time. I was grateful for this because I had not slept at all on that first night. When I eventually awoke, I noticed an empty bed across the ward and asked my chatty friend about it. He looked at me morosely and said that Skeleton Man had picked his nose for the last time and was no more. I didn’t respond, but remember thinking that I wouldn’t like to be the next person to take up residence in that particular bed.

One incident that amused me happened on my fourth morning. By that time I had been allowed out of bed. Nowadays they boot you out of bed just a few hours after surgery, presumably because they don’t want you getting used to the good life of doing nothing, eating their food and making a nuisance of yourself. On that morning the doctor, accompanied by the terrifying Matron, stopped at the hacking man’s bed and in a voice loud enough for all to hear declared that cigarettes were the cause of his condition, it was not going to improve and would almost certainly kill him. He went on to advise anybody who was listening, which was everybody in the entire ward, if not the entire hospital, that smoking was sinful and he resented treating patients who ruined their own lives by practising such a filthy habit. Moreover, he railed, he would in future think twice about treating people who damaged themselves in that way. That was quite a radical thing to do in those days, but he has turned out to be quite a forward thinker. Anyway, when he and Matron had swept away in a cloud of disgruntlement, a few of us gathered on the balcony to get some much needed fresh air. The balcony overlooked the street and the front entrance to the hospital. On the opposite side of the road we could see a sweetshop, which obviously also sold newspapers, magazines and cigarettes. We watched with mild disinterest as people came and went, but our attention was caught by our eminent heart surgeon striding into the shop. He reappeared a few minutes later with a paper tucked under his arm and stopped on the pavement. He removed something from his pocket, put it to his mouth and lit it. With obvious satisfaction he drew a deep breath before exhaling a cloud of blue smoke. This drew a round of applause from our balcony and, after looking up at his cheering patients, he scuttled away in deep embarrassment. Skeleton Man would have smiled if he could.

Ironically the surgeon had been correct in his analysis and Hacking Man passed away that night. That meant that two of my fellow inmates had been taken by the grim reaper and it was only my fifth day. This set me thinking and I realised that if the attrition rate continued at the same pace, it wouldn’t be long before my number was called. Unfortunately I had been told that I would not be due for release until at least ten days after my operation. I have to admit that I showed signs of panic. After all, I calculated, I therefore had to somehow survive for the best part of another week and there weren’t that many patients left on the ward in front of me in the queue. Of course, I was relying on the fact that we would be taken in strict order of admittance, but I couldn’t depend on that.

When my mother visited me that afternoon I managed to persuade her that I would be available for release within two days. She was doubtful, but between us we managed to cajole the surgeon and Matron to agree to the plan with the proviso that I could walk properly, that my eating and toiletry habits had been returned to normal and that I would return to have stitches removed on what would have been the tenth day of being an inmate. I was overjoyed, not least because it reduced the chances of my maker catching up with me in hospital. He may have had other plans for me elsewhere, but at least I was giving him a run for his money. My plan was further vindicated when I awoke the next morning to the news that Grizzly had been taken during the night. Apparently, even the plethora of tangled tubes, pipes and wires had not saved him. This worried me greatly because I realised that if all those accoutrements had not been able to save him, then what chance did I have with no attachments to protect me? I never did find out what his problem was.

So, six days and five nights had elapsed and three fellow patients had disappeared. Even my ten year old maths could work out that it was imperative my escape plan worked. When I awoke on my sixth morning I was staggered to learn that all of my previous day’s companions were still present and correct. I reasoned that the odds had been tilted back in my favour a little. By this time I was able to walk reasonably well, although the stitches pulled uncomfortably. Toiletry habits were returning to normal, or as normal as possible given the awful hospital food with which we were provided. I had discussed my plan with Chatty Man and he ventured that I was being very sensible because if the law of averages in the ward didn’t get you then the food would. He admitted that he had noticed the mortality rate and was very worried because he was next in line.

As it turned out he was wrong. Chatty Man and I had noticed that my neighbour with the blue eyes, who was strapped to his bed each night, had not had his bindings removed that day and was very still indeed. As there were no monitors with tell tale beeps that hover over each patient as is the norm nowadays, nobody could tell whether he had just decided to continue sleeping in order to avoid the perils of breakfast or something more sinister had happened. It was mid morning by the time a diligent nurse took some notice and discovered his unblinking blue eyes gazing up at the ceiling. Curtains were hastily drawn around his bed, which, apart from cutting cut off my view, was also rather unfriendly, and several other nurses and Matron scuttled into that sanctum. A senior looking doctor appeared and I heard him make an authoritative pronouncement to the assembled crowd. I didn’t catch what he actually said, but the meaning was clear from his low rumbling tone. Curtains were then drawn around everybody’s beds, which annoyed us all as the developing drama had become the highlight of the day and we wanted to see what happened next. As if by magic, when our curtains were removed, Strapped Down Man had disappeared and a freshly made bed stood there, inviting its next victim with its crisp white sheets, neatly turned down to resemble a toothless maw topped by a perfectly laundered pillowed headstone.

Being only ten years old I didn’t know where hospitals put dead bodies, so I imagined another ward which was gradually being filled by my erstwhile companions. I confided to my chatty friend that I thought they wouldn’t take much looking after and that at least they were avoiding the hospital food, but he didn’t seem to find that funny and returned to his newspaper for quite some time. There wasn’t much time for anything else to happen because I was let out the next day. The most long lasting memory of that hospital stay is something that didn’t happen, rather than anything that did. My father did not visit once. I still resent it. Mum said he was extremely busy with his police work, but I became increasingly aware of his lack of parental interest and we gradually grew apart. I never forgave him for that, not even when he died. The other memory is that my parents split up during my stay and my father had moved out by the time I arrived home. I have bitter memories about these things.”

“John, I have bitter memories about so many things. I have learned much more about dead bodies and people’s motivations in life. I know too much about these things and I have nightmares. Help me to at least have better thoughts and peaceful nights. I know Mother and you had some happy times and no doubt some fond memories. Please help me to have some of my own.”