CHAPTER 1

When I was a child, I overheard a doctor joke that his hospital would run smoothly if only it wasn’t full of patients.

I didn’t understand at the time, but years later, when my family opened a tourist attraction, I discovered what he meant.

Can you imagine it? I asked my father as we prepared for our launch. Won’t it be amazing if we have queues of people waiting to get in?

Yes. He laughed, his face cracking into a familiar grin. But remember the old saying. ‘Be careful what you wish for.’

I scoffed. How could having lots of visitors be a problem? We were used to dealing with the public, after all. I was twenty-seven years old, filled with the optimism of youth, and still believed it was possible to achieve anything with enough hard work.

It was the spring of 1987 and the country was preparing for a general election, which Margaret Thatcher would win with a huge landslide. Football hooligans seemed a greater threat than the recently discovered hole in the ozone layer, and despite high unemployment levels, rising inflation, and ongoing troubles in Northern Ireland, there was a general air of optimism.

We had worked tirelessly for months to make sure Silverlands opened on time and, after the excitement of our first weekend, the whole family wanted nothing more than to rest.

It would have been wonderful to lie down and sleep, undisturbed, until the exhaustion inside us faded away, but such a luxury was impossible.

Unexpected expenses had blown our budget, and we had no money left to pay staff except for Martha and Abbie in the tearooms. Instead, we had to face a long summer season fuelled only by adrenalin and the satisfaction of knowing our dreams were still alive.

Gradually, our days settled into a routine.

Each morning was a flurry of cleaning. There were nearly twenty exhibition rooms to prepare, six sets of toilets to clean, as well as three staircases and endless corridors to sweep.

In the giftshop, David, my brother, restocked the shelves while, in the tearooms, my husband, Bob, laid out the counters with cakes and scones, fresh from the local bakers.

David’s wife, Philippa, fed the animals and cleaned the enclosures in the Animal Meadow, while in the main house, Dad and I switched on the exhibitions and made sure everything was running smoothly.

Then, at ten minutes to ten, I would help my mother carry her bags and a supply of leaflets down to the ticket box.

There would often be a few families waiting, but one morning I was surprised to see a mass of mothers and young children crowded around the entrance.

I discovered they were all from the same playgroup in Exeter and had arranged a group visit. Smiling happily, I unlocked the gate and waved them through.

I was about to return to the house when a voice spoke behind me.

I’m sorry. What was that? I asked as I turned to face a young woman with a toddler in a buggy.

Where can I put the buggy? the woman repeated.

I had no idea.

For months, we had planned every aspect of our exhibitions, but now I realised we had overlooked a few details.

Like baby buggies.

We had no excuse. Bob and I had Claire, our beautiful, mischievous, two-year-old, and David and Phil had Michael, who was eighteen months. We pushed them around in buggies every day, and yet they had completely slipped our minds.

I tried to think of a suggestion as I walked beside the woman.

The sun was shining, and Silverlands looked magnificent. The newly decorated walls of the old house were a warm golden yellow with clean white paintwork around the windows and doors. It was barely recognisable as the neglected wreck we had first seen a year ago.

I couldn’t suppress a glow of pride. The transformation really was remarkable.

Perhaps you can leave the buggy on the tarmac outside the front door? I suggested, but the woman shook her head. Instead, she heaved the buggy over the threshold and in through the wide doorway.

I’m not leaving it outside. It might rain.

Other families followed behind us.

You don’t mind if I put it at the bottom of the stairs, do you? she asked. There’s plenty of room.

I didn’t argue. The entrance hall was wide and spacious. A few buggies wouldn’t cause a problem.

* * * * *

Two hours later, I stopped abruptly half-way down the stairs. Ahead of me, the entrance hall was packed with buggies. Parents and toddlers squeezed between them, laden down with bags of nappies and baby supplies.

I picked my way through the chaos, pushing the buggies into line against the wall, but as soon as I cleared a path, new families arrived with more buggies.

It was a losing battle, and glancing at my watch, I saw I should have been in the kitchen helping prepare for the lunchtime rush. 

I ran to the gift shop, hoping David might be free to help, but he was serving a queue of people while Philippa was busy selling brass ornaments.

Pulling a walkie-talkie from my pocket, I called my father.

Can you spare a minute? I pleaded. There’s gridlock in the entrance hall. 

OK, I’m on my way.

Thanks, Dad.

In the tearooms, Martha was slapping scones onto plates, her lips pursed into a tight line.

Are you OK?

Aye, I’m fine, she answered through gritted teeth, her Scottish burr harsher than usual, but Abbie left her brains at home this morning.

What do you mean?

Look in there. You’ll see.

I stepped into the kitchen and gasped.

When we opened Silverlands, we had acquired an industrial-sized dishwasher from another attraction that was closing down. Now it was hidden from view beneath a billowing mass of bubbles that swayed gently as they slid down its sides and spread across the floor.

What’s happened? I demanded.

I’m sorry.

Abbie was scrubbing dishes in one of the steel sinks, her brown eyes huge and anxious.

But what’s happened? I repeated. What’s wrong with the dishwasher?

It’s gone mad. I can’t stop it. There’s suds coming out everywhere.

I can see that! How many tablets did you put in?

Abbie dropped her head and dark hair hid her face as she mumbled something.

What was that?

There weren’t any tablets left, so I put in some washing-up liquid.

Abbie! There’s a new packet of tablets in the storeroom. Why didn’t you ask me?

I didn’t want to disturb you. I knew you were busy...

How much did you put in?

Just enough to fill the tray where the tablets go. I wanted to make sure everything was clean.

I jumped as Martha’s voice rang out behind me.

If no-one’s going to collect the orders, I’ll have to bring them through myself, won’t I? There are four families waiting when you’ve finished playing bubbles.

Slapping the orders on the work surface, she stalked out.

* * * * *

Dad arrived soon afterwards.

That’s cleared the gridlock... he began, then stopped and gazed at the mounds of foam creeping across the floor.

What the hell’s going on?

Abbie put washing-up liquid in the dishwasher. Any suggestions?

Sack her.

Any helpful suggestions?

Don’t worry, I’ll deal with it.

He disappeared and returned a few minutes later with a shovel in one hand and a clutch of buckets in the other. Bob followed him.

Oh, my God! I see what you mean.

Teapots! Martha’s voice rang out from the servery. I need more teapots!

Where are they? I asked Abbie, but I already knew the answer.

As if on cue, the dishwasher wheezed to a halt.

Bob and I looked at each other. The steel-edged cube that formed the lid of the washer was more than a metre in each direction. Normally, it was possible to see the rotating steel sprayers and the clean crockery inside, but now it was completely filled with foam.

Don’t open it, Bob warned me. 

But we have to. There’s a queue of people waiting.

If we put it through another cycle with just water, it might get rid of the bubbles.

But that will take fifteen minutes. We can’t wait that long.

You two argue it out, Dad said. I’m going to clear tables. There must be some teapots we can wash in the sink.

You might as well open it, I urged Bob. It can’t get any worse.

OK, but don’t say I didn’t warn you, he muttered.

He slid the lid up, and for a long moment, the huge cube of bubbles quivered in the air, then, very gently, collapsed.

I told you, Bob said as a foaming tidal wave oozed across the kitchen, covering our feet and forming drifts against the cupboards.

It’s like those foam parties they have in Ibiza, isn’t it? Abbie giggled.

Dad appeared in the doorway with a tray loaded high with dirty dishes. Seeing the white expanse covering the floor, he roared with laughter until the cups rattled on the tray.

You opened it then, he gasped.

It’s not funny! I wailed, ploughing through the remaining bubbles, searching for the teapots.

You’re right, Dad agreed, still chuckling. This is serious. There’s a massive queue at the counter, Martha has a face like thunder, and all the tables need clearing.

I’ll do the tables, Bob offered and hurried through into the tearooms, leaving a trail of frothy footsteps behind him.

Here. I found some teapots and handed them to Dad. Can you rinse these and get them out to Martha?

Sure, he nodded. You go on preparing the meals. Don’t worry, we’ll have everything under control in no time.

* * * * *

There were still bubbles lurking in the corners of the kitchen when we closed at six o’clock.

Martha had never caught up with the queue of people waiting to be served, and the lunchtime rush had blended with the afternoon tea rush.

Dad hadn't had a chance to release Mum from the ticket box for her lunch break, and by the time we closed, everyone was exhausted.

As usual, we gathered for a cup of tea while Mum counted the day’s takings.

That was a disaster! I sighed as I sat Claire down with a bowl of macaroni cheese. I felt guilty that I had barely seen her all day while she had been behind the counter in the gift shop playing with Michael.

Not a complete disaster, Mum corrected me. We took a lot of money.

But it was chaos. We have to do better.

Yes, Bob agreed. Martha wasn’t happy. We don’t want her walking out on us. That really would be a catastrophe.

Don’t even talk about it, I groaned.

I had already come to depend on Martha’s calm head, and the thought of coping without her scared me.

We ought to sack Abbie, though, Bob said.

No! I protested. It wasn’t her fault. She was only trying to help, and she does work really hard.

I can’t see why you defend her. The girl’s an idiot.

No, she’s not. She just needs clear instructions.

Bob shook his head in disbelief.

* * * * *

The next morning, as I vacuumed my way through the upstairs exhibition rooms, David stuck his head around a door.

Spare a minute, he said, and disappeared.

What is it? I asked. He didn’t answer, so I hurried behind him to the other end of the building.

I need to finish cleaning, I protested, but David held the door to Devon Mysteries open and waved me inside.

Notice anything?

The Devon Mysteries exhibition was housed in four large rooms that had once been classrooms. It contained scenes from macabre west-country legends and displays about mythical creatures such as the Beast of Bodmin.

Something stinks, doesn’t it? David asked.

He was right. A rich and deeply offensive aroma permeated the air.

Where’s it coming from? I asked.

No idea. I’ve been trying to track it down, but it seems to be everywhere.

I turned around, sniffing as I went.

Is it this bad in the other rooms?

See for yourself.

The exhibition was laid out along a twisting path, so visitors discovered strange scenes and apparitions at every turn.

To add to the eerie atmosphere, flickering green spotlights illuminated the displays and a soundtrack of moorland winds moaned in the background.

I walked through the semi-darkness, sniffing as I went. My eyes watered as the foul smell wafted around me, but I still couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

Did you notice it last night, when you switched off? I asked.

No, but to be honest, I was so shattered by the time we closed I wouldn’t have noticed if the place was full of elephant poo.

Is that what you think it is? Elephant poo?

Of course not, but it does smell a bit like poo, doesn’t it?

He was right.

Maybe people will think it’s intentional. That it’s all part of the atmosphere. You know, that it’s supposed to stink like a graveyard with rotting bodies.

Even in the darkness, I could see the offended look on David’s face.

Don’t be ridiculous, he snapped. We have to find out what’s causing it and we haven’t got much time. You go that way, I’ll go this.

I prowled around again, nose twitching, until David’s voice rang out from the next room.

Blooming Hector! That’s disgusting!

I found him leaned against a wall, an arm across his face.

What is it? I demanded, but he only pointed into a corner.

From the horror in his voice, I had expected to see a rotting corpse, but, as I glanced down, I could see nothing. Finally, as I peered more closely, I noticed a gap between the skirting board and the base of a display case. Something pale protruded through the gap.

What is it?

No idea. David’s hand was still over his face. I tried to pull it out, but it was like being gassed.

Holding my head to one side, I poked the pale object with my finger. It was smooth and flimsy and bent when I touched it. Reluctantly, I grasped it between my finger and thumb and pulled.

Slowly, accompanied by a gut-wrenching stench, the object slid out from behind the display.

It was an overflowing baby’s nappy.

Oh my God!

The nappy slipped from my fingers and squelched onto the floor.

I’ll get some disinfectant.

And air freshener, David suggested, lots of air freshener.

Open all the doors. I won’t be long, I shouted over my shoulder as I ran through the house, trying not to panic. There were only minutes left until we were due to open and the vacuum cleaner was still standing, abandoned, in the middle of the Down in Devon exhibition.

Abbie was in the kitchen preparing sandwiches.

Leave those for now, I ordered. Finish cleaning upstairs. I’ll be back as soon as I can.

Armed with a bucket and an assortment of cleaning materials, I rushed back to Devon Mysteries. As I arrived, David was waving his jumper through the entrance doorway.

I thought it might disperse it a bit, he explained.

Here. I threw a can of air freshener at him. Use that. All of it.

A moment later I was splashing disinfectant over the brown marks staining the bottom of the display case.

How can people be so disgusting? I fumed.

* * * * *

I was still seething when we closed that evening. 

It’s not funny, I protested. We’ve got a lovely baby-changing room. It’s not too much to expect people to use it, is it?

Dad chuckled at me.

You look about twelve-years-old when you’re indignant. Did you know that?

I frowned at him.

I’m being serious. 

I know you are, love, but it’s the joy of dealing with the public, isn’t it? Most of them are great, but there will always be a few that make you want to kill them.

I suppose so, I grunted.

I told you to be careful what you wished for.

He grinned at me. The problem with tourist attractions is that they attract tourists.

But we need tourists, I protested. Loads of them.

Of course we do, but you like it much better when they go home, don’t you?

That’s ridiculous, I sniffed, but we both knew it was true.

* * * * *

Mixing with people has never come easily to me. I have always been the observer, the quiet one in the corner who would rather listen to other people’s conversations than join in myself.

Fortunately, the rest of my family love nothing more than entertaining people.

Bob is a natural performer. His mother was an actress, and he spent much of his childhood backstage in a theatre or watching her shows from a spare seat in the auditorium.

He should have been a performer himself, but his father had different ideas and he succumbed to pressure to follow a more traditional career – at least until he met me.

At Silverlands, he was in his element. The circus was a big theme in our attraction and Bob took on the role of ringmaster, welcoming visitors with a wide grin, a red coat and a raised top hat.

David never tired of chatting to visitors, and Philippa welcomed families to the Animal Meadow with a friendly smile.

I tried hard to follow their lead, but I never really succeeded. Painfully shy, I felt awkward talking to people and I was afraid they sensed it.

In the tea rooms, I tried to smile all the time, then worried I was smiling too much. I didn’t mind working hard. I could wash dishes or clear tables from dawn to dusk without a break, but I found speaking to people terrifying.

Sometimes I found excuses to avoid the visitors. If there was a problem with one of the displays, I was the first to volunteer to sort it out. Our main attraction was Silvers Model Circus, the incredible, animated model my father had started building long before I was born. It ran on an intricate system of belts and pulleys which needed to be tensioned and lubricated at regular intervals. I offered to share the maintenance with Dad and spent many happy hours laying under the model dripping oil onto the miniature bearings.

Hiding again? Dad would say as he saw me emerge from under the circus platform.

Of course not, I lied. I’ll be in the tearooms soon, but I really must pop down to the office first and get the VAT returns finished. 

But I always made sure to be back in the tearooms in time for the lunchtime rush. Once a queue formed at the counter, I could stay in the kitchen preparing meals. It felt safe in the kitchen.

* * * * *

Despite feeling uncomfortable with strangers, I loved the energy that flowed through the house when it was busy. It was exhilarating to hear children’s voices echoing along the corridors and their excited calls as they discovered something new.

The house felt strangely alive when it was full of people, and there was a wonderful atmosphere that radiated everywhere. When the entertainers were performing on the main lawn, the laughter and applause could be heard in the tearooms and the music from the gift shop floated up the main staircase to mingle with the folk songs playing in the Down in Devon exhibition.

Sounds were everywhere. Not intrusive, deafening sounds, but a warm, active buzz like the pulse of a living creature.

I loved Silverlands intensely. It was something we had created from the empty shell of a building listed for demolition, and now it had a character of its own. It was a warm and friendly place and it made me happy to see that others loved it too.

We soon had repeat visitors. Even in our first season, we recognised faces when those who had enjoyed their visits returned.

David spoke to an elderly couple who explained they had three sets of grandchildren and they had brought each set to visit us when they came to stay.

It’s so lovely, the old lady said. I can’t really put my finger on it, but there is something magical about this place. I don’t know if it’s the exhibitions or the gardens or the entertainers, but it just makes me happy being here.

* * * * *

But not all our visitors were happy.

One afternoon, as I turned a corner, I heard raised voices and found a woman screaming at Bob. His face was a picture of misery and he was scarlet with embarrassment.

Is something wrong? I asked.

The woman rounded on me.

There certainly is! I have never been so disgusted in my life. You should be ashamed of yourselves.

Perhaps you can help this lady, Bob backed away as he spoke. I really need to be somewhere else.

The woman switched her attention to me as Bob hurried off.

I’m going to write to the newspapers about this! And the radio! And the TV! You can’t treat people like this.

I’m sorry, I broke in, but what exactly is the problem?

The disabled toilet! It’s disgusting!

I didn’t understand. I had decorated the toilet myself. We had specially adapted a large ground floor room and provided all the necessary fittings and equipment. There were cheerful pictures on the walls and it was cleaned regularly. I couldn’t imagine why she was so upset.

The woman grabbed my sleeve and pulled me along the corridor.

You see for yourself! It’s not decent!

The moment I stepped into the toilet, I understood.

I had been so concerned with the interior of the room that I had not given a thought to the exterior. The glass in the windows was not frosted.

I was horrified.

The window looked out onto a narrow walkway at the back of the house and the woman told me she had been helping her elderly mother onto the toilet when a man walked past the window and waved at them.

There was nothing I could do but apologise. It had been a genuine oversight, but I felt awful. I refunded the woman’s entrance money, apologised to the old lady and offered them both a free meal in the tearooms.

Later, I caught up with Bob. Thanks for abandoning me earlier.

I’m sorry.

He had the grace to look ashamed of himself.

I didn’t know what to say to her.

She was right to be upset about the windows, I conceded. I’ve nailed a curtain across the window for the time being and left the light on. I just can’t believe none of us noticed.

* * * * *

After the chaos of the Easter holidays, the children went back to school and our visitor numbers reduced dramatically.

We knew the numbers would go up again as the summer approached, but for a few weeks, it gave us a chance to catch our breath and finish the many tasks we had been unable to finish before we opened.

Without a doubt, the best part of the day was after the visitors had gone. A wonderful peace descended upon the house and gardens, and for a short while, we could relax.

We lifted the children out of their playpens and our dogs, Ossie and Dino, came charging out of the flats, their paws clattering down the stairs as they headed out onto the lawn.

Then Silverlands was ours.

Later, when the children had been fed, played with, and tucked up in their beds, when the shop had been restocked, the displays checked, and everything was ready for the next day, I would take my hoe and go out to weed the flower beds.

I have always loved the special quality of light