Keswick, Lake District, UK, 8:15am, Monday 3 September 2012.

Keswick, Lake District, UK, 8:15am, Monday 3 September 2012.

The breakfast table next to me at this B&B in the Lake District in England is made up of four women; two quite elderly and two middle-aged. Once hearing their Australian accents my eaves are immediately lowered. Straight away I pin them as two elderly sisters traveling with their daughters. I didn't know any of their names at this point in the story but one of them is now etched in my memory for all time. Dale. Poor silly Dale. Dale who spoiled breakfast. Dale who ruined the holiday. Dale.

The conversation between the women started out so pleasantly, too pleasantly, if you ask me. I'm always suspicious of families that are pleasant to one another around the dinner table. Have they only just met or what?

As is my habit (see previous blog) I decided that this family of women was from rural Australia. Wealthy rural Australia, that is. I pictured one of those rich farming areas of South Australia where the same family has been on the land for generations. All of the children in the family would have gone down to boarding school in Adelaide. When they returned to town on school holidays they would get all the good jobs, like in the video shop, and commit sexual assaults on their days off.

One of the children in the family was up for discussion that morning in the B&B. Martin was not the son of either of the middle aged women but was definitely a grandson of one of the elderly women. Having just finished at boarding school he had decided to return to town and (take a deep breath) TAKE UP A TRADE. An anxious discussion followed about how, of course, a trade was a wonderful thing and how we all needed tradesmen, such wonderful money these day and opportunities, yes, more young men needed a trade.

It was at this point in the conversation that things took a nasty turn. Breakfast arrived and was placed in front of each of the women. Dale received hers last. She looked down at hers and then quickly looked around at everyone else’s. Then, just as everyone picked up a knife and fork to begin eating, she said, “I ordered two sausages and I don’t have any on my plate”. The other women looked around at one another. Dale’s cousin (let’s call her Carol) had two sausages on her plate. So did Dale’s mother. Carol said, “Well, I definitely ordered sausages”. Dale’s mother said, “So did I. I’m not sure what’s happened Dale”.

Thinking that was the end of the matter, the three women at the table began cutting up their food and applying salt and pepper, but Dale was not finished. She raised her voice, “No stop! Everyone please put down your knives and forks. Who has my sausages?” The women froze. Carol sighed deeply. This obviously wasn’t the first outburst from Dale on the holiday. How long had these poor women been travelling together? Crammed into a rented Hyundai two-door hatchback driving around rural England. It all seems so cheap when you book online (only £22 a day!) until you’re jet-lagged and jammed in the back next to a loathed family member, unable to feel your legs. All holidays sound so good in theory. “Who has my sausages?” repeated Dale, getting more and more worked up.

I liked Carol. She held her own. I think she’d had a shit load of Dale in her life. Not just this holiday but years of Christmas’ handing over brand new kites and books to a screaming Dale so everyone could finally enjoy their lunch. Not anymore. “No”, said Carol, “These are my sausages. I ordered them”. Dale’s mother joined in, “Yes, and these are mine”.

Silence. A stalemate. No one ate or moved. The fourth woman said nothing and looked down at her plate. I could barely dip my soldier into my egg I was shaking so much.

“Well then”, said Dale, “I guess we’ll have to get the man”.

Oh no. Not ‘The Man’.   

‘The Man’ in this instance was the poor bloke trying to look after the eight breakfast tables in the room. He was run off his feet trying to get everyone’s breakfast all at once. Dale summonsed him to the table, “Is everything ok?” he asked, still cheerful. “No, not really”, said Dale, “I ordered two sausages and I don’t seem to have any on my plate”. “Right”, he said looking at the sausages on the other women’s plates. Carol said quickly, “I definitely ordered two sausages”. Dale’s mother said, “So did I”.

“I’m pretty sure there were only two breakfasts ordered with sausages”, said The Man. “Would you like to see the docket I wrote it down on?”

“Yes I would”, said Dale. Carol rolled her eyes.

The docket was produced. It was true. Only two breakfasts had been ordered with sausages. Dale started in on The Man, “Do you remember me ordering one of the breakfasts with sausages?

“I’m very busy”, said The Man. “I can’t remember every order I take”.

Dale started whining, “This isn’t fair. I ordered sausages and now I have to sit here and …”

Dale was suddenly cut off. Her mother threw her head into her hands, let out a cry of frustration and almost collapsed onto the table. “Stop Dale”, she yelled, “Just please stop. We can’t stand it anymore”.

Everyone in the room stopped.

“Pass me your plate”, said Dale’s mum. Dale did nothing. “PASS ME THE PLATE”, she repeated.

Me, The Man, Carol, Carol’s mother and several other guests all watched as a woman in her fifties passed her eighty year old mother her breakfast plate and had two sausages scraped onto it.

“See”, said Dale, “That wasn’t so hard”.

Breakfast at the women’s table was eaten in silence. Dale was the first to finish and head back to her room. Only moments after she’d left, Carol turned to Dale’s mother and said “I daren’t raise it in front of her but there’s the matter of Dale’s share of the rental car”. “I’ll pay it”, said Dale’s mum, “Just tell me how much it is and I’ll pay it”.  Carol gave her a supportive rub on the back and headed up the stairs. Dale’s mum stayed on in the breakfast room, staring out the window.

The following morning Amy (my awesome travel companion) and I were leaving the B&B at the same time as the women. Dale’s mum and Carol’s mum struggled down two flights of stairs with their suitcases. Carol helped where she could. Once they were at the bottom and the bill had been paid, Dale appeared from her room.

Dale was a bad egg (with a side serve of sausage).

Chance women ever travelling together again: 5%