Ottilie knew that the ideal is always far from the reality, and although all during the long and protracted negotiations conducted by Phelps she was sure she had known exactly the sort of state into which the old hotel had fallen, now that she actually stood in front of the old place it was only too clear that seen from its proud buyer’s point of view the Grand was not so much a subject for restoration as in need of complete resuscitation.
The stucco was crumbling visibly, the white paint, always the pride and joy of dear old Mr Hulton, stained and worn from neglect and the weather. Those of the dark green balcony shades that were still being used were frayed and some had torn at the sides from their iron fixings so that as they all approached the front steps carrying a few of their boxes and cases they could hear them flapping gently in the breeze. There was no sign of any bulbs or flowers in any of the boxes placed outside the windows or by the front doors, and the green sward in front of the entrance was poorly kept, with tufts sprouting at the sides of the paths from being mown by a machine set on a too-high blade.
‘There are no guests nowadays, surely, Miss Cartaret?’ Nantwick asked, as he and Jean looked up at the large crumbling exterior in complete amazement and they all avoided mentioning the fact that even the gold ‘R’ and ‘D’ were missing from GRAND.
Ottilie looked at Nantwick and then at Veronica and after that up at the Gothic façade of the hotel, a façade she had always thought so like a children’s drawing, or a sandcastle on the beach, all castellations and a flagpole, but without a flag. She breathed in deeply. ‘No, no-one stays any more, Nantwick, I’m afraid, not unless they’re mad.’
They all walked with slow sad tread up the weed-strewn steps and pushed at the old mahogany swing doors which edged their way only with difficulty in the same old circle, finally allowing the four of them to squeeze out of them into the foyer. Here there was still no sign of life, and as Ottilie gazed round while they waited for someone to emerge from the office behind the desk it seemed to her that she could almost smell the dust in the air.
‘It’s maybe a hundred times worse even than when I last had the misfortune to be here,’ Ottilie said, hoping that she had not just seen a rat appearing at the door of what had once been Blackie’s cubby hole.
‘It doesn’t take much, Miss Cartaret,’ Jean said sagely. ‘Just a few months with no heating on and no staff and the damp and the rot creep up, ‘specially at the seaside. I dread to think what we’re going to find in the kitchens.’
Ottilie smiled and she chewed the inside of her cheek, discovering that now she was once more in the hotel she had to fight hard to hold on to her courage.
Veronica seemed to feel this because she said to Nantwick, ‘Why don’t you go and take a look at the kitchens for Miss Cartaret? There’s nothing in them, I believe, all the effects were sold off, but it’ll give you an idea of what we’re up against, and then you can take your picnic lunch into the garden and we’ll be down to help you plan what’s best to tackle first.’
A girl, a Danish student, perhaps an au pair Mrs Cartaret had engaged, appeared at the top of the stairs and called down to them, ‘Mr and Mrs Cartaret are expecting you. Please use the lift if you might.’
‘I’m not going in that. I’m the sole support of my mother,’ Veronica said firmly.
‘I abstain for more or less the same reasons,’ Ottilie agreed, and she and Veronica proceeded to walk up the many flights that led to the Cartarets’ apartments with the determined air of hitchhikers who are not expecting a lift, but would not say no if they were offered one.
‘Ottilie.’
Ottilie had had no idea what she would feel like confronting her parents now that she actually owned the place from which they had so summarily ejected her. She had hoped she would feel a sort of justifiable anger, that she would be able to make an eloquent speech about how she hoped they would understand that she was not doing to them what they had done to her, but when she saw them again they looked somehow so forlorn and so helpless, she just wanted to gather them up and make them young and happy again. And so the speech fled and Ottilie reached forward and kissed them both. They did not offer their cheeks, but on the other hand they did not seem to mind Ottilie kissing them in a deferential sort of way, the way a child, she imagined, might kiss grandparents that she hardly knows.
‘See you’re wearing your hair down, suits you,’ Alfred stated and then he turned and stared at the view.
‘This is Veronica. She is my business assistant.’
Veronica smiled at them both, and Ottilie could see that she felt the same, she would have liked to have said something cold and clever, but instead she smiled and accepted a glass of sherry from Alfred’s small silver tray.
‘Well, well.’ Melanie’s hand trembled slightly as she raised her sherry glass to her lips. ‘Isn’t this exciting, a Cartaret once more buying the Grand, St Elcombe?’
‘Indeed, indeed.’ Alfred sat down opposite Ottilie and Veronica who were now seated on a worn chintz sofa, old velvet cushions supporting their backs, the continuous sound of the sea sweeping up to the balconied windows outside. ‘Well, now,’ he said, shaking his head in wonder, ‘who would have thought that our dear Edith would turn out to be a vastly rich woman? No-one could possibly have guessed such a thing. What a dark horse she was to be sure.’
‘Certainly none of us knew anything about our Edith having money,’ said Melanie and she too shook her head in wonder. ‘It’s too extraordinary to think that Edith had money, after all the years she spent here in service, really too extraordinary. Of course, when you made us your offer we in fact had already had another offer, as you probably know, from that awful Vision Clover group? But it was too little, of course. Insulting, really. Particularly given that the place has such a good reputation.’
Ottilie started to say something and then seeing Veronica looking at her she stopped. There was no point. She owned the place now, that was all that mattered, and as she had realized only too well, and for some time, buying the Grand with Edith’s money was in reality her revenge on her parents.
Of course in her mind she had made many speeches to Alfred and Melanie remonstrating with them for throwing her out so summarily, for not caring what happened to her, but seeing them now, having to pack up and leave the place they had been a part of for so long, she suddenly could only remember the good times and the style they had brought to running the hotel in the old days, just as when someone died she found she could only remember their virtues.
‘Miss Edith was, I gather, a very good woman?’
Ottilie smiled thankfully at Veronica, who seemed most wonderfully adept at filling in awkward pauses.
‘The absolute prop of the establishment,’ Melanie agreed, lighting a cigarette. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘When she went our hearts rather went out of the business, I really think that. And now, well you can imagine, with the retirement of Blackie, our long-time hall porter, and our builder Mr Hulton dead, and all the other regulars – we simply cannot manage any longer.’
‘Of course you heard about poor Mrs Tomber, did you, Ottilie? Did I tell you? She too went, you know,’ Alfred put in, at which Melanie cleared her throat over-loudly as her husband continued, ‘yes, she went too.’ Melanie was looking pointedly at her empty glass and continuing to clear her throat. ‘You did know about Mrs Tomber, did you?’ he asked Ottilie again after he had finally refilled his wife’s glass.
Of course Ottilie and Veronica knew all about Mrs Tomber, but at the mention of her name they merely murmured sympathetically and stared resolutely ahead, unable to look at each other at all.
They had every reason to know all about the wretched Mrs Tomber, for the housekeeper had not only embarked on an affair with Alfred the moment Ottilie had left, but, judging from the appalling state of the hotel books, she had also set about altering accounts in her favour, writing herself cheques to the tune of thousands of pounds. Following the acceptance of her offer on the hotel, Ottilie had quickly and prompt
ly set about dealing with Mrs Tomber before the wretched woman could set about effecting any more ‘shrinkage’, as it was known in the trade.
It was probably regrettable, Ottilie thought, but as her father still continued to drone on about Mrs Tomber’s many and wonderful qualities of loyalty and sweetness she could not help recalling the enjoyment she herself had felt when, the papers having come through, she had driven round one early morning with Veronica to the staff entrance of the Grand, and they had personally thrown Mrs Tomber’s possessions into suitcases and escorted her out of the hotel to a waiting taxi, while all the time Alfred and Melanie pottered about upstairs, unaware that their old housekeeper had written her letter of resignation to their daughter’s clear instructions.
‘Well now, there we are,’ Veronica said, standing up suddenly in accordance with their preconceived plan to cut down on any pain that the Cartarets might feel on leaving the old place. ‘Hire car is waiting, time to pack the suitcases.’
‘Everything’s labelled, isn’t it, Melanie?’
‘It’s going to be exciting, isn’t it?’ Ottilie heard Melanie ask Alfred with a sudden catch in her voice that made Ottilie’s heart reach out to her.
‘Very, darling, very exciting indeed, a new beginning, just imagine, so much to look forward to,’ Alfred could be heard reassuring her.
On hearing this Ottilie’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Lucky things,’ she said with heartfelt intensity as she waved them off on their pre-paid cruise from the crumbling front steps of the hotel. ‘I wish I was going with them.’
Veronica turned and stared at Ottilie. ‘I don’t understand you. How could you be so nice to them?’
Ottilie continued to stare ahead for a few seconds, and then she finally turned to Veronica and said, ‘I knew you were thinking that, all the time we were having our sherries, I knew you were wondering when I was going to tell them what I thought of them. And I was going to, really I was, but then suddenly I couldn’t. You see, I kept thinking of how they must have been in the old days when they were so smart and everyone who was anyone came here, and before their little girl was drowned and they adopted me and my mother took to the bottle and pills because I could never really replace her own little girl. She was a nice person before their tragedy, everyone said so. I really think she was nice, they both were, but people change, Veronica, so quickly. Even you must have seen that, I certainly have. And besides – they’re gone, and I’m here.’
Veronica began to say something and then stopped as she heard someone running out to the front of the hotel where they were still standing.
‘Oh, Miss Cartaret, I don’t know how to tell you,’ Ottilie heard Jean saying from behind her, and turned to find the maid was standing looking as if someone had just thrown a bag of flour at her.
‘Yes, Jean?’
‘I don’t know how to say this, but some of the kitchen ceiling seems to have fallen down.’
Ottilie blinked, once, twice, and then said, ‘Ah, yes. Well, as a matter of fact, Jean, I don’t think you could have put it better if you tried. No, in fact you have put it very well indeed, I would say. The kitchen ceiling, if not where it should be on the – er, ceiling, must be said to have fallen down. Shall I come and inspect?’
Jean nodded. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Miss Cartaret. I think it might help.’ She looked down at herself. ‘It’s ruined our uniforms, mine and Mr Nantwick’s, as you can see.’
‘Yes,’ Ottilie agreed, looking at poor Jean and wondering if she had become that pale because of the fright or the falling plaster. ‘Yes, I can see, very well. Yes, it has fallen down and over you.’
‘And that’s not all, as you will see, Miss Cartaret,’ Jean said, lowering her voice and letting her eyes drift towards the green sward in front of the hotel. ‘I think you’ll be seeing more than the kitchen ceiling falling down soon.’
‘Mmm?’
Ottilie turned at the sound of a large car drawing up beyond the green sward and the swaying palm trees.
‘Yes, Miss Cartaret, I think you’ll be seeing a guest who has been booked in and no-one has let them know that we’re closed for repairs until further notice.’
Ottilie’s eyes followed the line that Jean’s were taking and seeing what Jean was seeing she quickly closed them again.
‘Tell me I am not seeing what I am seeing, Jean, please.’
‘I can’t, Miss Cartaret, I wish I could but I can’t. And judging from the amount of suitcases the chauffeur’s unloading it’s not just a week she’s booked in for, but a year.’
Ottilie clapped her hands in front of her mouth and started to laugh helplessly when she saw who was now climbing stiffly, but disembarking with great determination none the less, from the parked limousine. She simply could not help herself. The lettering had been plundered from the front of the place, but whether or not it read G*AN* HOTEL, whether or not the kitchen ceiling was lying all over Jean, Nantwick and the old red-tiled floor, whether or not the roof was leaking in places, and there was no chef, and someone had pinched most of the hotel plates and the glasses, not to mention a yard or two of linen and most of the wine cellar, it was that time of year.
It was the time of year when Blue Lady arrived, come hell or high water, and here she was, standing in her strange 1948 New Look clothes and staring about her as if everything was just as it had always been and she was on her honeymoon and any minute now her husband would be coming round to lead her up the hotel steps to their bridal suite.
‘Oh well, at least it’s not the outbreak of war,’ Ottilie consoled herself out aloud.
‘No,’ Jean agreed, looking more like a ghost than even Blue Lady. ‘Although once you’ve visited the kitchens, Miss Cartaret, I think you might change your mind.’
‘Look, you cope with her, and I’ll fly up there to make everything right.’ Ottilie turned to Jean, throwing herself on her mercy. ‘Say anything to delay her downstairs until I can get it all sorted out with Nantwick.’
‘If she’s from the old school she’ll have brought her own sheets with her, don’t forget, Miss Cartaret,’ Jean warned in a low voice as they both watched Blue Lady advancing on them in her calf-length clothes. ‘And she’ll like the blinds half down in the bedroom, and a nice tray with fruit and biscuits in a box, even though she won’t touch them, and the place must be dusted so there’s not a speck in sight. Oh, and a nice smell of fresh flowers,’ she went on inexorably.
‘Don’t I know it, Jean,’ Ottilie called. ‘Just delay her somehow. Get back into the car with her and take a toddle with that dear old chauffeur of hers. Take her on the scenic ride, while you explain everything that’s happened, and by that time I will have the place looking as it always has for her.’
She turned for a second before flinging herself through the swing doors and as she did so she saw Jean offering Mrs Ballantyne her arm, and the two of them turning back to the car, Jean still talking.
Minutes later Ottilie stood outside the top suite. She had always known, ever since the sale of the Grand went through, that it would take a superhuman effort for her to go in without reviving such terrible memories that she would want to throw herself from the balcony, but it had to be done, it just had to. She closed her eyes, willing herself to put her hand on the door handle, but the message stayed in her head and her hand by her side. She opened her eyes and then clenching her hand she thought again. Finally it came to her.
If I treat this experience as one that will help me understand better when I hear of it happening to other people, then it will not be wasted. What I must actually do is to remember, not forget, that is what I must do. I must remember every detail of what a fool I was and then I will become more human, not less.
And so as Uls the fresh-faced Danish girl arrived to help her make up the bed and do the thousand things that needed to be done, including hijacking flowers from all over the rest of the hotel, flinging a rug over a piece of carpet that a previous guest had burnt with the inevitable iron, and rearranging the a
wful old chintz curtains so that they did at least look charming rather than decrepit, Ottilie knew that she was helping to lay her ghosts, as much as she knew that Mrs Ballantyne was arriving to revive hers.
Later Jean told Ottilie that Mrs Ballantyne’s face had literally lit up the moment she walked into the suite of rooms that nowadays she undoubtedly considered her own and that she had walked straight through to the bedroom and placed her handbag on the bed as if there had been no unseemly delay and the fire had always been kept burning and the lamps lit.
By the time Ottilie had reappeared with a perfectly laid tea tray the atmosphere in the room was quite as it had always been. As always on the far horizon there was a ship, or perhaps it was a tanker, being pulled along as if by a hidden string. Seagulls flew overhead, dipping towards the distant curve of the cliffs, preparing to land with their slow measured flight, but happily too far away for their ugly looks and curved beaks to spoil the distant impression of beauty their snow-whiteness created against the grey backdrop. Mrs Ballantyne was standing, obviously content, still in her veiled hat, watching the scene in front of her.
‘Oh, darling, this is everything that we had hoped, is it not?’
Ottilie heard the words as she came into the room, and froze, turning as she did so to look at Blue Lady. She saw that not only was her voice the voice of a lover, but even her face had changed. All of a sudden Mrs Ballantyne was twenty again, and it was her honeymoon.
But if Ottilie felt she had frozen it was nothing to the effect she herself seemed to have had on Mrs Ballantyne.
Grand Affair Page 36
