Room Service
Page 4
THE SHIP HOTEL
As I cycled to work at the hotel the next evening, I thought: What would Melanie’s parents have said if they knew their daughter had been playing sexual lesbian games with that ‘quiet studious girl’ (their words), or Mel’s brother, Miles, who was reading law at Oxford? Truthfully, I was as alarmed as amused by what I had set in motion. Melanie asked if we were now lesbians. I truly did not know; but suspected that Mel was more impressionable than I. Perhaps it would be wise to keep my distance for a while.
I locked my bike at the rear of the Ship Hotel and entered via the kitchen; the duty chef and sous-chefs were preparing the last orders for dinner. I ignored the usual ribaldry and locked my rucksack away in the staff room. I looked round. Was this really where it all happened; where the Russian attacker had died. I couldn’t bring myself to believe what I had done. It was still the poorly-lit cold scruffy room that it always was. I dashed upstairs to reception. The shift dragged. Normally, I would be absorbed in my work, or revising for the exam, but I couldn’t concentrate, mainly - if I were truthful - because I was thinking of Melanie and our night together. This wasn’t just the wonderful new emotional experience between us; I was thinking about that beautiful home - walking into that fresh-scented hallway; the light from the onyx lamp shining on the polished surface.
I also had a tinge of guilt thinking about her parents; how hospitable Mrs Pearson had been at breakfast (‘What would you like Diana, : tea, coffee, orange juice, eggs, cereal?) And also embarrassed when Melanie kept enthusing about me passing the judo exam, and getting a black belt. I felt like saying, ‘For goodness sake, Mel, be quiet.’
I would have to forget all that tomorrow.
Chapter 4
I expected to be apprehensive, of course, for this was the test of three years’ work. We all had that curious expression on our faces - a mixture of numbness and nervousness. When it came to the crunch, I knew my translation test was practically word perfect; the oral test (with a few stumbles) was all correct. My only slight worry was a commentary on an essay by one of those tiresome French Philosophes, whom I was rather dismissive about. All I and the rest of my year could do at the end of the day was wait. I was walking down the corridor at the end of the day when someone called my name. I turned; it was my tutor, Robert Fellows. He said:
‘Got a minute, Diana?’
‘Yes, Mr Fellows.’ I followed him into his office. He sat behind his desk, and motioned me to sit. ‘Well,’ he asked; ‘how did it go?’ This was strange; he could have asked any of fifty pupils. Why me?
‘I think it went pretty well - I did my best.’ He flippped a folder. ‘If your course work is anything to go by, you should do very well.’
‘Thank you.’ I was sitting very primly on the edge of my seat, knees together, hands in my lap.
‘I suppose you are wondering why I asked you in?’
‘Well...’
He said, ‘I know all about your situation at home. It must have put a great strain on the family. I understand your mother is in a hospice?’
‘Yes.’
How did he know this? All I had told the college was that my mother had a long-term illness, and there may be times when I would be absent.
‘We didn’t want to intrude on family matters, Diana; but the college does have a close interest in pupil’s welfare.’
He shrugged. ‘I asked your friend Melanie Pearson - I hoped you wouldn’t mind.’
‘No, of course not - and thank you.’ Secretly, I was a bit pissed off with Mel: she should have spoken to me first. But I could see from their point of view it was a delicate situation. As I cycled home I had a sudden feeling of anticlimax; all done, but where do I go from here? Then I had an idea. As soon as I got home I would phone Mel. But when I reached the end of my road (our house was at the end of the row) I noticed my father’s Corsa car and Peter’s scooter outside the house. The front door was open. Peter appeared.
‘Pete: what’s up?’
‘It’s Mum: we’ve been called to the hospice.’
‘When?’
‘What?’
‘When?’
I could here Dad’s voice down the hall; then he saw me. ‘Oh, Diana, lovey, we’ve got to go. It’s Mum.’ I didn’t say anything, but helped him in to his car; and locked the front door after pushing my bike in the hallway. ‘Will you follow on your scooter, Pete?’
He nodded. I had to watch my father all the way to the hospice; he seemed not to be concentrating, poor devil. A couple of times I had to tell him the lights had changed, then he crashed the gears. He wouldn’t slow down. So by the time we arrived I was as nearly a nervous wreck as he. But all the effort was wasted: Our mother - his wife of 24 years - had died 15 minutes ago. Peter and I half-carried him into the building; then one of the nurses helped him into an armchair. The worst part (somewhat) later was looking through the window of the chapel of rest at her lying on a bed, only her face showing above the sheet. At the other side of the bed was a vase of flowers; on the wall, a cross (a bizarre thought came to mind: what if the deceased was a Hindu or a Jew or Muslim?
Her face looked waxen and shrunk. My father started to tremble, so Peter and I led him out. I told Peter to keep an eye on Dad while I spoke to the doctor: it would be up to me to attend to the formalities - which I did. But all I wanted to do was to get out of there - away from all their kindness and the comforting atmosphere.
When we arrived home, I made a pot of strong tea ( the universal British panacea) and put my father in the front parlour, poured him a mug with an aspirin: he looked exhausted. Eventually I heard him snoring in an armchair. I asked Peter to join me in the kitchen. His eyes were red-rimmed and he kept blinking. I told him to drink the tea. He took a gulp.
‘Christ, Di: what’s in it?’
‘A slug of whisky - from the bottle that Dad keeps in the shed.’
‘Oh you know about that as well, do you?’
I drained my mug. ‘I know everything Pete. How do you think we’ve survived?’
He mumbled. ‘Well, thanks for doing everything, Sis. I know I haven’t been much use.’
‘You’re a man, Pete. Women don’t expect anything else,’ That forced a smile from him. My father - poor soul - was worse. Earlier, I said that I had to attend to all the bureacracy - death certificate, funeral arrangements etc.. My father just signed every piece of paper I put in front of him. The funeral followed the normal pattern of a service at the crematorium. The Methodist minister (aware of the time limit) spoke briefly of my mother’s life - her family, her intersts, such as the WI - and in 30 minutes it was finished. As I sat between my father and brother during the service, I thought, how cool and quiet, a haven from the sweltering Norfolk mid-summer. There were people in the chapel I hadn’t seen for some years (no more than fifteen of us all told). What were they thinking? Sadness? A case of doing their duty, then heading home with relief?
Our small front parlour felt stifling as we came in from the funeral; so I drew back the curtains and opened the windows. The relations trooped in; my father placed himself in an armchair; a couple stood by him, deferentially and self-consciously - what can one utter except platitudes? They were decent ordinary people, but they didn’t know what to say. My father’s sister (my Aunt Brenda) fussed around in her usual fashion pouring tea and pressing cake on everyone - refreshments they didn’t want in this heat. If she had had any sense, she would have made a jug of shandy.
Peter sat in a corner with his new girl friend, Penny, saying nothing. She looked sharp to me; a girl who would have an eye on the main chance (and don’t I recognise that!) Everyone eventually coalesced into groups - mostly into the garden. Brenda came up to me as I was washing dishes. She looked her usual self-righteous self, her arms crossed her inadequate chest.
‘Well, Diana.’ (I knew what was coming).
‘Yes , Brenda?’
‘Someone will have to keep an eye on your father now.’
I threw the drying cloth on to the draining board. ‘Well it won’t be me.’
‘I beg your pardon!’
‘You heard, Brenda. It will not be me’
‘But he’s your father!’
‘And he’s your brother - so why don’t you step in. It’s about time, don’t you think? Who the bloody hell do you think has been holding things together? And what did you do - fusssing around, brewing tea.’
Her husband , Daniel, stepped in. ‘Now hold on , my girl. I know you’re upset, but...
‘I am not your girl. I am not upset. But I’m fed up with all this. So if you’ll excuse me I’ve got to get changed - my taxi’ll be here in 15minutes. I’m leaving,’
‘Leaving? Leaving where?’ our raised voices had the remaining mourners moving to the kitchen door.
‘I’m going away - I don’t know where and I don’t care. My bags are packed. I’ve got my own life to lead,’ That wasn’t strictly true: I had laid my plans carefully. But there was one thing that was certain. I didn’t need any of them. And I wasn’t going to let them drag me down.
Chapter 5
SO THAT WAS MY DECISION. I had had enough of running around after my family. My mother’s death and all the tiresome and debilitating rigmarole of the funeral had finalized it. I said that I had planned carefully . But luck had eased my path. It happened like this. You will remember that I was working part-time at the Ship Hotel in King’s Lynn. That decision was forced forward by circumstances at home; the first stage, so to speak. So I asked my boss, Mr Morrison, for time off because of my Mother’s death.
‘Of course, Diana. Take whatever time you need. You’ve always been cooperative when the hotel demanded.’
As it happened, I took as little time off as possible leading up to the funeral; I even did a couple of early-morning shifts. There was method in my excessive cooperation. The day before the funeral I said to Mr Morrison, ‘May I have a word?’
‘Sure. Come into the office.’ He waved me to a chair. ‘Do you need a couple of more days, Diana?’
‘No: I can come back tomorrow evening.’
He seemed surprised. ‘Are you sure? You know you can....’
‘Yes, thanks. The thing is, I’ve seen the advertisement for a deputy housekeeper in the hotel. I’d like to apply for the position.’
Now he seemed really surprised. I said: ‘I know Mrs Jessop will be going on maternity leave; and I believe I can do the job. However, if you think I would be suitable I have a suggestion: that I live on the premises. That way I would be on call twenty-four/seven. I know that the annexe block has small, single accommodation that is rarely used. If I had one of those I could pay the hotel a basic rent and be very flexible for the demands of the position.’
‘You’ve thought it all through, haven’t you, Diana! OK - the job’s yours conditionally, but give me 24 hours. Make sure you are here tomorrow at 7 p.m. sharp. Agreed?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The following evening I reported punctually - in fact ten minutes’ early. It was simple enough: Jim Morrison offered me the job; and he didn’t question my motives on wishing to live on the premises. I didn’t disabuse him. The hotel was built on an inverted ‘L’ shape on two floors (I always considered that it looked like a Tesco supermarket gone wrong). The accommodation was situated at the rear of the complex (with charming views over the kitchen doors and the rubbish bins).
From the day of the funeral Morrison gave me the following week ‘to clear up your Mother’s affairs’, as he called it (the funeral was on the Friday afternoon). But I intended to do no such thing. I phoned Melanie. Her mother answered.
‘Mrs Pearson? It’s Diana Hunt.’
‘Oh, hello, Diana, how are you coping, dear?’
‘I’m fine, Thanks, Mrs Pearson. Just having to do half a dozen things at once,
of course.’
‘I understand. Do you want to speak to Melanie?’
‘Please.’
Melanie spoke breathlessly down the phone. ‘Sorry, Di; I was in the garden.
How are you? Been thinking of you. But I didn’t want to....you know,
awfully difficult time and all that.’
‘No problem. Now, Mel, have you had a holiday this year?’
‘Well, no - just a few days with my parents in Dorset.’
‘How would you like to spend five days in Paris with me?’
There was silence for a moment, then, ‘Paris? Gosh! How super. Do you really mean it, Di? When?’ I told her. ‘Will your parents be OK about it?
‘Of course. Why not?’
‘I thought we would split expenses. Do you have enough money? A passport?’
‘Diana! I have all of those things. I’m not a child.’
‘Oops, sorry. But will you leave all the arrangements to me? I thought we’d go
Eurostar. Find a hotel near the Luxembourg Gardens; pretend we’re mixing
with the philosophes from the Sorbonne...’
‘Yes, yes, Di. Now buzz off - I’m busy.’
So that was all right, then.
Chapter 6
DIANA HUNT - I SAID TO MYSELF - you have fallen on your feet here (or your back!). I looked round the room. It was one of the hotel’s singles (and cheapest). Just a bedroom with (rickety) pine wardrobe, chest of drawers, bedside cupboard with table lamp (one side of which was singed because of being leant against the bulb). A 16-inch TV set. The ‘bathroom’ was a shower stall, towel rail, a lavatory (none too clean).
The only view from the single window was a charming vista of the rear of the kitchen, the staff bicycle shed and the rubbish bins. At least there were heavy red curtains to block the view. One picture was hung over the bed: a pale watercolour of the Great River Ouse, losing even more colours because it had been exposed to continual sunlight. I took it down and hung the one from my room at home, a reproduction of Van Gogh’s Irises. On the floor there was a worn, dark-red fitted carpet. It wasn’t much, but I could be very comfortable here.
Oh, and there was an internal telephone link - I could certainly be contacted 24/7.
So I hung my few clothes in the wardrobe, bunged my smalls in the chest of drawers, and arranged my toiletries and make-up neatly in the bathroom. I stacked my books in the bottom drawers of the chest (Italian texts, a Latin primer, a Concise Oxford, Kodokan Judo, by Professor Jigaro Kano, Harai-Goshi Techniques, by Terry Welham - plus the usual chick-lit rubbish).
Also, of course, I had £4,500 in a savings account in a building society (not the one where my brother worked) and £1,000.24 in Barclays. So it was time to do some holiday clothes shopping. ‘Next’ and ‘Monsoon’ had the honour of my custom: a posh frock for evenings; three tops and two skirts; two pairs of shoes (one solid pair of trainers for walking the boulevards and one pair of red stilettos); and half-a-dozen skimpy lace nix and two bras. (For nosy males who are interested, my evening frock was red with gathered waist and a nice cleavage; my tops and skirts, summer flowery; my undies white, black and red - OK?)
As I was walking through the precinct, I saw Mrs Pearson coming out of Boots’ store; but I don’t think she saw me; not surprising on a busy shopping street. And for some reason I didn’t want her to see me. Why was that - cowardice? Afraid that she might cross-examine me about the Paris trip? That was ridiculous. I crossed the road. Then stopped. She had turned the corner, and wasn’t alone, for just at that moment I saw her put her arm round a young man’s waist and kiss him on the corner of his mouth - and he slid his hand down her buttocks. Wow....I stepped out of sight and looked in a store window, not believing what I had seen. Now, I had met both Melanie’s father and her brother - and that young man Mrs Pearson had kissed wasn’t either of them.
I put Mrs Pearson and her extra-curricular activities from my mind. Just as I was doing that, two youths sat at my table, carrying coffee and sticky buns - the usual sort, t-shirts, jeans, baseball caps. ‘Anybody sittin ‘ere?’
‘I don’t see anyone, do you?’
‘Yeah, well, we’ll keep you company, won’t we, Darren?’
Silly boys. ‘No you won’t: I’m leaving.’ As I stood, he tried to to touch my arm. I ‘accidentally’ leaned forward and pushed his mug of coffee into his lap.
‘Bloody’ell!’
‘Language, boys.’ That made me feel better.
PARIS: JARDIN DU LUXEMBOURG
TWO DAYS LATER MELANIE AND I SAT UNDER PLANE TREES at the cafe in the Luxembourg Gardens. The morning sun slid through the plane trees, like the setting of Monet’s painting Women in the Gardeen. That was a fantasy thought: a romantic ideal. But why not? We perched on rickety cast-iron chairs and did what the residents of this arrondisement were doing - watching the world go by and drinking coffee. Two donkeys with small children in the saddle clumped by, anxious mothers bringing up the rear, while the attendant held the reins. Nearby us, two elegant women sat gossiping - and ignoring seemingly their two small boys on tricycles. The little horrors were attempting to mow down the pigeons - without success. One was shouting:
Au revoir, m’sieur pigeon!
But the birds always returned. We finished our coffee, threw the remainder of our patisserie at the birds and strolled towards the iron gates at the entrance to the Gardens. Melanie slipped her arm through mine. ‘Thanks for suggesting this, Diana.’