by Diana Hunt
I knew that the majority of the maids were of East European origin - Hungary, Poland etc., so I would have no problem with them. But two were local women - and I wasn’t impressed. So I would have to be rid as soon as possible. Finally, I said: ‘I notice that some of you are not wearing your ID badge’ ( the two local women). It is important that hotel guests know who you are; it makes them feel that they are noticed and can address you accordingly. Well, that is all. Any questions? No? Thank you. If you have any problems always contact me first.’
Where did that speech come from? I don’t know. But it seemed right. It was obvious that I had a natural leaning to the job. Not surprising, really, is it?
So I got through the afternoon, and I was in Jim Morrison’s office, reporting on my progress ( with which, so fsr, he seemed satisfied), when Sandra poked her head round the door, and said:
‘Diana: you have a visitor.’
I excused myself, and Jim waved a hand. (Damn: I hoped it wasn’t my father or brother.) But it was Melanie. She said, breathlessly, as usual:
‘Awfully sorry to call at work, Di. But I thought you ought to know immediately.’
‘What, Mel. What is it?’
Her face fell. ‘I thought it better to come from me. Not so good, I’m afraid.’
‘What is it - tell me now.’
Then the silly cow grinned. Mel said: ‘Straight ‘‘A’’s: every exam. Every one!’
I could have strangled her. ‘What, every one? What about you?’
‘Same as you.’ I hugged her and swung her in the air. ‘Mel, we’ve done it!’
By that time Mr Morrison and Sandra had appeared, wondering what the fuss was about. Melanie said, ‘Diana has got top As in all her papers. Isn’t that super!’ - much to my embarrassment. ‘Got to dash, Mummy needs the car. Bye!’
I just walked away from all that. But Jim Morrison stopped me and said: ‘Let me get this straight, Diana: does this mean that you could take a university place? Because if it does, I’ll need plenty of notice before you leave.’
I said: ‘I have no intention of attending any university, Jim. I’m not interested in an academic career. My future is in commerce - where I’ll be in one, two, or three years’ time I can’t say of course.’
He nodded. ‘Just as long as I know. Congratulations anyhow.’ I did wish that Melanie had kept all that to herself; I don’t like people knowing my business. Which, was I suppose, rather mean-spirited of me. But I soon forgot that with the demands of my new job. I mentioned that the Ship Hotel was in the category of a ‘stopover’ for coach parties, being very convenient for Sandringham - in other words, it was fairly cheap for transients who would stay for a few days, then move on. The coach parties in the summer months were usually pensioners on a package deal on a restricted budget. They knew that they would get a clean comfortable room with en-suite facilities, and a hearty ‘British’ breakfast - all at a reasonable price. And that, to my mind, was why the Ship was successful.
All of which made me remember Mr Gilbert. I couldn’t categorize him. Normally, I wouldn’t notice notice any particular guest (they all seemed to fit the same mould), but I was doing relief on Reception for an hour when he approached me. He was an unassuming, but refined- featured man, plainly dressed, quite elderly: he didn’t fit into the usual categories. As he collected his key, he said:
‘I see, Miss Hunt, that you are the housekeeper as well as the receptionist. And you speak French?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘A parable of talents, one could say. Thank you.’
How odd; we don’t usually get scholarly types here.....then I dismissed it from my mind. I got through the first day, with relief; but I reckoned that I had not disgraced myself; in fact, that I had done a good job. So I was relieved to reach the haven of my small room, freshen up, and lie on my bed with one of my books I bought in France, with a mug of tea. It was about nine that evening when the internal phone rang in my room. It was Larry, the young man who had been brought in as a holiday relief. ‘Miss Hunt?’
‘Yes, what do you want?’
‘Sorry to disturb you, but there’s a gent in 85, a Mr Gilbert, needs clean towels and has asked for you.’
‘Why the hell didn’t one of the maids do it this afternoon?’
‘I don’t know. Sorry.’
‘Stop apologising. I’ll see to it. Thanks anyway, Larry.’
What was the matter with the old fool? Crossly, I made myself decent, collected two towels from the store, and made my way to room 85. I had to skirt the kitchen outside the building; I caught a whiff of the evening air; summer was nearly over. In King’s Lynn, we call this change in the atmosphere autumn blows, a harbinger of what could be stiff winds off the sea.
I knocked on the door of 85.
‘Come!’
When I walked in, Mr Gilbert was sat in the small armchair near the window. At his feet were scattered remnants of two daily newspapers. On the table by the chair was what looked like a large sketchbook and several pencils of different colours.
‘Ah, good evening, Miss Hunt. Sorry to be such a nuisance; just put them in the bathroom. ‘I did as I was bid. I said:
‘Will there be anything else?’
He looked at me for a moment, then replied, ‘I suppose you think I am a fussy old pest?’
‘No: all part of the service.’
‘As you can see, I am enjoying a glass of claret, Chateau Talbot. I always bring my own wine with me - would you care to join me?’
What was the old fool up to? ‘I don’t know whether that is allowed, Mr Gilbert.’
‘Just one, mmm?’
So I brought the tooth glass from the bathroom and joined him. I looked out of the window and sipped the wine (which tasted exellent). I could feel him watching me. He said:
‘You are a very beautiful young woman.’
‘I wondered when we would get round to that. What do you want?’
‘You are very direct, Miss Hunt.’
‘I’m a Norfolk girl. I’ll say it again: what do you want. Tell me or I get out of here,’
‘I’m going to ask you to do something for me - I hope you won’t be offended,’
‘I’ll damn soon tell you.’
‘I want you to remove your clothes and let me look at your body. No, not sex. Just looking. For that I will pay you £100. Keep your underwear on.’
‘What! You dirty old man!’
‘Please, Miss Hunt: the days are long gone since I could be sexually aroused.’
‘So your interest is artistic...how much did you say: £100? Make it double and I will.’
The old man agreed, and I unbuttoned my blouse and unzipped my skirt. I stood in front of him, hands on hips, wearing nothing exept white lace bra and briefs. He leant back in his chair and sighed. ‘Your skin is lovely, not a blemish; you are perfectly proportioned. What is your height?’
‘Five feet ten inches.’
‘Could you turn round , please, I wish to look at your back.’ I did so - then unhooked my bra. I heard him sigh and whisper something like ‘Ingres’. So that was it. Well, well, well. I turned, and he gasped. He said:
‘The golden apples of the Sun.’
I placed my hands on my head; my breasts jutted forward. I asked: ‘Enough? May I get dressed now?’
‘I could look at your body for hours, Diana. Yes, I’m sorry: please do.’
I was intrigued by this elegant old man; strange, but there was nothing offensive about him. He was what used to be called a ‘gentleman’.
He handed me two hundred pounds in twenty pound notes. Before I left, I said: ‘Were you telling the truth when you said you could not be sexually aroused?’
He smiled. ‘I cannot remember the last time I was. I’m old, you see.’
&
nbsp; I thought for a moment. ‘I’ll have a bet with you Mr Gilbert: You pay me three hundred pounds if I can arouse you sexually. Contact me tomorrow. Agreed?’
He nodded and I left. When I got back I threw off my clothes and took a shower.Then I lay on my bed in a silk kimono, bought from Printemps. I counted the money, and thought: Diana, this is the easiest two hundred pounds you have ever earnt. And I mean easy; is this the start of a slippery slope? Would he take up my offer? If it came to the crunch, would I back off? The brutal fact was, I would be a prostitute.
And that wouldn’t bother me one little bit. I suppose it was a challenge; and he was obviously ‘top drawer’, so snobbishness came into it - fancy! I might be screwing a lord. The more I thought about that bizarre evening, the less I liked it - but perhaps I would feel different in the morning.
The following day, the decision was made for me on two counts. First (please excuse this, but I have to set it down for reasons of accuracy), I started to menstruate; and like some women my hormones being messed about made me irritable. So I snapped at the staff all morning, and by lunch-time I was tired, and also feeling guilty about my behaviour.
I was in the store office eating my usual snack lunch, when Larry knocked on my door and stuck his head round.
‘Err, Miss Hunt.’
‘What do you want, Larry?’
‘Parcel for you.’
‘Parcel? What do you mean?’ He handed me a flat package about 12 inches by 10 inches. It was a hand-written label and marked ‘PERSONAL’. Intrigued, I slit it open and drew out a piece of stiff white card. With the card was the following letter:
Miss Hunt,
Thank you for your kind attention last evening. It was most appreciated.
You enhanced the reputation of the Ship Hotel.
Please find enclosed a small gift in recognition.
If you are ever in London, please feel free to look me up.
Kindest regards
Max Gilbert
He had enclosed a business card: MAX GILBERT CBE, RA
The piece of white card held a pencil drawing of me. It was a back view: full length: I was looking over my shoulder. It was astonishingly lovely: just a few pencil strokes, and he had captured me, not only my shape - but the life of me. How did he do that? It was scary, really scary.
But the excitement of receiving the drawing from Max was short lived, for the next morning I received a phone call from Penny: ‘Diana: you must come home now: your Dad’s had a heart attack. I’ve sent for the ambulance.’
I went cold. Oh, no; not again. I grabbed my bag and coat and ran downstairs to the phone in Reception and rang for a taxi; But thirty minutes’ later I was saying to the driver, ‘Queen Elizabeth hospital, please.’
‘Do you know the department, miss?’
‘Better make it A&E.’
‘I strode through the automatic doors and looked for the assessment nurse. ‘Have you admitted a Mr George Hunt recently?’ It was a young woman.
‘Are you a relative?’
‘I’m his daughter’. The nurse checked her documents. ‘Yes. I believe he came in with your brother - Peter Hunt?’
‘Yes. Do you know how my father is?’
‘Mr Hunt has beeen transferred to Cardiology - I should go there, Miss Hunt.’
I followed the signs round the innumerable corridors until I found the department. Half way down the corridor I saw Peter sat on a chair against a wall; Penny was next to him, holding his hand. She stood as I approached, but Peter sat, staring at the floor. I said:
‘What’s the position - where’s Dad.?’
‘Your father is in a room at the end on his own - it doesn’t look good, Di.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘I think so.’ Penny and I looked through the small window of the door into my father’s room. He had an oxygen mask over his mouth, and a drip in his arm; I could see the monitor with its lines wobbling on the screen. Dear God, I thought; where is the man who heaved his wheelbarrow and hoed between his flowers. I turned to Penny: ‘What have they said - the doctors? Do you know?’
Before she could answer, a young male doctor in a white coat came towards us. His necktie was pulled away from a scruffy collar and he wore a stethoscope round his neck. He looked as though he’d been on duty for a very long time. ‘Miss Hunt? I’m Dr Kelly.’
‘Yes. How is my father?’
‘I am sorry to tell you that Mr Hunt is a very sick man - that was a massive heart attack...’
‘Will he live?’
The doctor seemed a little taken aback. ‘I have to tell you that there is very little we can do, except to control his pain and make him comfortable. Who found your father?’
‘I did,’ said Peter. ‘I found him slumped in his chair. I’d just made him a cup of tea.’
Peter suddenly stood up and grasped Penny’s arm. ‘Will my dad regain consciousness?’
‘That is very difficult to say, Mr Hunt. We will of course keep you informed.’
I said: ‘We’d like to stay, if we can.’
‘Of course. Sit with him if you wish. The ward nurse will show you the family room when you are ready.’
I thanked him, and he left. I said to Pete and Penny: ‘You go - I’ll stay for a while.’
‘But,’ said Peter. ‘No buts, Pete. I’ll phone you if there is any change. Look after him, Penny.’
‘Course I will.’
So I sat in that bleak room, staring at the man in the small, neat bed hanging on to life; a machine controlling his existence. Somehow, he didn’t look like my father: his face had shrunk and seemed smoother; his grey hair neatly brushed over his forehead. I had a bizarre notion that he had been prepared for a journey: clean, neat, smelling faintly ( or was it the room) of sweet disinfectant.
If I had been a religious (or superstitious) person I would have considered that my nights of debauchery had resulted in Heaven punishing me by striking my father down. I looked to my left, through the blinds; it was getting dark now, but I didn’t switch on any lights. Like thousands before me, I had the thought: why am I here? What for? My father wasn’t aware of my presence (as far as I knew), I wasn’t helping him. I felt completely useless.
Those ponderings were interrupted when a nurse came in and switched on a light. She seemed surprised to see me there. She said:
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could you excuse me for a moment, please? I’m waiting for Dr Kelly.’
I left them to it. The hospital was empty now, and I strode down the corridors meeting no one except nurses going about their business. Where was the best place to find a taxi? I worked it out quickly: A&E. I stood outside the department in the dark, the only illumination from the street-lights. A taxi drew up and discharged its passengers.
‘Are you free?’
When I got home, Peter and Penny were in the kitchen. Peter looked exhausted. I felt irritated by him, but said (before they could question me): ‘I’m famished. Is there anything to eat?’
Penny said: ‘Yes, but how’s your Dad?’
‘No change.’ Pete said: ‘Should I go over there?’
‘No point, Pete.’
Penny reheated a casserole and sliced some bread. I found a bottle of Aussie red left over from Christmas. They watched me eat and said nothing. I pushed my plate away eventually and said: ‘Penny - that was great. Have you told your parents where you are?’
‘Yes - they know everything.’
I said: ‘I’m staying here tonight - I’ll probably be here all week, so just ignore me. We’ll share the cooking if that’s OK?’
‘If you think I won’t be in the way, Diana.’
‘That’s the last thing you are. Thanks for all you’ve done. Now, I’
ve got some phoning to do, so if you’ll excuse me....?’ I lay on the floor in the front parlour and closed my eyes; after a few seconds I opened them. I stretched, loosening my muscles, then took several deep breaths. My first call was to Jim Morrison at the Ship Hotel: I left a recorded message. The second was to Melanie. Her father answered.
‘Mr Pearson? It’s Diana Hunt.’
‘Hallo, Diana!
‘Is Mel around?’
‘I’ll just get her.’ I heard shouting up the stairs. Melanie came on the line. ‘Di! Where have you been?’ She lowered her voice. ‘I’ve missed you. I went to some boring party last evening - you were working?’
‘I’m going to be hors-de-combat for a while, Mel.’
‘What’s the matter, a judo injury?’ I explained about my father. ‘Oh, no, Di! That’s awful. Oh, darling, you’ve had a horrible time. Do you want me to come and comfort you?’
‘No, no, Mel. I’m at home. I’ll be in touch in a few days.’
I stared at the ceiling. When did that last receive a coat of paint? I suddenly felt very tired. But I did a backward roll and got to my feet. As I went upstairs, the house was very quiet; not a sound from Peter’s room. Was Penny with him? It felt strange, lying on this bed, trying not to think. But I did, seeing a picture of my father in that room, kept alive by that machine in that bloody hospital. And also thinking about the time last year, backwards and forwards to the Oncology department.
Somebody was shaking my shoulder, but I didn’t want to know - let me sleep, go away. I eventually opened a bleary eye. It was Peter.
‘Di, Di, wake up. I’ve had a call from the hospital: Dad’s been moved to intensive care.’ Peter left me to get dressed. When I got downstairs Penny had made a pot of tea: a wakener for us. I noticed she was wearing a long slinky dressing-gown. Peter said: ‘The taxi will be here in a minute. I’ve got money. Are you OK, Diana?’
