Hotel du Barry

by Lesley Truffle

  Most of Cat’s waking hours were spent hanging around Daniel’s friends, hotel guests and staff. When Daniel was away on business, Michael kept an eye on Cat and took her on excursions to the British Museum, the theatre and the zoo. Eddie tolerated Michael because he had impeccable manners as befitted a lord. He also went out of his way to include her in the social events held at his townhouse in Belgrave Square. Subsequently Eddie got to meet all the British politicians, foreign ambassadors and their entourages.

  By her fifth birthday Cat was familiar with the ways of the hotel labyrinth. Sean Kelly could always be relied upon to tell her funny stories and answer her questions regarding secret adult business. Cat had come to believe that London’s debutantes did not pee urine, but instead leaked Mitsouko perfume. She sought out Sean for confirmation.

  He enlightened her: ‘Debutantes pee like common folk but they’ve got no use for hotel toilet paper. Why? Because they wipe their bits on squares of red velvet. Monogrammed, of course.’

  *

  Being naturally curious, Cat tried to piece together what had happened after she’d been unpegged from the clothesline. So she made a solo trip down to the labyrinth and visited Bertha Brown in the maids’ kitchen.

  Bertha handed Cat a slice of warm tea cake and told her, ‘Things went pretty smoothly at first. You were a quiet baby and very loving towards us. Our only concern was that you slept more than most newborns. You also tended to fall asleep at the drop of a hat. Your eyes would snap shut and you’d pass out for a few minutes. Doc Ahearn took you to a top paediatrician and all the daft bastard said was, “Some babies sleep more than others.” He found no physical cause for your condition.’ Bertha shook her head. ‘It was only much later that Doc Ahearn did some research and concluded that you were afflicted with a rare psychological disorder. He reckoned, being taken hostage by one’s subconscious in stressful situations and seeking refuge in sleep is no laughing matter.’

  The next day Cat popped into Doc Ahearn’s office and he took up the story. ‘Anyway, Cat, we spoilt you rotten and took turns keeping you away from the prying eyes of hotel clients and those in authority. We decided it was only a matter of time before Jim managed to flush out your wretched mother. Jim’s got a devious mind. To be sure, he’s the cleverest chap I’ve ever met. Even Scotland Yard regularly pick his brains on cases they can’t figure. Our staff firmly believed if Jim couldn’t hunt down your wayward mother, then she simply didn’t exist. Everybody had a theory. One rumour being bandied around was that you’d been hung on the clothesline by a hotel guest, probably an unmarried debutante. But others insisted you were the illegitimate offspring of a heartless duke or a member of royalty.’

  Cat didn’t have any desire to become a member of the royal family. She was perfectly happy as she was. Being the only child in residence at the famous Hotel du Barry and having Daniel du Barry as a father was not to be sniffed at. He made no secret of the fact that Cat was the apple of his eye and it gave her a strong sense of security, which helped to offset the cool detachment she experienced with Edwina.

  None of the staff told Cat that her beginnings at the hotel had to be kept secret. But she intuitively understood that what went on in the labyrinth was not to be shared with those on the ninth floor. Besides, Cat loved the idea that she was in possession of clandestine knowledge and she suspected that Daniel knew more than he was letting on.

  When it was time for Cat to start her schooling, Daniel played it safe and chose to hire male tutors instead of governesses and subsequently Edwina behaved herself. Although she did have a tendency to nag.

  ‘Caterina, you’ve got to stop sneaking off when you’re supposed to be applying yourself to your school books. A young lady needs to be accomplished if she’s going to succeed in this world. No gentleman wants a dreary wife who can only doodle in a sketchbook or discuss the price of pork sausages.’

  Cat stifled a yawn. She’d already learnt how to look like she was listening while thinking about something more interesting. She’d discovered how to do this by carefully observing how Daniel handled Edwina when she simply wouldn’t shut up. Cat also avoided Edwina by disappearing down into the labyrinth. Mrs du Barry suspected that the basement levels were hell holes of depravity and she rarely ventured down there.

  The Hotel du Barry provided an endless stream of distractions. Instead of doing her arithmetic Cat liked nothing better than hanging out the hotel’s schoolroom window and sketching the passing tradesmen in the alley below. Tradespeople and suppliers were falling over themselves to take care of the hotel’s requirements. Times were tough and there was a definite cachet in supplying goods and services to the du Barry hotels. Daniel offered a special recommendation to conscientious, loyal suppliers. Thus the Hotel du Barry crest could be conferred on approved businesses as an endorsement of quality. However, Cat thought the sight of gargoyles devouring bones gave the impression that the hotel was in the business of serving up human remains.

  Cat was in the habit of dropping by Mary’s office in the late afternoon and doing her homework at Mildred’s old desk. And Mary actively encouraged her to do so. Cat often listened in on Mary’s phone conversations and she loved it when Mary was dealing with recalcitrant tradesmen.

  ‘Mr Sylvester, if you don’t stop yelling in my ear I shall simply hang up on you! That’s better. Now, I have it on good authority that the supposedly new copper piping you installed in Mr du Barry’s bathroom predates Christ. I think we both know you bought it dirt cheap somewhere and this is completely unacceptable to the Hotel du Barry. So here’s what you are going to do. You are going to come back and rip the piping out and replace the whole bloody lot. I shall then arrange to have it inspected and if the job has been done satisfactorily I will then, and only then, authorise payment of your bill . . . no . . . no. There will be no ifs or buts.’ Mary took a long slow sip of her tea and gave him the silent treatment. It didn’t take long. ‘Excellent, we shall expect you at ten sharp. Don’t be late.’

  Mary hung up the phone, took a long drag of her cigarette and winked at Cat. ‘Listen I know I sounded snaky but Mr Sylvester has been trying to fob me off all bloody week. Sometimes you have to feign confidence in order to get things done. It’s only smoke and mirrors, so always be damned sure you’ve got your facts right before you risk such a move.’

  It was from Mary that Cat learnt that there were times when a young woman had to stop playing nice and assert herself, even if it meant making enemies and being heartily disliked by all and sundry. It was a lesson she never forgot.

  The hotel’s Winter Garden, a soaring cathedral of glass, featured regularly in fashion gazettes. In the middle of winter the hotel gardeners grew strawberries and tropical plants in the hothouse atmosphere. At Christmas time the Winter Garden could be seen flaring away in the night sky. Parents brought their children to the street below to view the spectacle of the Winter Garden and admire the hotel’s Christmas decorations.

  By the time she was seven, Cat knew how to slip unseen down the fire escape and attach herself to somebody else’s mother. It was astonishing how nobody noticed the expensively dressed little girl once she was in the vicinity of other children.

  During the festive season, the entire front facade of the hotel was lit with hundreds of coloured lights. On Christmas Eve, bejewelled society women sashayed up the red carpet. They were greeted with gasps of admiration from the motley collection of spectators huddled in the rank fog.

  ‘Cor, look at that, eh.’

  ‘Yep. Did you see the rocks on that slapper?’

  ‘You could hock them diamonds and live like a fucking prince.’

  ‘Don’t be getting no clever ideas, old chap.’

  Moving-picture stars, tycoons, gangsters, artistes, courtesans, aristocrats, royals and conmen all attended the hotel festivities. Cat watched a famous Russian ballet dancer prance effortlessly up the steep stairs. She’d met him once at the theatre with Edwina.

  ‘Mrs du Barry, vhat beautiful pu
rple eyes your daughter she does have. Most unusual. Like violets in snow. So, my little one, do you vant to become a ballerina?’

  Politeness – and Edwina’s sharp blue eyes on her – dictated that Cat play coy. ‘Oh yes, Sir.’

  A blatant lie. But she’d already discovered that grown-ups didn’t want to see the cynical gremlin inside an innocent child. Cat hated the tedious ballet lessons Edwina insisted upon and she’d already set her sights on becoming an artist of some sort. Perhaps a sculptress, painter or potter. At the same time she relished the idea of becoming a detective – as respected, witty and clever as her hero, Jim Blade.

  Daniel had instituted a Christmas and New Year’s tradition whereby the street spectators were treated to hot toddies and warm pastries from the Hotel du Barry kitchens. It was the best street party in town for those who had nowhere to go on these nights. The homeless and impoverished turned up in droves. Many were former soldiers who’d been unable to find work since returning to England. They became gloriously drunk but usually remained orderly, simply because they respected Daniel. He was, after all, one of London’s most generous philanthropists. As the economy stalled and went backwards, Daniel put the du Barry fortune to work and tried to alleviate some of their daily misery. He also put on a special Christmas luncheon for them, followed by a Christmas pantomime.

  Edwina said to her hairdresser, ‘Gustav, I’ve married a bleeding heart. Daniel keeps finding new ways of wasting our money. As if he hasn’t already spent enough on this wretched Christmas luncheon for the poor, his latest scheme is building a school for slum dwellers. Slum dwellers! There have always been poor people in London, and their lazy lives have always been nasty, brutish and short. Hell, they must like being poor or they would bloody well do something about it.’

  Gustav remained tight-lipped but moments later he failed to dilute the peroxide bleach. Edwina ended up with a burnt scalp and a migraine. Tsk, tsk.

  Edwina complained to Daniel as he sat reading The Times over breakfast, ‘You’re spoiling Caterina and she’s spending far too much time with her social inferiors. She’s always sneaking off downstairs with her sketchbook, sitting around drawing the staff and listening in on adult conversations.’

  ‘No cause for alarm, my dear.’

  ‘Oh really? Did you know your daughter constantly hangs around with Bertha Brown and those gossiping kitchen trollops? They’re as common as muck. And Cat is also spending hours in the company of Jim Blade and his unsavoury chums from Scotland Yard. I caught them at it again today, down in the boiler room, showing Caterina how to place bets on race horses, when I’d specifically told her to stay put and wait for the ballet mistress to arrive.’

  Daniel buttered a slice of toast. ‘No harm will come of it. Bertha is like a mother to her. And Jim possesses a profound understanding of human nature. My daughter stands to gain an all-round education. Anyway, I think you should drop the ballet lessons. She clearly loathes them.’

  Edwina flinched at the motherhood reference but decided to stick to her main gripe. ‘All-round education. Ha. Don’t make me laugh. Caterina’s tutors are far too radical and lenient. They don’t discipline her and she’s getting the sort of education better suited to a young man.’

  ‘That’s what I pay them for. Cat is mature for her age and needs intellectual stimulation.’

  Edwina flung her napkin down and glared at him. ‘For God’s sake, Danny. She’s running wild and needs to be tamed. Sent to a prestigious boarding school where she can learn feminine skills, deportment and ballroom dancing. She needs to have the assertiveness knocked out of her, mix with her equals and learn to conform.’

  As usual Daniel folded his newspaper, finished his coffee and stood up. He kissed Edwina lightly on the top of her blonde head. He enjoyed a little cut and thrust in the mornings. It kept him on his toes.

  It was Cat’s eighth Christmas. Down on the street, with her nose in a cup of brandy eggnog and an endless supply of petit meat pies on hand, she felt like she’d died and gone to heaven. The occasion was especially thrilling because Edwina didn’t have a clue she was on the street.

  Cat had become used to the musty, animal stench of her fellow spectators and found it reassuringly familiar. The odour was similar to that of her pet guinea pigs. She liked loitering around the red carpet, getting tipsy and eavesdropping on conversations. One street beggar told another, ‘There’s too many fucking cloves in the mulled wine this year. I am going to put in a complaint to Danny Boy. It’s making me fucking teeth numb.’

  ‘Typical. Danny turns on a free feed and all you can do is whinge. The reason you’re feeling no pain is because you’re on your sixth cup of plonk.’

  Henri Dupont stood at the top of the stairs and greeted the wealthy clientele. He pretended not to see Cat in the crowd below. When questioned by Edwina, he was in the habit of cheerfully denying all knowledge of her whereabouts. However, he discreetly signalled the hotel dick. ‘Jim, our girl is down there. Keep an eye on her, will you? We don’t want her carried off by an opportunistic paedophile.’

  ‘To be sure, Comrade.’

  Jim Blade slipped into the crowd, located Cat and latched onto a cup of mulled wine. His job at this time of year was remarkably rewarding. He loved Christmas for not only was it an excuse for getting crapulous but it was also the premier season for knifings, suicides and all manner of family homicide. The festive season ignited the simmering hostilities that people had kept under wraps all year. Adultery, divorce, whore-mongering, skirt-chasing and blatant affairs with other men’s wives and mistresses were the order of the season. Lovers turned on each other with a vengeance that was hard to believe. The hotel was full of it. Jim smacked his lips and hummed, ‘Tis the season to be jolly, tra la la la la . . . la la la la.’

  He winked at Cat and she sidled closer so she could slip her small hand into his big, warm paw. In companionable silence they watched as a luminescent actress wiggled her way up the red-carpeted stairs. The long, tight gown forced her to take tiny geisha steps. Her shapely bottom seemed to have a life of its own and her diamond earrings glinted wickedly under the lights.

  Cat sighed with pleasure. ‘Mary knows how to walk like that. She taught me how she does it in deportment classes. But those girls do it with books balanced on their heads. I can do it with the family Bible on mine.’

  Jim grinned. ‘I don’t think this actress has had much truck with the Bible.’

  The crowd cheered her victorious ascent. Cat gleefully noted, ‘I reckon she’s not wearing any underwear. How come?’

  ‘Maybe her washing didn’t dry in time.’

  They both sniggered.

  The peroxided beauty was fantasy made flesh, the created femme fatale of male dreaming. Jim drained his cup and licked his lips. The actress swivelled gracefully on the top step and blew them all a kiss before disappearing into the lobby. Jim suspected that all the men fancied her rotten and the women yearned to be in her shoes. A collective sigh of desire arose from the crowd.

  Everything was swell until a hotel valet shoved his way through the crowd. Jim sensed that something was up. ‘What is it, Alfred?’

  ‘It’s Mrs du Barry, Sir. I’ve been looking all over for Miss Cat.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Madam requested that I find Cat and get her back to the ninth floor. She reckons it’s way past Caterina’s bedtime.’

  Cat’s face fell and she carefully studied her shoes. Christmas Eve was already over before it had even begun. She wouldn’t be able to disappear into the labyrinth for the special staff supper. Cat had helped Ziggy, the pastry chef, to make traditional Christmas treats: Kokosbusserl, Linzer tortes and Lebkuchen. She’d iced all the Sacher tortes and while they’d worked Ziggy had taught her the words to ‘Silent Night’. He’d told Cat, ‘In Austria we sing “Stille Nacht” on Christmas Eve. We shall all sing it tonight. And drink up the good schnapps Mr du Barry supplied.’

  Jim placed his hand on Alfred’s shoulder and Alfred looked nervous. �
��You do know it is Christmas Eve, don’t you, Alfred?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘This is when folk try to spread good cheer. By doing things like looking after our chums and ensuring our nearest and dearest have a good time.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I have a proposition for you, Alfred. Let’s imagine that I choose to let you off that nasty little IOU you accrued at last night’s poker game. And in return you choose to spread some fucking Christmas cheer around, eh?’

  ‘But Mrs du Barry will get shirty. She might even get me sacked.’

  Jim looked at his watch. ‘You worry too much, my boy. You don’t understand how things work. The Hotel du Barry is very traditional. It operates on the time-honoured system of pimps, spies and snitches. With a modicum of effort I can arrange to have Mrs du Barry’s every move tracked.’

  ‘So the eyes are everywhere?’

  ‘Precisely. I’ve already been informed Madam is playing hostess up in the Winter Garden. Meeting and greeting. She won’t have time to scratch herself and she definitely won’t be returning to the ninth floor until the last guest leaves and the sun begins to rise.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, Alfred. Wise up. Now, all you have to do is tell Cat’s babysitter that I’ve promised to have Cat back on the ninth floor well before that lard-arsed chap in the red suit comes sliding down the chimney. Deliver this message, stay clear of the Winter Garden and all will be satisfactorily sorted.’

  Alfred grinned. ‘If you say so, Sir.’

  ‘I do. Tonight Cat’s babysitter is one of Mrs Brown’s girls. Gwendoline is a good sort.’

  ‘I get it. Consider it done.’

  ‘That’s more like it, and in return I’ll tear up that IOU. But never forget this: punting your hard-earned wages is a mug’s game. Especially when you’re up against me and the cream of Scotland Yard. And while I’m dispensing free advice, you need to dump your latest squeeze. Miss Gottfried is sharing her considerable charms with you and that unhinged psychopath, Gary Smythe. You don’t want to end up wearing concrete booties in the Thames.’