A Little Hotel in Cornwall

by Laura Briggs

  "How did you know?" Did something about me look like an obvious candidate to mix ice cream shakes and bring people their checks? How did she know anything about me at all?

  "It's a fairly obvious guess," she said, which didn't explain it at all. "Now, you understand this is on a trial basis," she said. "The final decision is made by Mr. Trelawney, but I'm sure you'll do splendidly."

  Do splendidly. As in a job, I realized now. The light bulb came on above my head —they thought I was applying for a job here at the hotel.

  "I think maybe there's been a misunderstanding —"

  "Call me Mrs. Charles," she said. "I'm the Penmarrow's chief housekeeper. Of course, we all pitch in for whatever tasks are necessary. Lately, half the kitchen staff have been absent with some sort of foreign flu. I can't tell you what problems I've had shifting everyone around to fill the gaps." She slipped the form onto her clipboard. "Let's have a quick tour of the place, since there's no point in putting it off, if you're interested."

  "I'm sorry," I said. "But are you sure you haven't mistaken me for somebody else?"

  She checked her sheet. "You are here to apply for the open position as the maid, aren't you?" she said. "I have your application right here. Your experience sounds very promising." She held it up. "Frankly, I'm surprised to see you, given the salary level of hospitality positions, and the expense of travel and foreign living these days. You have no idea how many people submit to our program and don't show up at all."

  "Really?" I said. "That many?" Something clicked in my brain, a couple of gears that locked themselves on a funny idea. It was something out of a novel — a P.G. Wodehouse one. "What program?"

  "Call it our 'international exchange,' in a manner of speaking," said Mrs. Charles. "It's Mr. Trelawney's idea — the hotel's manager. He feels that a hotel with so many international guests and a reputation as an international house of welcome deserves a unique staff. We post job listings for overseas applicants, of course, on the off-chance that someone will apply. That's why we're considering you."

  It was time to tell her the truth, before she continued on with the mistaken impression that I was taking this job. But Mrs. Charles was still talking.

  "You would be the third interview this week alone," she said. "We were so disappointed when you didn't come last week. We've been desperate to begin screening potential replacements. It begins with the trial, of course, followed by a full time position on staff, if all goes well."

  "So this is a trial position — cleaning at the hotel?" I said. "For two weeks?"

  "It's more than merely cleaning a hotel," said Mrs. Charles, quite seriously. "The Penmarrow Hotel is an extremely notable and respectable institution. Our guests are among some of the most celebrated and talented visitors to our county, be it for the day or for a week."

  "There are people who are only guests for a day?"

  "We're more than merely a resort for guests who sleep and eat," she said. "We offer excellent dining to the public. We host special events as well. Weddings, book signings, dinners, balls — there is a ball to be held here in two weeks, actually," she said, checking a few boxes on the application.

  "A ball?" I was amazed. This place hosted dreams, apparently. Wedding receptions under marquis with twinkle lights, with ceremonies before the lobby's grand fireplace ... dinners and balls in the spirit of Victorian wealth or French Renaissance dances. My mind was turning pages in the storybooks of my youth, the novels of my passion for English and French literature, turning them into real-life pictures in the opulent quarters I had seen downstairs.

  "A grand one in the spirit of the 'Roaring Twenties,' as I recall," said Mrs. Charles. "Rather fitting, since that's the era in which this hotel came to be. Built in nineteen twenty-six in the fashion of an English country home the architect admired — the owner was wealthy and a bit eccentric, with grand designs for his hotel. The carvings you see on the exterior and the sconces in the dining room are inspired by Cornish sacred architecture, by the way. There are a few other local cultural touches here and there as well."

  "Wow." I remembered a little bit of this from the hotel's website, but those had only been facts, not an impressive reality before my eyes.

  "Oh, there's a great deal more to the job than merely changing linens and hoovering carpets," said Mrs. Charles. "That's why we can't let simply anybody tidy up and serve our guests. There are very important people staying here. You have to fit, you see. You have to possess a certain rapport. It's a skill, really."

  "I see." If there was ever going to be a time for me to disillusion her about the reason I was here, that time was now. "You think I possess it?"

  "Of course, it's not up to me, really. The manager Mr. Trelawney will make the final decision after two weeks or so. But we are in need of someone quite quickly since I'm due on holiday, and you do have the proper level of experience. To be quite honest, I have a good feeling about you." She gave me a smile.

  I was flattered, strangely enough, by that confidence. "This place does seem really grand," I said.

  "Grand and something of a legend," she replied, with a touch of pride in her professional voice. "It isn't merely the famous or unusual guests ... or the grand or unusual events. It's the atmosphere it creates. A sense of history in the rooms and halls, perhaps."

  Who knew who else one could meet here? I couldn't imagine what sort of 'grand events' she meant, but they were obviously beyond the usual conventions and luncheons. We might be talking about film crews shooting on location — royal weddings — art shows for modern painters of masterpieces.

  If I were a maid at the hotel, my hanging around, bumping into Alistair Davies at the desk or in the dining room wouldn't be a problem, I realized. The hotel had been eagerly awaiting someone with experience to help them with all these responsibilities. Whereas Maisie Clark was just a tourist who wandered in off the beach — but a tourist who knew how to make a bed and empty a rubbish can, at least.

  I shouldn't. I couldn't. But if they needed someone, was it really wrong?

  "Now, what do you prefer? Marjorie? Margie?" she said.

  "Marjorie?" Too late I realized she was asking about my name.

  "Marjorie it is, then. You didn't specify in the blank on your application," she said. "I do so dislike to call people by something they hate. Also, your last name — it's a bit blurred on this sheet, all but the 'K' and that last 'N.' Refresh my memory, please." Her pen was poised above the line.

  My mind raced. "It's — Kinnan. Marjorie Kinnan." The name leaped at me from a memory of some old names in a family book at home. A family on my mother's side, so, technically, it was mine, in a way.

  "Irish, isn't it? What a coincidence, since we have a few Irish employees on staff already. Well, enough chat — let me give you a brief tour of the place before we go any further on this subject."

  Call me Maisie, please. Would it be a weird nickname for someone named Marjorie to be called Maisie?

  Mrs. Charles led me briskly through the dining room. Its tables were clad in crisp white linens and already set with flowers for the dinner hour. She pointed out the kitchen door, the serving stations, and the overhead chandeliers that illuminated the room. She walked me to a large sitting room filled with more antique furniture and plants and another huge fireplace, and past doors that were given names, but didn't lodge themselves in my memory.

  " ... and this is the way to Mr. Trelawney's office, up the old servants' stair," she said. "Through here, we enter the main hall again. There are guest rooms on every floor, with cleaning and linen closets — there's the elevator, of course." It was one of those beautiful gated ones, a trellis of wild roses in brassy, bronze-colored metal. "Six maids are currently employed here, plus myself and our concierge, who has recently been promoted to desk manager. Two porters and a gardener, who also looks after the hotel car...."

  We took the stairs. On each landing, impressive oil paintings; a long Oriental carpet in red traveled the length of the hall between the doo
rs leading to guest's rooms. There were alcoves in between with window seats, or, occasionally, an antique armchair or a writing desk instead. The paint colors glowed in the bright sun from the windows.

  "There are sixty bedrooms in all — forty large ones, plus twenty suites with parlors," said Mrs. Charles. "The cleaning staff is also responsible for all the public rooms, the hotel laundry, and various errands that guests need. You'd be surprised what people will request of us sometimes."

  She unlocked the door to one. Inside, a blue embroidered coverlet on the bed, heavy bed curtains that must have sheltered a highborn lady from the cold on wintry nights, when the heat from the fireplace decorated with copper tiles died low. A heroine from a Bronte tragedy would be at home sleeping here.

  "The main guest quarters are on these two floors and half of the floor above us," she said. "Each one requires a thorough cleaning in between guests. Do you think you're up to the challenge, as they say?" She looked at me with a smile, the first break in her business-like narrative.

  I could wash sheets and vacuum carpets pretty easily. I wasn't one of the planet's worst slobs, not in my opinion. For a few days, it would be like living out a chapter from Upstairs, Downstairs. Imagine what kind of stories might be inspired by a place like this. No wonder Alistair Davies chose to spend time here.

  Two weeks. I could find Alistair Davies and ask for his help. I could enjoy the beautiful sea and the magic of this place ... hadn't she said there would be a ball in one of the rooms downstairs? Even the time I spent in New York hadn't given me so much as a glimpse of a ball.

  "There's a little more paperwork to be done before you can officially be part of the staff, although I will add your name to the schedule, so you can begin working right away," said Mrs. Charles, making a few more notes on my would-be employment application. "Do you have your papers in order?"

  "What papers?" I asked.

  "We'll need all the official paperwork, of course. Work permits, visas. For tax purposes, of course."

  I didn't have any of those things as me, much less as fictitious Marjorie Kinnan.

  "I'll be sure to get you those," I said. The hotel need never worry about my 'official documentation,' I imagined, since I would probably be gone in a few days, long before anyone got suspicious about the fake Marjorie Kinnan.

  "Is there a hostel in the village?" I asked, as we climbed the third — and final — staircase. I couldn't afford to stay here, certainly, and a maid staying here as a guest would be unconventional, to say the least.

  "No — the closest one is quite some distance from here," said Mrs. Charles. "If you have friends in need of accommodations, we generally recommend one of the little inns. They're quite nice."

  I was trying to decide whether a little inn would be too expensive for my cheap travel budget when she unlocked a room in a narrower, plainer wing of the house. "Here's your quarters," she said. "They're a bit small and plain, I'm afraid. Most members of our staff only live in them temporarily, until they find something more private that suits."

  "You have a room for me?"

  "I assume that since you've applied from overseas, you haven't made other arrangements," said Mrs. Charles. "If you have, we understand, of course."

  A single twin bed with a plain coverlet and pillow, and an empty bureau pushed against a wall papered in green roses, no antique knickknacks in sight. The room was almost octagonal shaped, with a narrow window on one wall. I moved aside its lace curtain and lifted the handle, pushing open the pane.

  Outside, a glimpse of the sea and the green table of land curving away from it. I could see the roofs of some houses, green treetops, and sunlight dancing across them, rays and shadow playing over the surface. What came to mind was a picture in a storybook I had as a little girl, one of a girl swinging high above the distant view of a quaint little town.

  "So," said Mrs. Charles. "Do you think this will suit?"

  I didn't know if she was talking about the job, the room, or this opportunity to explore this hotel from top to bottom — to be part of whatever surprises were yet in store for this place, such as the magnificent ball she had mentioned in passing.

  A ball and a famous author, and a view that was nothing at all like the neon sign outside my apartment window.

  "Perfectly," I said. My tone sounded dreamier than that of the average person taking a maid's job, probably ... because I was still gazing at the world outside, and letting visions of what might happen in two weeks dance across my thoughts.

  "Good," she said. "I'll put you on the schedule for tomorrow, so you can begin shadowing some of the staff. Feel free to bring your things up any time today, and eat in the dining room this evening if you wish." She laid a key on the bureau. "Here's the key to your room. Tomorrow, you can collect your schedule and your uniform bright and early."

  Everything I let her assume about me was fictional from beginning to end, and I knew I should feel guilty. But it would only last for a few days, me working for bed and board, until I worked up the courage to approach the elusive author staying here, if I was lucky enough to have a moment of his time.

  Me, going undercover in a great house for the sake of my art. I would be the best temporary maid the Penmarrow had ever seen. They wouldn't regret hiring me — and I couldn't imagine I would ever regret letting them believe I was Marjorie Kinnan for a few days.

  At least until after the ball was over.

  ***

  Sunshine crept inside the little room, touching my face. I was curled on my side, wondering why I couldn't smell the pretzels that usually drifted through my windows from the vendor who parked outside the dry cleaner's every summer morning. It was garbage day, too, but I didn't hear the truck's gears grinding outside.

  My eyes blinked open, seeing blurry green walls. I sat up, remembering that I wasn't in my old apartment. Pushing back the sheets, I crossed to the window, pulling aside its curtain, to assure myself it was all still real. Outside, the sky was still pink, and mists gathered above the water, a fog skirting the black rock isles.

  A gorgeous morning. I tapped the screen on my tablet computer, and my screen awakened with its backdrop of a beautiful gothic illustration. There were two new emails — one from the Tucker program's administrators, and one from my mom — and there was my novel's first chapter waiting for revisions based on my final grade.

  I didn't feel like writing, for once, or like reading the workshop's newsletter. I felt like taking a quick walk, maybe even a dip in the ocean. Pulling open the bureau's drawers, I grabbed my red bathing suit and my red and white plaid stripe skirt, along with a pair of old sneakers underneath the bed. Popping the last few bites of an energy snack bar into my mouth, I let my dark tresses fly free as I tucked my key in my pocket.

  It was quiet in the halls, but I could hear the murmur of voices from the lobby and dining room. I walked the opposite way, past closed doors and a wooden bench, pushing open the terrace doors to step out on a little paved patio with lots of brightly-potted flowers.

  Yesterday, I thought I had seen a set of steps leading down to the sea from the hotel's cliff. I found a set of stone steps hewn and refined from natural ones leading down the cliff's most gradual incline, with wooden ones and rails wherever nature pitched too sharply. I reached the beach from them, standing before the beautiful waves rippling across the sand with mists of salt spray.

  A blue and white fog in motion, against the pale pink cheek of the horizon, the high cliff rocks tinged reddish-brown in the first rays of morning. The water was cold and frigid against my hands, and I dodged a sudden wave against my ankles, emitting a loud shriek of surprise as that cool water touched my skin.

  A place alive with stories untold. There were lost romances in the house above, and tragedies in the steep rocks descending below. I gazed up at the hotel in the distance, which looked like a miniature version of itself.

  The hotel. What time was it? I probably needed to hurry back and find someone who could tell me what time I started wor
k, and what I was doing.

  By the time I reached the hotel again, more guests had appeared — two surfers were loading their boards onto the roof rack of a Land Rover, and a couple was having tea at the little terrace table by the open French doors. There were guests chatting in the lobby's sitting room, but no one was behind the desk once again. I waited there for further instruction, when I noticed the computer screen was open to the digital guest registry.

  Now was my chance to find out for sure if Alistair Davies was still here. I glanced around for any fellow employees, then slipped behind the desk to the keyboard under the screen. The computer's register had a search function. Davies, Alistair, I typed.

  No match. With disappointment, I stared at the results. The porter Riley must have been wrong. I tried again, checking against the names of all the guests for this month, then this year. No match. The answer came back the same as before.

  The secretive Davies must be using an alias. That was the only explanation ... unless he simply had tea here and stole some of the hotel's stationery. According to the records of The Penmarrow Hotel, no one by that name had been a guest here any time this year. No guest, no forwarding address.

  I felt disappointed. Then again, I hadn't tried the handwritten guest book yet — a name might be written there in the same handwriting as my letter. Just as my hand touched its leather cover, I heard someone speak to me at the same time.

  "It's you."

  I nearly leaped out of my sneakers. Riley, the Irish boy from yesterday, was collecting two suitcases from beside the desk.

  "It's me," I answered brightly, not sure what else to say.

  "What are you doing behind the desk? Don't let Brigette catch you — she's like a schoolmarm when it comes to rules." He looked at me, suspiciously. "What are you doing behind the desk?"

  "I work here now," I answered, attempting to look indignant over his question. I lifted my chin in an attempt to look less like a snoop.