Lucy Gordon: Princess Dottie

“Well, just go through that door over there. The porter will take your bags up.”

With deep foreboding Randolph passed through the connecting door and found himself in a café whose chief merit was its cheerfulness. The tabletops were laminate, in a truly vile shade of red. Worse still was a small palm tree made of plastic that was clearly meant to dress up its surroundings. Randolph gazed at the palm, dumbstruck at its sheer awfulness.

The waitress, a dainty blonde with fluffy hair and the face of a mischievous imp, called out to him, “Sit down, love. I'll be over in a minute.”

Randolph didn't want to sit down in this place but his knees were threatening to give way with shock, so he found a corner table that was partly concealed by the palm, and tried to be inconspicuous. It was hard because, surrounded by men in shirtsleeves and overalls, he was the only one in a proper suit.

Where was the high-class establishment of his imagining? A mirage. Instead, this. This! And he'd committed himself to spending the night in the place. He'd told himself that no sacrifice was too great for his country. Now he began to wonder if he'd been wrong.

The waitress was gathering plates vigorously. At the table behind her a young man leaned across and patted her behind, making her turn with a little squeal and a reproving, “Hey, watch it!”

“Sorry,” the young man said, grinning. “Couldn't help myself.”

“Looks to me like you were helping yourself,” she riposted. “Keep your hands off or I'll set Mike on you.” She was laughing as she eased away from him, wriggling gracefully to avoid his hand again.

A good-natured young woman, Randolph thought, but hardly the person he sought.

Another waitress bustled out from the kitchen. She was dark, comely and extremely well built. She called out, “Dottie, do you want me to do the corner table?”

“No thanks Bren, I've grabbed him,” the blonde sang back. She waved at Randolph and called cheerily, “You don't mind me grabbing you, do you love?”

“Not at all,” he replied politely, trying to conceal his growing dismay. Dottie! Dorothea? This was Princess Dorothea?

At that moment one of the men at the table whispered something to her and she went into peals of laughter. It was a delightful sound, rich and resonant, full of the joy of life. But princesses did not laugh in that unrestrained way.

She scurried over to Randolph, and sat down at the chair opposite with a sigh of relief. “Okay if I sit down to take your order? It's been a long day and my feet are killing me.”

A flash of inspiration came to Randolph. He assumed an air of hauteur to say, “As a matter of fact, it's not 'Okay.”'

She rose at once. “All right, all right, keep your hair on.”

“Keep-my-hair-on?” he echoed in bewilderment, feeling the top of his head. “Are you impertinent enough to suggest that I'm wearing a wig?”

Again her laughter bubbled up. “Blimey no! It's just an expression. It means don't get worked up. Keep your hair on.”

“But why hair?”

“I don't know. It's just, well, you're not English, are you?”

“Is that a crime?” he asked sternly.

“No, it's just that it's an English expression and, well, you're not English, so you don't understand it.” She made a wry face. “I think I've said enough.”

“More than enough,” he said coldly. “Now, if you don't mind, I should like something to eat.”

“Sausage and beans? Sausage and fries? Sausage and bacon? Sausage and eggs?”

“Do you do anything that doesn't come with sausage?”

“Hamburger with beans? Hamburger with fries, ham-”

“Thank you, I get the picture,” he said hastily. “You'll pardon me for saying that the cuisine hardly lives up to the place's name.”

“Cuisine? Oh, posh food. No love, nothing posh about us.”

“So I gather,” he murmured heavily.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. Down here it says 'liver and bacon'-”

“Sorry, liver's off. It's the end of the day. We ran out an hour ago.”

“Rabbit stew?”

“We ran out of that two hours ago.” She checked her watch. “And you'll have to be quick. We close soon.”

“Close? With an unsatisfied customer?”

“Well, if we could find something you like-”

“But I've already found two things that I like, and you said they're both off,” he said, trying to sound peevish. He was really getting into the skin of the part now, seeking the point where her patience would fray. Turning the screw a little further, he added acidly, “This hardly seems a very well-run establishment.”

“It's a little backstreet café, not the flamin' Ritz,” she protested. “I know what my customers like and I cater for it.”

“You're not doing so well with me.” undervoice

“But you're not like the others. You should be at the Ritz. Are you sure you came to the right place?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he responded in a hollow voice.

“So what'll it be?”

“Since it all looks equally disgusting,” he snapped, “you'd better bring me anything that isn't 'off.' That is, if you can find something.”

That should test her temper to the limit, he thought. But when he looked up she was regarding him with quizzical amusement.

“You've had a hard day too, haven't you?” she asked kindly.

“Yes,” he said, suddenly dazed. “Yes-”

“What's the matter?”

“I-nothing.”

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“I'm not. Just bring me the first dish you lay your hands on.”

He was glad when she left. He needed a moment to come to terms with his sudden sense of shock. It was nothing that could be precisely defined, just a strange sensation when he'd surprised that odd kindness on her face.

Suddenly he was a child again, with his Aunt Gertrude, his father's sister who'd raised him after his mother died. The boy had been throwing a temper about some childish tragedy. And when he'd kicked the furniture and shouted unforgivable things in his frustration and misery he'd looked up, expecting anger, but encountered instead his aunt's understanding smile.

“Why don't we just forget all about it?” she asked tenderly. And he'd known that she was the kindest person in the world. As well as the prettiest.

He could see Aunt Gertrude now, her pixie face with its halo of soft blond hair, so like the waitress's. There could be no doubt about it. Impossible as it seemed, this was a member of the Ellurian royal dynasty, bearing the family face down through the generations.

His rudeness hadn't fazed her, and he had to give her high marks for her patience and self-control. But oh, her voice! Her laugh! Her way of calling him “love”! And this woman was the rightful monarch of Elluria! He could have wept for his country.

She returned with a plate of pie and peas.

“Sit down,” he said, indicating the seat opposite. She gave him a wary look and he nodded. “I'm not consistent, am I? But I'm a stranger here and I'd like to talk.”

“All right,” she sat down with a sigh of relief.

“It must be a hard job,” he said sympathetically.

She groaned. “Tell me about it!” Then she laughed. “But I enjoy it. You meet people.”

“Do you live on the premises? I understand you're the manageress.”

She giggled. “Manageress! Honestly! That's just one of Jack's harmless daydreams, like calling this place The Grand. I mean, look at it. He's a sweet old boy, but you've got to admit it's hilarious.”

Randolph, who was feeling anything but amused, agreed that it was.

“So you don't live here?” he continued valiantly.

“I've got a room a few streets away.”

“You're not married?” Randolph asked cautiously. He no longer dared rely on any of Sigmund's information.