Timothy Lea - Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

‘Girls, girls!’ I bleat pathetically. ‘Don’t you think we’d better stop? We’ll all get the sack.’

‘I’d like to see them try. We can do what we like in our spare time.’

‘ “Spare” is right,’ I wheeze. ‘Now, get off me before something terrible happens.’

But it is like King Canute telling the waves to put a sock in it. The girls come at me as if they are trying to find pieces to keep as souvenirs. I struggle gamely, of course, but ten hours in the Cromby kitchen takes a lot out of you. It is becoming more like careless rupture than rapture.

Just when I can take no more, and give even less, the door flies open, and there, wearing curlers and a nightdress that looks like a dust sheet borrowed from a grand piano, is Miss Ruperts. She is carrying a shooting stick and this she promptly applies to June’s shapely rear portions.

‘Out, hussies! Out!’ she barks. ‘Disgusting little animals. Back to your lair, Jezebel.’ With that remark, Carmen cops a sharp prod on the sit-me-down. Miss Ruperts is obviously a very rustic lady and she lashes out with her shooting stick like she is making hay with it. In no time at all the birds have grabbed their nighties and scuttled out into the corridor and I am left to bear the full brunt of Miss Ruperts’ wrath.

‘And what have you got to say for yourself, you mongrel?’ she scolds. The shooting stick is hovering dangerously near my Action Man Kit and for a moment I have a nasty feeling that Miss R. may be contemplating doing a park keeper with it.

‘I didn’t invite them,’ I whine. ‘I was trying to sleep.’

‘You’re Mr Noggett’s protégé, aren’t you?’ she says suddenly, peering down at me. ‘I wonder what he’ll have to say about this.’

‘I don’t know. I should think–’

‘Put your pyjamas on and we will find out.’

‘What! Hey, wait a minute. We don’t want to disturb him now, surely. The whole thing was a joke that got out of hand. We weren’t really doing anything.’

‘Come,’ Miss R. waves her shooting stick as if she means business.

‘But–’

‘Get up! Don’t try and hide your pathetic body. I’ve mated horses.’

There seems to be nothing for it but to do as she says. So I pull on my pyjama bottoms and give her my pleading look. It does no good.

‘Come on. We will go and see Mr Noggett.’

Sidney is not going to like this, I think to myself as I am marched down the corridor sandwiched between Miss Ruperts and Miss Primstone. Now he has become Conrad Hilton he has rediscovered many of the little ways that made him such a prize tit when he was with Funfrall.

Knock, knock! Miss R. turns the handle before the sound has died away and I stumble into Sidney’s suite. Very nice, very nice indeed. Large settees, candelabra, a tray of drinks–Sandra is looking nice, too. She pops up from the sofa as the door flies open. Too bad she appears to be naked. Sidney, too, as we see when his red face and ruffled hair appear a couple of seconds later.

‘Sorry to trouble you, Sid,’ I say evenly. ‘But Miss Ruperts wants a word with you.’

‘Oh.’

I say ‘oh’ because I turn round to find that Miss Ruperts and Miss Primstone are leaving the room like it might start sinking at any moment. I guess that is the end of them for the evening.

‘Carry on, Sid,’ I say. ‘I expect she’ll take it up with you in the morning.’

I leave the room quickly, before he can throw anything at me.

Sidney is very upset the next morning, when he calls me into his office, and it takes a long time before I can make him believe that coming round to his room was not my idea.

‘She said I was your protégé,’ I tell him.

‘Dirty old faggot. She should mind what she says,’ explodes Sid. ‘You can end up in court saying things like that. I’ve never fancied a fellow in my life.’

‘She probably realised that when she saw you with Sandra,’ I comfort him.

‘Yeah. What were you up to, then?’

I tell him about June, Audrey and Carmen and I can see his face cloud over immediately. Sort of a green cloud, it is.

‘You want to watch out,’ he says finally. ‘Two last night. Three tonight. Where’s it all going to end? How long before you’re dragging your mattress down to the telly lounge?’

‘Give over, Sid. Most of them are old enough to be my grandmother. And what about you, anyway?’

‘I’m cutting back. Only one last night. Anyway, it’s different in my case. In my position it’s practically staff relations.’

‘Any truth in the rumour that you’ve got Miss Ruperts lined up for tonight?’

Sid shudders. ‘Do me a favour, I’ve never fancied myself in jodhpurs. Still, I’d better do something to sweeten her up, hadn’t I?’

‘Why bother? Give her, the riding boot, Sid.’

‘No, I can’t do that. I still think she could be useful.’

‘You’re barmy, Sid.’

‘Watch it, Timothy–’

Whenever he calls me Timothy, I know he is rattled.

‘–remember who’s in charge. About time you were down in the kitchen, isn’t it?’

‘How much longer do I have to stay there, Sid? The heat is sapping my strength.’

‘Not enough, by all accounts. You give it another two days, and we’ll see if you’re nearly ready for waiter service.’

‘But, Sid–’

‘No buts. Now push off. I’ve got to see Miss Ruperts.’

So I go down to the basement to find that one of the sous chefs has resigned and the Chef Tournant–he turns his hand to anything, see?–gone to hospital. The two occurrences are not unconnected because the Sous Chef has resigned by pouring a pot of coffee down the front of the Chef Tournant’s baggy trousers. Very nasty! Passions do run high in the kitchens and with the heat and the foreigners you feel you are working in the middle of a jungle clearing sometimes. Only ‘She Who Must Be Obeyed’ holds us all together.

For some strange reason Mrs Caitley seems to take a fancy to me and gives me a friendly bash on the shoulder once we have provided the Chef Tournant with half a pound of lard to slide down the front of his pants.

‘I hear you were a naughty boy last night,’ she says gruffly. ‘Take my advice. Don’t get mixed up with any of the fillies in this place. Rotten little scrubbers most of them. Find yourself reporting to the vet in no time.’

She is putting it a bit strongly but there is no doubt that the staff in the Cromby–both male and female–have considerably more sex-drive than your grandma’s tabby. To wander about the upper floor of the hotel after ten o’clock at night you need to be fitted with bumpers. Luckily my room mate comes back from holiday and he is so repulsive that not even the randiest bird in the place wants to get through the door.

It is not until I progress from the kitchens to becoming a waiter that I have what you might call my first brush with one of the paying customers. To be exact, I become a commis waiter. This is the humblest form of life in the dining room and is the bloke who brings the grub from the kitchen and puts it down on the table for the Chef du Rang to slap down in front of the customers. After a few days of doing this you may be allowed to serve a portion of vegetables as a special treat. A Chef du Rang is a senior waiter who looks after a few tables, and aspires to eventually become a maitre d’hotel. Fascinating, isn’t it? No? Oh, well, please yourself.

One morning, as I go into the dining room, I get an elbow in the ribs from Petheridge the night porter, who is just going to turn in after his labours. He, you may remember, is the gentleman who was spread out starkers on Audrey’s bed and is no stranger to a spot of the other.