Timothy Lea - Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

There is never much love lost between waiters and kitchen staff and anybody who does not believe me should be standing in the dining room of the Cromby at this moment–preferably behind a sheet metal screen. Spaghetti bolognese–mixed and separate–is flying in all directions, usually still in a container, and the walls look like the site of an action painting contest. Tables collapse under the weight of the bodies struggling on them and shouts and screams of pain and fury fill the air. Many old scores are being settled and when I see Superpoof staggering past with a soup tureen wedged down over his lugholes, I reckon it must be game, set and match to Mrs Caitley. Surely this little lot will spell finito for both of them. What a wonderful opportunity for Sidney to start swinging his axe.

Crunch! The table in the corner goes and the two lank coves scuttle out holding hands. One of them is clasping a yellow wig to his chest like a woman clinging to her jewels as she leaves a burning house. Yes, it must be goodbye Bentley, goodbye Mrs C.

But, not a bit of it. Superpoof gets marching orders or resigns–there is some doubt as to which–but Mrs Caitley remains firmly in command of the kitchen.

‘She’s done a good job,’ says Sid when I complain. ‘We won’t get anyone better. Also, she has this special relationship with Miss Ruperts.’

‘You mean they’re a couple of old–’

‘No need for any of that, Timmo,’ says Sid reproachfully. ‘I am referring to their working relationship.’

‘Get rid of both of them. They’re useless.’

‘They know the business, Timmo.’

‘They’ve been giving you the business ever since we got here, Sid! What do you need them for? Anyone could make a better job of running this place. With all your Funfrall experience you could do it standing on your head.’

Sid looks haughty. ‘I am not trying to run a Funfrall operation. Something classier than that. I think Miss Ruperts has the contacts to help me. I’ve been discussing an idea with her.’

‘Selling up?’ I say, hopefully.

‘Don’t take the piss, Timmo. No, I was considering the possibility of catering for specialist groups. Conventions, clubs, conferences. That kind of thing. That way we could guarantee filling the hotel and making a few bob on fringe activities, dances, cocktail parties. See what I mean?’

I hate to admit it but Sid does seem to have the germ of an idea there. He interprets my silence correctly.

‘Not bad, is it? We could make quite a name for ourselves.’

‘Anything would be better than the Cromby. When are we going to change that?’

Sid looks shifty. ‘Well, Miss Ruperts has a great sentimental attachment to the name and–’

‘Oh, forget it, Sid. She’s got you completely under her thumb. When are you going to tell Rosie about it?’

Sid does not care for that remark and, before I can ask him more about his plans, we engage in a swift verbal punch-up which leads to me being banished to assist Martin the hall porter, commissionaire and octogenarian. This man is so past it he has to get the guests to help him carry the room keys up two flights of stairs and has been known to sit on their bed for five minutes to recover.

I am pacing up and down trying to keep out of the draught when a car squeals to a halt outside and three smartly-dressed middle-aged men sporting red carnations in their buttonholes leap out. One of them is carrying a large bunch of flowers. They ignore me and press forward to Miss Primstone.

‘I believe you have a suite reserved for Mr and Mrs Beecham?’ says one of them.

Miss Primstone never has any problem hearing upper class voices and checks her register.

‘Yes. The Pallgrave Suite.’

‘Excellent,’ purrs Smoothie-Chops. ‘They should be here any minute. From the registry office.’

He winks conspiratorially and Miss Primstone switches on her ‘Oh, young love’ expression.

‘We’ve got a few flowers we’d like to decorate their rooms with.’

‘Well, I don’t know. If you leave them with me–’

‘I know you’d do it quite beautifully.’ Smoothie-Chops’ smile would melt concrete. ‘But it’s the messages. We haven’t got much time. They’re going to be here any minute.’

I don’t like the way the tall gangling one is giggling through his stained teeth but Miss Primstone does not seem to notice that.

‘Oh, all right then. I shouldn’t really be doing this.’ She reaches behind her for the key.

‘You’re too kind.’

They brush past her, look for the lift like so many before them, and disappear up the stairs.

‘Second floor, turn right,’ calls Miss Primstone after them. She turns to me and shakes her head. ‘That’s the class of person we used to have all the time in the old days.’ She says the words as if she blames me for the fact that they don’t come any more.

I shrug my shoulders and walk away, because they don’t do anything for me and I don’t want to be drawn into any aggrochat. Five minutes later they rush past us again and Stained-Teeth is splitting his sides. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.

‘I think I’ll go up and have a look,’ I say, heading for the stairs.

‘You’re a fine one to be suspicious,’ sniffs Miss Primstone. I consider pushing her into one of the pigeon holes but eventually decide against it.

‘It’s a change to have a couple staying here you know are married,’ she continues.

Poor old Miss P. I am certain she is dying for a bit and will die before she gets it. I wish I was man enough to put her out of her misery. Maybe I could get Martin pissed one night. No, the stupid old sod is past it, too.

Before I can set foot on the stairs, there is a commotion in the hall and a distinguished grey-haired bloke enters, labouring under the weight of a suitcase. He is accompanied by a well-developed lady of mature charms wearing a too-tight two-piece. She has what I think is an orchid in her buttonhole and he sports another red carnation.

‘Leave it, Henry. Leave it,’ she drawls in a strong American accent. ‘The boy will handle it. What are you trying to prove? You won’t have the strength to carry me over the threshold if you go on like this.’ No prizes for guessing who they are.

The woman walks over to the reception and writes something in the dust. ‘Gee,’ she says, her eyes probing the gloom. ‘They said this was a delightful small watering place. I wouldn’t water a mule here.’

Miss Primstone pretends she does not hear and pushes forward the register.

‘Mr and Mrs Beecham?’

‘Jesus!’ exclaims Mrs B. ‘Did they see the label on your plasma bottle?’

Mr B. grinds out a grin. ‘Can’t keep anything a secret, can you?’ When you get him in the light he looks a lot older than her and the dark bags under his eyes have dark bags under them. Mrs B. may not be joking about the plasma.

‘Are you going to help my husband to carry those cases?’ she says. ‘I don’t think he’s going to be much use to me if he has to drag them over to the elevator.’

I decide that this is a bad moment to tell her we don’t have an elevator and bring the rest of the cases in. It is noticeable that she has about six spanking new leather jobs and he one battered ‘I saw Port Harcourt and lived’ type. I imagine that he must have some kind of appeal that is not immediately noticeable to the eye.

‘I wish you’d told me we were coming to this place, doll,’ says Mrs B. wearily as we toil up the stairs. ‘And I’d have told you we weren’t. Did Queen Elizabeth sleep here? Or was it your first wife?’

‘Place has changed a bit,’ pants hubby. ‘It’s very difficult to find anywhere at this time of year.’

‘It must be difficult to find a place like this, twice.’ Mrs B. looks me up and down, checking my physique. ‘Don’t go too far, boy. I may need you. I haven’t climbed so many stairs since I visited the Great Boulder Dam.’