Andrew Ervin: Burning Down George Orwell's House

“Checking out? Already?”

“They’re expecting you over at The Stores and Mr. Pitcairn is to meet you there after he’s dropped Molly at the ferry.”

“Now?”

“After he’s dropped Molly at the ferry. Have you packed your things?”

“I was still hoping to take a shower — a bath, I mean.”

“At this time of the day? You took one last night if we’re not mistaken. We hear everything that goes on in this hotel.” If not on the entire island. “Now you collect your things and don’t worry yourself over that mess on the floor. We’ll tally up your bill. It looks like you had yourself quite a bit of whisky last night.”

Ray had forgotten about all the tick marks added to his bar tab after he went to bed the first time, but he wasn’t prepared to argue with her about that. He would get Pitcairn and the rest of those deadbeats to pay him back another time. What on earth had happened to the world-famous Highlands hospitality? “I’ll pack my bag and be right down, Mrs. Campbell,” he said.

Ray folded his damp clothes back into the suitcase and resigned himself to spending his first two weeks at Barnhill catching up on lost sleep. The jet lag had hit harder than he thought possible. Maybe that’s all it was — the constant shaking, the nausea — maybe it was all just the stress of travelling. Mrs. Campbell stood waiting for him behind the reception desk. No evidence suggested the presence of other guests. “We trust you had a pleasant stay, Mr. Welter,” she said.

He didn’t know how to respond. He had only just arrived and she was expelling him into the cold and rainy morning. Ray did what anyone would do in his position: he lied. “Great, thank you. The room was very comfortable.”

“We are glad to hear it. That’s one night, plus supper and breakfast and your lounge bill. One hundred sixty pounds, fifty pence please.” She slid a slip of paper across the dusty counter.

Given the state of the US dollar, the bill came to something like two hundred and fifty dollars for a bed and two meals he didn’t eat. The homeless people back in Chicago were accustomed to better cuisine. “A hundred and sixty pounds?” he asked.

“And fifty pence, please. It looks to us like you had yourself quite a bit of whisky last night,” she said again. “Perhaps that’s why you look so peaky this morning.”

That was when he snapped.

“I looked peaked because I didn’t get any goddamn sleep. That … that so-called stew kept me up half the night on the shitter. I didn’t even drink that whisky. Okay, maybe four or five of them, but Pitcairn and Pete and Sponge, or whatever his name is, they put them on my tab after I went to bed.”

“Mr. Welter!” she said. “We are appalled. We are terribly sorry if our food does not conform to your standards, but we will not stand here and listen to your abusive language. Perhaps that’s appropriate in your America, but not here and certainly not in our hotel. As for the bill, if you are so distraught by our service we will tear it up.”

And she did. She snatched the paper from the counter and tore it into tiny pieces, which she placed into the pocket of her outermost dress.

“Good day, Mr. Welter,” she said and turned to fiddle with the unused keys hanging behind the counter.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Campbell,” Ray said. “I was out of line.” She faced him, and he struggled to come up with something to say, some way to explain his outburst, but nothing came to mind. “It’s the jet lag. I … I … no, that’s not it. I have no excuse. Take the money and please forgive me. I’m so sorry.” Without counting the wad of pound notes, nor returning his change, she slipped them into the same dress pocket. “I haven’t slept in days, but it’s more than that.” He could hear the rain tapping against the windows, the sizzle of peat bricks in the fireplace. “I can’t even think straight anymore. I’ve quit my job. My wife is divorcing me.”

“Little wonder too,” Mrs. Campbell said. “Given your attitude.”

“The tragic part is that I know you’re right. My attitude is the problem. That’s why I’m here. Now the only thing I have left in the world is a rented house I can’t totally afford. This island is my final hope. If I don’t get myself together I don’t know what I’m going to do, and I’m already in the process of sabotaging my stay here too. I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Campbell. You have a beautiful hotel.”

“There, there, Mr. Welter,” she said. He didn’t know which of them was more embarrassed. “Let’s not worry. These misunderstandings happen. We’ll see if Mr. Fuller has some tea on. A spot of tea — that’s all you need. You just sit next to the fire and we’ll be right back. We’ll forget all about this nonsense, what do you say?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Campbell. I’m so sorry.”

“Not at all. You take a seat and try to dry those wet clothes. You’ll catch your death on Jura dressed like that.”

For one of the few times in his life, Ray did what he was told. The leather chair felt like an enormous, broken-in baseball mitt. Mrs. Campbell hadn’t deserved that kind of abuse. He had made the worst possible first impression and now word would spread across the island about what an asshole that Ray Welter was. He vowed to make himself inconspicuous. He would blend into the scenery, go native. “Fuck are you doing, Chappie?” Pitcairn demanded and Ray snapped awake. “Sitting on your arse?”

“I’m not feeling so good. Mrs. Campbell went to—”

“Oh, I’m not feeling so good. Is that a reason to keep me waiting outside? I got better things to do than look after the likes of you. Get your twee little boots on. They’re expecting you over at The Stores. I’m in a fucking hurry.”

“Just one minute. I’ll tell Mrs. Campbell I’m leaving.”

“You haven’t even paid your bill yet?”

“In fact, I meant to speak to you about that bar tab.”

“Oh, right. That was just a bit of fun, Chappie. An initiation, if you please. Welcome to Jura and all that. Come on now, let’s go. I have a suspicion that Mrs. Campbell will realize you’ve left when she comes out here and sees that you’re gone. She’s sharp that way.”

“She’s making me some tea.”

“Well why didn’t you say so? I could do with a cup myself. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Did Mrs. Pitcairn have you up late?”

Pitcairn seemed like the kind of man who would appreciate some lascivious humor.

“I was out on the hunt all bloody night. Besides, I’ll have you know that Mrs. Pitcairn is dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Ray said for the twentieth time that day.

Pitcairn tracked mud across the lobby and took the chair next to Ray’s. “Here she is now.”

Mrs. Campbell had reappeared from the kitchen carrying a wooden tray on which she balanced a large teapot, milk, sugar, and two dainty, ceramic mugs. “We weren’t expecting you, Mr. Pitcairn. We’ll fetch another cup.”

“ He was expecting me,” Pitcairn said, tilting his head in Ray’s direction. “You sit down, Mrs. Campbell. I got feet on my legs same as you.” Pitcairn stood with an exaggerated groan and went into the lounge.

She put the tray on a side table and sat on a footstool, sweeping her dresses beneath herself. “We’ll have you clean up this mud,” she called after Pitcairn.

“Mrs. Campbell,” Ray said. “I’d like to apologize again. I feel terrible.”

“We won’t hear another word of it. How do you take your tea?”

“Milk and sugar, please.”

She poured two cups. “This will chase away the chill from your bones,” she said.

“Thank you. About that bar tab—”

“Uh oh,” Pitcairn said, sitting down. Mrs. Campbell filled his cup.