MR GREY.

We are in the hotel ballroom, it’s beautifully light, spacious and colourful. Light because of the glass ceiling. Colourful because at the far end is an early nineteen hundreds stain glass window — from floor to 20-foot ceiling.

And that first “We”? That would be Bodo, my boxer dog — and Peter my good self, He? Barely one. Me? About eleven.

Bodo like all puppies is deliriously curious. Especially with any new tantalizing sound. His ears starting to fly as he twisted his head, one way, then the other, becoming facially animated in a crouched down — bum up, statuesque pose. 

Myself? Bemused, I continued with my assigned task, that of French chalking the ballroom floor. Bodo in the meantime has part turned and positioned himself in the direction of the sound. Then suddenly in leaps, bounds, and with the lack of a solid grip careers off. Taking no heed of my youthful unbroken voice. “Come back. Come back,” I shriek pathetically.

As I start after him, the sound of my Mother’s voice hurtles through my head. “What are you and that boxer up to now? Think 5 foot, large busted, Austrian accented Mother and hotel manager, who could stop a rhino at 10 paces with two words — “Peter Andrew!”

Skidding on the French chalked floor, (more on that to follow) I too careered around the corner, onto that plush red-carpeted corridor — following the sounds too. Arriving at the back lift still none the wiser. Bodo? Again frozen, now looking up the mesh-like lift shaft.

Somewhere on a higher landing is located an old metal gated lift, Thuds, cursing and all manner of human sensibilities descending from it. Finally, the lift starts with a violent jerk. Squeaking like a cats chorus, moving at an excruciatingly slow pace — downwards and towards us.

As it arrives, Bodo and I can see through this gated 1930s lift. And it’s a sight to behold. Who jumped back first is debatable. When our motions cease Bodo is behind me, barking like a speeded-up 45 gramophone record.

Coming into view two men, both dressed in morning suits, topped off with black bowler hats. Diagonally between them at an Everest like angle — is a coffin, covered with a black elasticated cover. As the lift shudders to a halt, the scene inside reveals itself — with both a visual and verbal vocabulary.

The coffin is horribly wedged — bottom left by the gate and top right in the corner. This conclusion comes from one simple observation. More cursing, more huffing and puffing from two bowler hats askew, red-faced men — this time, in more mouse-like tones.

Oh dear, the dreaded word “Peter” has arrived in the guise of Mother — summoned by the speeded-up barking like noise. Turning to leg it, Bodo and I are caught one hand at a time by my Father, a no-nonsense former Captain in His Majesty’s Royal Engineers.

Mother, horrified by the farce like scenario playing out before her, “is not amused” as we Brits would say. Mother if nothing else is a stern Germanic woman of action. Turning to me, she asks that Len the cellarman be fetched, accompanied by his large mallet.

Father concerned at this request asks Mother to be patient. “No Alec” comes that Austrian accented response. Ernastine, “he pleads again, be patient.” By this time Mother is looking at me in that scary, you know who’s in charge way.

I take off dragging Bodo along with me. I need a chum. Someone to accompany me down into Mr. Len the cellar man's lair. Descending the dark stairway, Bodo plays along. Half-way down though, he jerks backward, freeing his collar from my grip. Oh dear, woe is me — he’s gone, like a ferret up a Yorkshire man’s trouser leg.

Turning around I see Bodo’s silhouette looking down. Partly in shame, as I believe the breed is supposed to guard its owner — partly assuring himself that being at the top of this dark dank stairway, is the best place for this one-year-old to be.

Alone, I venture further into this cavernous dank cellar, smelling of old mattresses, stale beer and sprung mouse traps. Turning left into the darkness, I move forward with eyes darting about — moving gingerly towards Len’s inner sanctum. A subterranean office with dirty smudged windows, half-dead moths and a yellowish unshaded light bulb — which appears to be flickering. The reality? Yet another moth circling forever closer, to an ever buzzing light bulb.

Mr. Len comes into view, slouched across his desk — a half-chewed pencil behind his left ear. His desk? Strewn with half shelled, half-eaten boiled eggs and a multitude of paper piled high, some skewered on large spikes. Yes, it’s 1961 in swinging England. Calling his name, but no sound emitting from me, I nudge him and jump back.

This half-human, half-spider like being awakens from his one glass too many slumbers. He’s as thin as a rake, grouchy, slightly inebriated and red-eyed. And there’s a “roll your own” almost burned down to his nicotine-stained fingers. His other hand balancing an empty glass. Running out of his office I shout, “Mum needs you and your trusty mallet.”

The good news? I know he’s not far behind. Mr. Len loves Mother. Will do anything for her. And needs no further prodding. The lift hallway and stairs have now transformed themselves into somewhat of a hushed theatre as if a Shakespearean play were in progress. This audience? A veritable stupefied mix of guests, staff, my Mother, Father my good self arriving and of course this boys best friend — a sheepish Bodo.

Mr. Len moments behind, and instructed by Mother literally swings into action — best described in one word as “reckless”. Entering the mostly opened gated lift, Len grips his mallet and with knuckles white, lands a thunderous echoing blow, at the base of the coffin — nothing. A second blow transcends the lift. Still nothing. Father tries to intercede, knowing that should it dislodge, there will be a none too pretty end, to this one act noir performance.

The audience groans in dismay at the end of each blow — secretly wishing something comedic happen. With blow three and Mr Lens hand pushing on the coffin — it lifts and spirals like a ballerina out of the lift. Falling like a drunken trooper, between our two open-mouthed — bowler-hatted perspiring undertakers. Its contents, that of Mr Grey spilling out of the coffin. And like a mummy half wrapping its black elasticated cover around him. Mr. Grey, stopping short of my horrified mother, and a somewhat “told you so” Father.

I dive behind Father, Bodo bounds behind me. His curiously angled head reappearing through our legs to look at poor Mr. Grey, lying on the floor, somewhat twisted like a rubber doll — in his disheveled pajamas and tartan like monogrammed dressing gown. The audience delivers a half cheer, that turns into a choked, muffled cacophony of sound. With Mr. Len, almost taking a hero of the moment bow — before retreating to his lair.

And Father? He announces to all in attendance “Mr. Grey is looking somewhat grey today”. This translates itself into an outburst of shocked laughter. Unfortunately activating my Mother into whacking my father. Rocking him unsteadily backward — almost on top my good self and a somewhat quietened Bodo.

Being the ever considerate gentleman, Father duly catches his balance and in one fluid gesture, instructs Len, to fetch mother a G and T. Followed by a delicious wicked grin passing across his face. Returned with — a love you, hate you smile from Mother.

And the ballroom? Between Bodo’s exit and my skidding — the floor is not only half-finished but has a “patch of many scratches” too. Not good with a preview for the next vignette looking like this. The bridal gown and the tomato soup in the Brown room. An evil grinning dry cleaner. The bride and groom sozzled with bubbles in the Greenroom. The Best Man who went a bride too far. And the wedding photos being taken in the ballroom, with the aforementioned scratches.

But I digress. As if to add injury to skidding, the plush red carpet is now covered with both Bodo’s paw prints and mine. All created from England’s finest white French chalk. Both of us now about to be unceremoniously dumped, into the dog house scenario — by Mother.

© Peter Wood 2024