THE POOR DARLING

Every room in the hotel was furnished with a Gideon's Bible — located in the bedside drawer. A tradition going back to the early 1900s for the Imperial and Gideon's — both recently established. 

Not that this detail played any role in this or our previous story. For an eleven-year-old aiding in the delivery of breakfast to a room was nerve-racking enough. I ask you, “Can you imagine lying in bed at home and a complete stranger walks in bringing you breakfast?” Especially a maid assisted by a young schoolboy. Room service was certainly not my forte. 

Strangely enough, I was to experience it later in life on many occasions, as a guest in many differing parts of of the world. 

Three in a double bed, all smiling , all in unison saying “good morning”, was something never encountered in the puberty of this boy's short life. Confused, red-faced, with a badly wobbling breakfast tray — was my sense of being. All I could think to do was “run” — run like the wind. Miss Murphy, the maid I had followed into the room was, to say the least — totally speechless as if the cat had got her tongue.

Arriving back in the hotel kitchen, breathless, perspiring and still as red-faced as a letter-box — Father looking at me somewhat quizzically — as I sat down in my usual chair. Bodo my boxer dog frantically barking in circles, outside the kitchen swing doors — knowing better than to come in. 

Father making his morning cuppa, sensed something unusual had befallen me — ventured to ask kindly what had created “the somewhat perplexed look on my face?” Later that evening Mother and Father gave me an unexpected lesson in life, unusual relationships, and sex. 

Let’s breathe a sigh of relief here — and just say that this episode did not elicit some uncomfortable memory of a stuttering mortified Mother or Father. In this regard — be it sex, drugs or Pink Floyd they were brilliant. Even when on one occasion, it involved a banana and a condom. Well, maybe not quite when it came to Pink Floyd. Mother did burn my favorite RAF coat, purple velvet loons — with fashionable bell bottoms, topped off with my tie-dyed Floyd inspired granddad three-button undershirt. The latter was as yet — to be in my future. 

Room service is a world in of itself. We offered a simple breakfast of Twining's tea or coffee, a fresh croissant from a local baker or doorstep toast with lashings of Danish butter. — Lurpak no less. Presented as hand made butter curls, created with a simple handheld device, designed to produce decorative butter shapes. Not forgetting the Duerr’s marmalade.

One never knew what one might encounter when knocking on a bedroom door. If the voice inside the room was of a booming nature in its response, I would bang harder leave the tray outside the door, then career off down the corridor with Bodo in tow. 

If the voice was of a quieter sensibility, it felt easier to enter with a quick “good morning” sir or madam, assuming there was evidence of gender, announce the time and what one had delivered. Including on many occasions a broadsheet newspaper, that the night porter had dropped off outside the door earlier that morning. 

A warning concerning newspapers of this era is needed here. If one was wearing a white crisply starched waiters jacket, putting a broadsheet, like The Times Of London, anywhere near you was a disaster. Not only for your pristine jacket but your hands too. And woe betide you — when asking for another from O’Brien the Head of Housekeeping if there was any memory of yesterdays broadsheet on said white starched jacket.

In the “woe betide you” department, there were particular mornings when I would be paged to report to Miss Moneypenny (our look-alike bond girl) actually our Head Receptionist, to answer a simple — yet loaded question. Let me give you an example: “Why did Master Peter tell Mr. Barclay in Room 26 the time incorrectly?” 

For some reason by the age of 11 life gets seemingly complicated. I sense dear reader, a collective nodding among you. So much is expected of one. Good manners, hair correctly parted and shiny Kiwi polished shoes — to name but three. Let alone get the time right on your mechanical wind-up Hopalong Cassidy or Disney Timex, when for some reason translating the position of the watch hands comes out of one's mouth absurdly wrong. 

Before moving ahead here, I’d like to pause — and insert a small belated thank you to our night porter Mr. Jackson. One of his duties was to shoeshine any shoes left outside of a guests room. (There’s a Bodo moment here which we will return to) Why the thank you? Well, three times a year I would return to my Scottish boarding school. 

Packed in one's school trunk, would also be an assortment of Clarks (carefully measured) footwear. Stuart kilt and Sunday best shoes. Two pairs of everyday shoes. Football and rugby boots. White Dunlop tennis shoes and a sturdy pair of black rubber wellingtons. Mr. Jackson kindly cleaned each and every surface to perfection. After all, he had fought in (I think?) His Majesty’s Royal Northumberland Fusiliers in World War II. On any day of any given week, you could always see yourself clearly reflected in his — spit and polished footwear. 

As to that Bodo moment, it revolves around shoes left outside a guests room. On occasion a visibly annoyed Mr. Jackson would appear holding in his hand a single shoe. Yes dear reader, where was that other shoe? Where was his master's boxer in this scenario? 

Fortunately, Bodo had repetitive habits in the form of leaving his ill-gotten treasure in the same place. On a short landing off the back stairs, where the three little maids had their rooms. Much giggling led by the freckled-faced Miss O’Leary ensued — if I could not retrieve said shoe. As our little maids had scooped up Bodo’s treasure and would hide it from me for an hour or two. 

It’s time to get this back on track and rejoin my guest encounters.

Be it walking into a room strewn with every garment known to man or woman. With on occasion, odd bottles of wine, champagne or beer adding their own touch of decor to the floor. Then one had to be somewhat of an acrobatic ballerina, swerving on tip-toe across patches of carpet still visible — whilst balancing a breakfast tray — and landing it deftly on the nearest vaguely clear surface. 

As if that was in of itself not challenging enough, on one occasion the situation got totally out of hand for this young schoolboy. Having put a tray down and the maid having exited ahead of me I was suddenly presented with a wailing, foot kicking, back arching baby. Thrust into my hands with a“cheeky” monkey soft toy and instructed to quieten — quote ”the poor darling”. The mother obviously sleep deprived, was more than at the end of her tether. 

The lady’s husband? Head buried under a pillow or two, worse for wear with a scotch banging hangover, amplified by the ongoing wailing. The downside of living in a hotel during one's holidays — was experiencing too many guests worse for wear. And finally getting an answer from Father as to why people looked “so unwell” from my very concerned naive vantage point. (Something I’m not proud to admit, I have personally experienced, from a hangover perspective, with no Ms. O’Brien insight.) 

With a “Jesus Mary Joseph” echoing down the corridor, rescue in the shape of Ms. O’Brien our Head Housekeeper — appeared as if an apparition in the form of a much-needed miracle. Instantly becoming my saviour in her starched white uniform, unloading me of my crying, squirming, wailing cargo, (monkey included) simultaneously asking me — what did I think “in the name of Jesus” I was doing? 

In these situations dear reader, there is no answer — that will make any sense to this saviour, this apparition before me. I always sensed in these situations, a moment of disappointment from my former nanny, which by the way they always are. One or two of you might deem to agree. One could only seek solace in this boys best pal, Bodo his boxer dog. 

On a lighter note, there’s the groom who serenaded his bride under their bedroom window. According to Father, this groom possessed a fine Welsh baritone voice. This baritone went on for 10 minutes only to discover as he finished — his new bride standing alongside him. You see she had come downstairs to join her groom for dinner — only to discover a group of guests standing outside listening to his vocals. She proudly joins this admiring would be operatic audience — smiling knowingly to herself that her groom is serenading his bride, on the wrong side of the hotel. 

Let’s exit here, with this fine Welsh baritone voice entrancing our ears, and a look to future hotel adventures — of this young schoolboy. Including one's friends who will happily visit if one has a room in the newly built luxury wing. By asking how full is the hotel? If busy they are busy. If quiet they are available, knowing a quieter hotel, means a luxury room for yours truly and them.

© Peter Wood 2024