THREE LOVABLE SCOUNDRELS

Did I just hear you ask, about the weather forecast for the North East? In two words, Brass monkeys (as Mr. Len our cellarman would say) with Christmas and New Year on the horizon — yours truly is home for the holidays. The year? Maybe 61 or there about.

Yes, it’s a Saturday evening in late December. I’m sprawled out with two pals and Bodo the boxer (No he should not be here) in a cozy bedroom one floor up, adjacent to the ballroom. We’re in the Imperials newly built luxury wing. Slick and his merry band in full swing.

We can hear as if afar, the sense of their playing a cha-cha-chá, maraca’s muffled by a cacophony of happy dance revelers and their companions. Most probably with a cigarette in one hand, peering into the blur of a smoke-filled ballroom.

We’re eating a fish supper (out of yesterday's news) from a “chippy” on the Coast Road. Father having braved the elements for my good self and two chums, who deemed to visit — as the hotel was light on guests that weekend. 

Bodo, awaiting any meager scraps — meager being the keyword here. These three schoolboys were not for dropping yummy cod or an orphaned chip. All splashed over, with a joyous tasting caramel coloured chip shop vinegar. Sprinkled with the finest rock salt (mined from under the Cheshire countryside no less). All washed down with big bottles of White’s or was it Coronas sparkling lemonade? Room temperature of course.

On our “in-room TV set” we watched Mrs. Peel in the Avengers, who stole many a young heart, this one included. Not forgetting Patrick McGoohan in Danger Man and Roger Moore in The Saint. We, three lovable scoundrels, would practice our judo chops and suave lines, like “I never carry a gun. They're noisy, and they hurt people.” courtesy of Danger Man.

Then throwing ourselves onto the bed, as if flooring the bad guy — and rescuing a damsel in distress.

Such was the violence many felt about American and British programming in this era — censorship was on the lips of half of Britain’s post-war society. Many thinking the swinging sixties would swallow our ever upstanding British morals. Mary Whitehouse (Yes, it’s Google time) being the champion of this ever vocal movement.

Luxury hotel rooms, with in-room TV sets, Monopoly, Blow Football, Snakes & Ladders, the Beano Comic with my favorite character Roger the Dodger — can only amuse three young scoundrels, for so long. After a while, the adage “boys will be boys” takes over one's young consciousness, leading to other playtime opportunities. Mischief being a keyword amongst them.

Like knocking on bedroom doors and legging it down a corridor, with Bodo’s continued barking outside said knocked door — giving us away. Finding a cigarette, trying to smoke it and coughing our guts up.

On one occasion running around the hotel shouting fire, and creating chaos on every floor. Including the car park, where hotel guests were freezing in their monogrammed dressing gowns, slippers, and flanneled sleepwear. Father ever the hero, handing out snorts of Bell’s whisky. Bodo looking up for his share too.

Oh, dear reader — did Mother give me such a bottom. One redder and hotter than the fried tomatoes — served up in the dining room the following morning.

Mother also banned my two chums from visiting me over the entire Easter holidays. The situation was so horrid, that I begged the good father in the confessional — to give me any penance that would absolve my sin and allow my pals back?

Let’s just say that Father Reilly wasn't having any of my perceived shenanigans. The good Father exclaimed, “That all the rosary prayers offered up — to the Virgin Mary herself, would never save me from my hooligan ways”. Let's pause here and talk about the sanctity, the seal of the Catholic confessional. Is it not a place of secrets? Of, not another word will be spoken? That the penitent’s (that’s me) confession never be repeated to another by their confessor. (That would be Father Reilly.)

So, I ask you, dear reader, how Mother came to hear of this request? As in, “What makes Master Peter think that Father Reilly and the Virgin Mary can deliver absolution?” When I broached the subject of inviting my two chums back — on my last weekend before returning to boarding school in Scotland.

You see Mother had an unbreakable life long devotion to the Virgin Mary, with statues of said Mary in many places. For example, three in Mother and Fathers bedroom alone. (Oh, least I forget Father was Church of Scotland. Yet no empathy was to be acquired here.) Two always to be in my room and one always placed in my trunk on returning to school. And it goes without saying, that our Housekeeper O’Brien kept a Mary in the linen room too.

Yes, there was a blessed Mary medal to be worn around the neck at all times too — and if not? Mother always had one about her person. Supposedly blessed by himself the Bishop of Hexham and Newcastle. Then there was my blessed prayer book, (Blessed by himself I’m sure) in which a prayer card of a “radiating” Mary — doubled as a bookmark too.

Not that I was ever disrespectful to Mother — on this subject. But I ask you in all good conscience, “just how many Mary’s does a young Catholic schoolboy have to pray to?”

The luxury wing and its never-ending plushness — provided not only a beautiful bedroom but an on-suite bathroom too. Hot and cold running water, with a pristine bath and oh my, it's very own loo too. All mod cons as you might say. Such a luxury feature must be tried out, see if it meets the cleansing standards of this young boarding school gentleman.

Well, let me be a tad more revealing here. You see, it was better to run one's own bath, than have Mother do it for you. Where an inquisition would begin on one's ears, Mother making sure I washed every part of this young schoolboys torso along with my hair. In the process, Mother somehow delivering copious amounts of shampoo into my — angelic blue eyes.

No, even at age 11, was Master Peter to escape this occasional ritual. No, thank the good Lord, my chums were not would be spectators — nor visiting. Mother always availing me of that embarrassment.

Turning both hot and cold taps on, the flow of water to this young boys way of thinking seems slow, very slow. Thinking what to do while I wait — as I peer at Bodo who's head is rotating one way then t’other, ears cocked, peering back from the bathroom door, not sure what to make of the steam rising from the bath.

For Master Peter, these playful situations start out with such innocence. As I await my slowly filling bath, deciding to play ball with Bodo in the corridor — is one such situation. Strange isn't it how quickly one so young, becomes so forgetful — so quickly? “Head in the clouds” would be Mothers response.

How a mere minute or two turns into fifteen. Then realization strikes — as the ball you are playing with, lands near your bedroom door. Then one's stomach does that awful churn (Do I sense some empathy dear reader?) as you realize the bath is overflowing. Blind panic ensues as you rush into the bathroom, slipping on a very wet floor. With one's best friend Bodo, nowhere behind.

You pray to the Virgin Mary, in the blessed hope there is no one in the room below. After all, the hotel is quiet. Yes? One's prayer going unanswered as you hear Fathers Scottish accent crescendoing down the corridor. Bodo appearing behind, doing his level best, to look as if he has just arrived on the scene.

O'Brien having been summoned — to oversee my mopping up efforts, whilst I kneel in schoolboy shorts on a tiled floor. Shame and discomfort added to this humbling task — seemingly magnified under the ever-watchful gaze of your former nanny. When finished O’Brien leads a silent, guilt-ridden Master Peter to apologize to the hotel guests below, in my blushing, stammering schoolboy way.

Moving with no assistance from O’Brien their luggage and accessories to another room — adding some flowers and later penning (in ink) a long letter of contrition. To be presented to said guests by Moneypenny our Head Receptionist on their departure from the Imperial. And my bottom? I’m sure you'd like to hear more dear reader? Suffice to say — Mother was most displeased.

Father delivering the final consequence of my bath time antics. Raiding my soon to be depleted money box — to gift the afflicted couple, a half bottle of vino to accompany their dinner.

For now, let's depart with haste from the Imperial to my boarding school in Scotland. Leaving behind this mischievous behaviour, and with sadness this boy's best friend — Bodo. Returning soon with events surrounding a mystery guest, our beloved Head Receptionist, Moneypenny and Mr. Len our spider-like, mallet swinging cellarman.

© Peter Wood 2024