LITMIR.BIZ

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I go down to the basement to find that one of the sous chefs has resigned and the Chef Tournant–he turns his hand to anything, see?–gone to hospital. The two occurrences are not unconnected because the Sous Chef has resigned by pouring a pot of coffee down the front of the Chef Tournant’s baggy trousers. Very nasty! Passions do run high in the kitchens and with the heat and the foreigners you feel you are working in the middle of a jungle clearing sometimes. Only ‘She Who Must Be Obeyed’ holds us all together.

      For some strange reason Mrs Caitley seems to take a fancy to me and gives me a friendly bash on the shoulder once we have provided the Chef Tournant with half a pound of lard to slide down the front of his pants.

      ‘I hear you were a naughty boy last night,’ she says gruffly. ‘Take my advice. Don’t get mixed up with any of the fillies in this place. Rotten little scrubbers most of them. Find yourself reporting to the vet in no time.’

      She is putting it a bit strongly but there is no doubt that the staff in the Cromby–both male and female–have considerably more sex-drive than your grandma’s tabby. To wander about the upper floor of the hotel after ten o’clock at night you need to be fitted with bumpers. Luckily my room mate comes back from holiday and he is so repulsive that not even the randiest bird in the place wants to get through the door.

      It is not until I progress from the kitchens to becoming a waiter that I have what you might call my first brush with one of the paying customers. To be exact, I become a commis waiter. This is the humblest form of life in the dining room and is the bloke who brings the grub from the kitchen and puts it down on the table for the Chef du Rang to slap down in front of the customers. After a few days of doing this you may be allowed to serve a portion of vegetables as a special treat. A Chef du Rang is a senior waiter who looks after a few tables, and aspires to eventually become a maitre d’hotel. Fascinating, isn’t it? No? Oh, well, please yourself.

      One morning, as I go into the dining room, I get an elbow in the ribs from Petheridge the night porter, who is just going to turn in after his labours. He, you may remember, is the gentleman who was spread out starkers on Audrey’s bed and is no stranger to a spot of the other.

      ‘Couple of right little love birds flew in last night,’ he says with a leer. ‘Table Six.’

      ‘They up already?’

      ‘About half a dozen times, I should reckon.’ He gives me another nudge. ‘No. I expect they couldn’t sleep for the excitement. Hey, that Carmen’s a one, isn’t she? I’ve heard of Carmen Rollers, but she’s ridiculous. Damn near broke up my set.’

      Petheridge is a big, strapping bloke with a jaw line that makes Charlton Heston look like a nancy boy. The thought of him and Carmen on the job is enough to keep the blue movie industry in ideas for years.

      ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Very nice. Sleep tight, Peth.’

      He ambles off scratching the front of his trousers and I go into the dining room. Table Six. Oh yes! At first I can hardly see them because they are so small but there sit this teeny couple with honeymoon written all over them. The bloke is wearing his short-sleeved multi-patterned holiday shirt with matching scarf and has a camera on the table in front of him so he can rush out and start snapping everything that moves and the girl is all scrubbed and virginal with her hair pulled back from her face and her skin glowing with health and expectation. She blushes like fury when the bloke asks her whether she would prefer tea or coffee and goes berserk pouring it out for him. Not like the other married couples in the room who just stretch out their hands for pieces of toast from behind spread newspapers.

      ‘Do you know what the weather forecast is?’ says the bird brightly when I bring them some more marmalade. The bloke loves his marmalade.

      ‘I think they said we were in for a fine spell.’

      ‘Oh, goody. Did you hear that, Roger? Lots of lovely Dickies.’

      She turns to me. ‘My, my–husband is very keen on photography.’

      ‘Not very good, though,’ says hubby bashfully.

      ‘Oh, darling! You’ve won the club trophy two years running. And what about that photograph you had published in Camera News? “The Old Forge by Moonlight”.’

      ‘It was very dark.’

      ‘That was the way they printed it, darling.’

      She turns to me again. ‘Don’t you listen to him. He’s awfully good, really.’

      What a nice kid! I think to myself. Ain’t love grand? Nice to know that there are still a few pleasant, uncomplicated people about. I avoid Carmen’s glance as she sneaks into the dining room. One thing you can never tell about her is whether she has dark rings under her eyes.

      In the days that follow, I begin to take a special interest in love’s young dream and it is therefore a surprise when, one morning, only Roger appears at the breakfast table. He is looking strained–a condition which does not totally surprise me–and fiddling uneasily with the cord of his Leica.

      ‘Shall I wait for modom?’ I say thoughtfully.

      ‘No. She’s having breakfast in her room today. Just a cup of coffee for me, thanks.’

      A cup of coffee? That is hardly the stuff to give Wee Georgie Wood the strength to blow up a couple of balloons for a kid’s birthday party. What ails our boy? Whilst others bosh back their sausage and egg, Roger gazes glumly out of the windows towards the oil tankers which are leaking slowly across the horizon. When he eventually departs, his coffee is cold and untouched and there is no sign of wifey. I watch carefully and he does not go upstairs but leaves the hotel and walks slowly along the promenade. He is not heading for civilisation, but open country. For the first time that I can remember he has not taken a picture of anything before he disappears from sight.

      What is up? A lover’s tiff? I wonder what wifey’s mood is at this moment. To find out I ask the waiter who has taken her breakfast up. Tear-stained and without appetite, are his comments and he has an untouched tray to prove it. Mrs Richards does not come down until eleven o’clock and sits by herself writing postcards until lunch time when Mr R. returns and they go silently in to lunch. After lunch they go up to their room and then it is Mrs R. who emerges, her eyes wet with tears, and goes off by herself.

      The next day they are down to breakfast together but there is an air of crushing silence about them that makes me clear my throat every time I decide to speak. They spend the day together but in the evening it is Mr Richards who eats alone in the dining room while his wife takes her meal upstairs.

      On the third day I become elevated to floor service and see neither of them but the fourth I am told that there is a breakfast to be taken up to Number Six. One breakfast! I tap discreetly on the door and a voice so low I can hardly hear it tells me to come in. Mrs Richards is propped up on a couple of pillows and, as far as I can see, is alone. Again, she looks red-eyed with crying.

      ‘Are you going to have it in bed, modom?’

      She looks at me for a long moment and then her lower lip starts trembling.

      ‘Now come on,’ I say. ‘Don’t–’

      But it is no good. She bursts into floods of tears and throws herself face down on the bed.

      ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she moans.

      ‘Come on, cheer up,’ I say. ‘Look, I’ve brought you a nice kipper.’

      I feel a right berk saying that, but what can you do in the circumstances? ‘Shall I fetch the doctor; I think he’s sobered up–I mean up and about.’ Stupid slip, that, but like everyone else in the place, Dr McDonald seems partial to his ‘wee drappy’.

      ‘No. I don’t need a doctor. No, I’m sorry. Leave the tray. I’ll see if I can face something later.’

      ‘Shall I find your husband?’

      At the mention of the word ‘husband’ she starts sobbing twice as violently and

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