HOTEL

                                                           A short story

                                                                   by

                                                        Vic o'Bradford

 

 

       The subdued hum of civilised conversation matched the gentle atmosphere of the dining room. This old hotel attracted a well educated clientèle to enjoy their quiet leisure time within its tranquil precincts. The discourse was suddenly silenced by an all-pervading voice in the corridor, its owner yet unseen:

       "No Jim, I offered 'im ten grand, thinkin' I'd get it, but I 'ad to settle for twenty with that mean b.....d."

       The heavy, carpet-cushioned footsteps halted at the door as the Head Waiter glided smoothly over to greet the newcomers. 

       "Good evening, Gentlemen.  Mr. Bold, is it?" 

       "Yes, I'm Bold," he bellowed.  "Ha, ha, bold eh?  Ha, ha..... oh, and this is my manager,  Jim." 

       The uncouth tones had captured the existing diners' attention.  As the Head Waiter led the pair to a table, disdainful eyes were upon them, all except for a couple in the corner who remained undistracted from their private cooing.

       "Ah, no, my man, not 'ere.  We'll  'ave the table by the window," he boomed.

       "But Sir, that's already....."

       A twenty pound note appeared, gripped between diamond-ringed fingers and waved above a heavy gold wrist watch encircling an arm.  The note changed hands.  The Head Waiter capitulated.

       The big man, six feet six, with padded shoulders to match, led the subdued principal through his restaurant.  When he changed direction, a weighty brogue knocked the ankle of a seated diner.

       "Hey!  Watch out, young man;" he growled, " 'ave you left your foot in my way?"

       The garish check suit, followed by its meeker colleague, settled into its chosen seat under the window.           

        "Yes, Jim, twenty grand; an' I've already put two million into my Chicago outfit."

       Surrounding eyebrows raised.  A fresh-faced young waiter approached.   

       "We'll 'ave the smoked salmon, my son," he ordered loudly, automatically failing to consult his diminutive colleague.

        The waiter left with a concealed smirk..... "Thank you, Sir."

       "Alright, Jim?"                                                                                                                           

       "Oh, yes, I'd like the salmon please, Mr. Bold," whispered Jim, with total irrelevance.

        "I say, it's a bit pricey in 'ere, Jim..... oh yes, as I was sayin', two million in Chicago, an' now 'e wants another twenty bleedin’ grand."

       The salmon arrived and quelled the voice, to the relief of all present.

       After this brash display the general focus gradually shifted as more newcomers claimed the Head Waiter's attention. 

       A married couple and five year old boy were taken to a table close to the lovebirds.  A middle-aged lady, alone, was guided to a place in the centre of the room.  She sat uneasily, consulting her pendant watch, then the clock on the wall, then looking back at her watch, nervously twirling its chain and drumming on the table with manicured fingers.

       "Mummy, what are they doing?"  

       The child had piped up in a shrill descant that overrode the entrepreneur's bass, pointing an accusing finger directly at the couple.                        

       "They're holding hands, Darling."

       "But why, Mummy?"                                                                                                              

       "Shush, Bobby; quietly now;" whispered the embarrassed mother, "because they love each other."   

       "But why is she stroking his leg with her foot?.... She's taken her shoe off, Mummy, look."

       "Oh, Bobby, do be quiet," she repeated, her cheeks reddening.

       The lonely lady with the watch smiled discreetly at the boy as she shuffled in her seat, nervously tweaking her ear and looking expectantly at the doorway.                                           

       The young lady's foot lost contact with her lover's leg, temporarily distracted by the boy's intrusive observation.

       "I do wish that kid would shut up," she murmured, looking into her partner's bemused eyes.

       "Yes Darling, so do I," he breathed, "but please don't stop." 

       The foot returned to the leg and the room again disappeared from their view.

       "Knickerbocker Glory, Jim?"

       "Oh, no, I couldn't, Mr. Bold, thank you."

       The watch lady stood up, looked disapprovingly at two idling waiters leching at the couple, and left the room, stealing a longing glance at the lovers herself. 

       When she returned, the couple and the family had gone; the loud check suit was fumbling for its cheque book and the Head Waiter continued to hover. 

       She sat down, again watching the doorway, still tearfully alone in the renewed silence, and wished..... .                                                        

                                                               END