I filled a wine cooler with ice and took it out to the table with two champagne flutes. The champagne was in the fridge. I took the bottle and proffered it to the ladies. ‘Thank you,’ Cally said.
They watched in silence as I peeled back the foil. I unscrewed the cork wire and, very gently, eased off the cork. It hissed as it popped and a trace of white vapour flickered around the neck. I caught a whiff of the champagne. I would have liked to have had a glass myself.
‘You’ve done this before,’ Greta said.
‘Many times.’ Since it was house champagne, I didn’t offer them a taste. I poured an inch of champagne into each glass. When the fizz ebbed, I topped up the glasses.
‘So do you have a girlfriend?’ Greta said. A smile was playing on her lips as she stared at me.
‘I don’t have a girlfriend,’ I said, looking at her steadily. ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
‘No, I don’t,’ she said. ‘Are you offering?’
‘Are you asking?’
I don’t think Greta had expected such a lively interchange. I glanced for a moment at Cally. She wanted nothing to do with this little game. She sipped her champagne and stared out of the window.
‘You’re probably way too young for me,’ Greta said. ‘But champagne does make me very randy.’
Again I looked at Cally. She seemed quite serene, oblivious to her friend’s banter. She did not look at me.
The two women each had a crab salad. I offered them bread rolls but they did not want any. The dining room was fast filling up. There was no time for any more easy banter.
I remember it being like an endless conveyor belt of little tasks, constantly juggling from one thing to the next. I had about seven tables in all and would scurry from one to the next trying to keep my charges happy: the young family wanted more bread for the boy; the old couple by the window were still waiting for their starters; another family needed their plates cleared before they descended on the pudding table; and in the corner of my eye,
I glimpsed Greta waving the empty bottle of champagne above her head.
When I took over the second bottle of champagne, Greta had disappeared to the restrooms. Cally was sitting very easily at the table, her chin upon her hand, watching me in silence.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’m marking time.’
‘All your university friends are working in London.’ I noticed her fingers for the first time. They were strong, powerful hands and flecked with paint. For a moment her hand strayed to her mouth before she touched her neck.
‘They are working in London,’ I said.
‘But you don’t want to go because you don’t know what to do.’
I laughed as I worked at the cork. ‘I didn’t know you knew my stepmother.’
‘You’re different from the other waiters here.’
I suddenly realised why her fingers were flecked with paint. ‘So what’s it like being the local artist?’
She smiled easily and looked down at her hands. ‘Very good,’ she said. ‘You’re going to do well.’
The cork popped and I made to fill her glass. ‘Not for me, thank you,’ she said. ‘Drinking at lunch always kills the afternoon.’
Looking back, I wonder if, even at that very early stage, there was a frisson between us. I think I liked her. I wanted to impress her. And I definitely found her beautiful; age, as I have already said, is irrelevant to beauty. If you’ve got it, you’ve got it. But there was also an awareness that Cally was unattainable. She was out of my league.
I could sense that my other guests were all clamouring for my attention. But I wanted to talk to Cally.
‘What will you be doing this afternoon?’ I said.
‘Just painting,’ she said. ‘At teatime I’ll go for a ride.’
‘What do you paint?’ I leaned over the table and filled her glass with water.
‘Animals,’ she said. ‘Humans. Anything that moves. If you want a still life, take a photo.’
‘And the paintings sell well?’
‘They do, as it happens.’ She smiled her secret smile. ‘One day I’ll paint you.’
‘I don’t think I’d be a very good model.’
‘I think you’d be perfect.’
Greta bustled up to the table. ‘More champagne!’ she said. She had put on fresh scarlet lipstick and, I think, more mascara. ‘I’d love some.’
I poured her a glass. She nearly drank it in one. Her lipstick stuck to the glass.
‘Will you join us in a glass, Kim?’ she said.
‘I don’t think Anthony would approve of me drinking on the job.’
‘Go on, be a devil.’
Cally was again looking out of the window. ‘Ease up, Greta,’ she said. ‘It’s his first day.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ Greta said. ‘Always too eager. Always have been, always will.’ She took the champagne from the ice bucket and poured herself another glass. She was already drunk.
‘Could we have two espressos, please?’ Cally said.
‘I want to come back here,’ Greta said. ‘Can we come back here soon?’
There was no more time to talk. Cally paid the bill in cash and left a huge tip, though the money wouldn’t be going to me. All tips were pooled. Greta was clutching onto Cally’s arm as they walked out. They had left half a bottle of champagne. As they went out, Cally caught my eye and gave me a little wave. I raised a hand and smiled.
My other diners gradually drifted away. I marvelled at how small children would not touch a thing and then would suddenly come alive when they saw the puddings, pounding through mound upon mound of cream and chocolate. I was down to my last couple, an elderly pair, who were stolidly working their way through a vast lunch. The man had a large piece of Dover sole and was eating it in the daintiest mouthfuls. I watched him for a while. After every mouthful, he would meticulously place his knife and fork on the plate, and would either say something to his wife, or would sip some water or some wine; it was like watching a soldier ant chew its way through a fig leaf. There was a certain fascination in watching the whole laborious process.
Oliver was floundering. All his six tables were still seated. He was at a table of a family of five and was only just clearing away their starter plates. I winced as I saw him try to clear one of the plates at the table. A piece of potato flicked onto one of the children’s laps.
‘Can I give you a hand?’ I asked.
‘Please.’ He looked hot and harassed.
‘I’ll get stuck in.’
I left him to his family of five and started working the other tables.
‘How are we doing?’ I asked a middle-aged couple. ‘Are you all right for drinks?’
‘We’ve been waiting for our main course for the past forty minutes,’ the man said. I knew the type very well – tweedy jacket and bright yellow cords, set off by a check shirt and a regimental tie. It was staple fare for ex-army officers. I would have put him down as a major.
‘I’ll see how they’re getting on,’ I said.
The man barely grunted a thank you when I returned with their two steak and kidney pies. He muttered to his wife, ‘About time.’
A more polite waiter might have left it at that. I’ve never been very good at being polite.
‘I’m very sorry,’ I said. ‘Were you not aware that the hotel has only just opened today, and that this is the first meal that we’ve served this year? Were you not warned that many of the staff are virgins, and you, I’m afraid, are the guinea pigs.’ I decided to take a shot in the dark. I’d seen the way that he’d tucked his napkin into his collar. He had to be a major. ‘Though I understand, Major, that it is rather good value.’
The man goggled at me. He had already picked up his knife and fork. A large piece of meat and pie was already hanging on his fork, poised a few inches from his toad-like lips.
‘Was I talking to you?’ he asked.
‘If not, then my apologies, Major
,’ I said. ‘If there’s anything more that you should require, just give me a wave and I shall scurry over.’
I’d nearly over-cooked it.
The major looked at me with pouchy wine-soaked eyes. He didn’t know what to make of it. His wife was concentrating on her pie, like a little chicken pecking at corn on the ground. Her hair was big and blonde and immaculately coiffed, freshly blow-dried that morning.
I thought at first that the man was going to put his fork down and attempt to berate me. The forkful of pie hung there and then greed won out and he stuffed the fork into his mouth.
‘Bon appétit!’ I said.
I cleared away some plates from another family’s table. The rest of the dining room was almost empty. Oliver was ponderously returning into the dining room with another batch of main meals. Very sensibly he had decided only to carry two plates at a time; the more efficient waiters were like a circus act and could carry plates and bowls all the way up their arms.
I was fetching some water for another of Oliver’s couples when I heard a small detonation going on at the central station. It was Anthony.
‘What are you doing here?’ He was speaking to Darren and Janeen and a few other waiters. His voice was tight and clipped. ‘Can’t you see that Oliver needs a hand?’
‘We thought he needed the practice,’ Darren said.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve been here for over a year; Oliver’s only just started. Both of you should know better.’
Anthony clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Good stuff.’
Oliver’s tables were suddenly inundated with waiters. Oliver was still chugging away, but now it seemed as if there were two waiters to every guest. Plates were whisked away as soon as the last scrap had been eaten.
There was one table, however, which I was keen to keep for myself.
‘And how was your Cake and Sidney pie?’ I asked the major.
He removed the linen napkin from his collar and patted at his lips.
‘What did you say?’ he asked.
I beamed at him. ‘How was your pie?’ I asked. ‘Was it nice and tasty?’
He was not at all sure how to deal with this bouncing irreverence. He continued to pat at his lips, wondering what he could say to put me in my place. I squared my shoulders, leaning back slightly, hands behind my back. Give me your best shot.
‘Take these plates away,’ he said.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘That would be my absolute pleasure. Will you try some pudding?’ The woman was staring at me. Had anyone ever tweaked her husband’s tail like this before? ‘I hear the sweets are…’ I paused and glanced at the woman, winking at her, ‘absolutely yummy.’
The man looked at me. I could practically see the steam venting from his ears, but what could he do? Call over the manager and complain about my language when, to all intents and purposes, I had been nothing other than a model of cheesy deportment.
He threw his napkin on the table. ‘Come on,’ he said to his wife, stalking off to the pudding table. She smiled at me nervously, as if uncertain what to make of this bizarre creature who had come to torment her husband.
Later, I presented the couple with their bill. I think that after three courses, plus two bottles of wine, plus coffee and mints, the entire meal came to around £15. It was an absolute steal.
The man left a tenner and a fiver on the table. No tip.
I beamed at the major as he tugged his Burberry scarf tight around his neck. ‘No tip for naughty Kim?’
He stood there by the table, still adjusting his scarf. ‘Once upon a time, I’d have had you thrashed.’
‘I thought “once upon a time” was only for fairy tales, Major.’
The major’s wife stared at me. ‘You are naughty,’ she said. Did I detect a hint of a smile?
The major put on his hat, a brown trilby. ‘He is an impertinent young jackanapes.’
‘I wish you joy of the day, Major.’ I gave him my most beatific smile. ‘I do so hope that you’ll be able to come back soon.’
I watched the pair as they tramped out of the dining room. The major’s wife was trying to take his arm, but he was having none of it.
They were almost the last guests to leave. Anthony sidled up to me.
‘What was all that about?’ he asked.
‘What was all what about?’ I gazed at Anthony with innocent eyes.
‘You haven’t already started upsetting the natives?’
‘Me?’ I said. ‘On my first day in the hotel?’
‘Oh God,’ he said. A tone of amused resignation. ‘They’re regulars in here, you know. They come in every Thursday.’
‘After madam has had her blow-dry in Swanage?’
‘That’s right,’ Anthony said.
‘And who are they?’
‘Major Steven Loveridge,’ he said, ‘formerly of the Blues and Royals, and his long-suffering wife, Jemma.’
‘So he is a major!’ I was delighted. ‘It would be a very great pleasure if, in future, I could wait at their table.’
‘You?’ Anthony said.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
Not a bad afternoon’s work for my first day at the Knoll House; but the major was, of course, only the hors d’oeuvres.
CHAPTER 6
I spent the afternoon serving cold potatoes and cold vegetables to Oliver.
He sat at Enid Blyton’s table with a starched white napkin on his lap. In front of him was a pot of Earl Grey with china cup and saucer, two slices of lemon, four slices of white bread, some butter and a pot of strawberry jam. He was always a very fastidious eater and I remember in particular the way that he would spread his butter so that every last square millimetre of bread had been equally covered. Only then would he put on the jam. It was his own pot of jam and expensive. The bread would then be quartered and he would eat it without a single crumb falling onto his lap; this fine dining was in such odd contrast to his general cack-handedness.
‘Would sir like some potatoes?’ I asked.
Oliver looked up from his bread and jam. ‘Yes, I would, thank you, Kim,’ he said. ‘I would like that crisp little one on top and then that big cold potato right at the bottom.’
‘Coming right up.’
I manoeuvred the fork and spoon like a pair of pincers and deftly scooped the small potato onto Oliver’s plate. The large potato was more difficult. The technique of silver service is similar to using two rather unwieldy chopsticks. For a moment I thought I had the potato, but then it flicked onto the floor.
Oliver continued to sip his tea. ‘I think it is much easier than you are making it look,’ he said.
I retrieved the potato and returned it to the bowl. ‘Would you like to have a go?’
‘Not for me, no,’ said Oliver. ‘I like putting the vegetables on the table. And the guests, they like to help themselves.’
‘Some do; some don’t,’ I said. ‘But if any of our classier guests want Kim’s silver service, then I’ll be able to provide it.’
Oliver looked at his watch. It was past five. ‘You have already given it an hour,’ he said. ‘And so far you have had eight potatoes on the carpet, as well as the entire bowl of carrots—’
‘I’m lucky to have you to practise on.’
‘Who was that girl you were talking to in the playground before lunch?’
‘What big eyes you have.’ I was trying to pick up baby carrots one at a time with the fork and spoon. It had never occurred to me that silver service would be quite so difficult.
‘Who was she?’
‘Her name’s Annette. She’s from Sweden.’
‘Annette!’ he said with satisfaction. ‘I like that name. She is very pretty. She is exactly the sort of girl that I would like to date.’
‘Don’t want to crush your hopes, Oliver, but she said she only came to Britain because she’s fed up with dating ugly men.’
‘No,’ Oliver said. He screwed the top tight onto the jam pot.
‘A beautiful woman like that
is not interested in a man’s looks. She will be attracted to a man’s character, to his soul.’
‘I hope so.’ Another potato tumbled to the floor. The problem came in exerting just the right amount of pressure. Too soft, and the potato would just drop to the floor; too much, and it would ping across the table. It required not just dexterity but very soft hands. As it turned out, it would take me another fortnight to master silver service. It has stood me in good stead ever since; women do like to see the occasional display of proficiency in a man.
Just like the previous night, we all had an early supper of pasta. At seven, Anthony was giving us our final pep talk before we were unleashed onto real paying punters. He had us huddled in the middle of the dining room. We watched longingly as the sous-chefs wheeled out the puddings.
‘We’re a team,’ Anthony said. He was in full dinner jacket and bowtie, quite the captain of the ship. ‘That means that we share all the tips, that we start in the dining room together and that we leave it together. So if you can see that another waiter is under pressure, then you go over and give them a hand, rather than just standing here gossiping with each other.’ He gave a theatrical roll of his eyes, gazing at each of us in turn. ‘And if it’s you who’s under pressure, then ask for some help. That’s what you do when you’re on a team.’ By chance, he happened to be looking at Oliver.
‘So go to, my friends; let’s have some fun.’
The waiters and waitresses started to disperse. ‘Oh Kim,’ said Anthony. He crooked a finger towards me. ‘A word in your shell-like?’
Hand on my shoulder, he led me off to a quiet corner of the dining room. I wondered if the major had already issued a formal complaint.
‘How are you enjoying yourself, Kim?’ he asked.
‘Very much, thank you.’
‘Now, tonight,’ he said. ‘A little bit of a star will be joining us for the weekend. He is a ladies’ man. I am hoping you will be able to handle him.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ I said. ‘Who is he?’
‘He is a rock star.’ And then he told me the name. Of course, I knew all about Ed McKenny. He was a household name. I even liked a couple of his songs. He had been married at least twice and had several children.
The Woman Who Knew What She Wanted Page 7