by Patsy Whyte
When I climbed the stairs and entered the private quarters, I noticed the baby's room was open, so I went in to check on him. The room was fairly dark with only the hall light shining through. But I could clearly see baby James sitting on the floor with his back to me, playing with his toys.
Surprised, I turned to look at his cot, wondering how on earth he could have got out of it. But he was also in there, lying fast asleep. I looked back again and there he was, still sitting on the floor, happily playing on the carpet. I couldn't understand what I was seeing.
Almost in a panic, I dashed through to Mrs Cameron's room and told her James was on the carpet. Then I followed her as she ran through to his room where she made straight for the cot.
"What are you talking about?", she said, sounding rather annoyed but with relief showing in her face. "He's fast asleep."
She was right. James was no longer on the carpet but in his cot and as I tried to explain what I saw, she looked at me as if I was some kind of nut case. She told me to stop talking nonsense and suggested I go to my bed. Later, as I puzzled over what I saw, I felt more than a little foolish.
Mrs Cameron never really mentioned the incident again except for one cryptic passing comment, a couple of days later, when she talked about meeting strange people like me when she lived in South Africa. I didn't have a clue what she was talking about and she never explained any further.
Sometimes, on my days off, I went through and played on the old piano in the corner of the empty morning room. The morning room formed part of the private quarters. The Camerons planned to convert it into a sitting room for the family. But all it contained at that time was the piano and a stool to sit on.
I was becoming increasingly unhappy in my job. Mrs Cameron only made matters worse by taking less and less to do with the children. This increased the pressure and demands placed on me. She even became convinced I was pregnant, although I told her repeatedly I wasn't. But she never believed me and insisted I provide a sample of urine for the doctor to check.
Somehow, I think she got the idea because I started going out on a couple of dates with a boy I met at the dancing. He was a good looking boy with platinum blonde hair. But there was nothing in the relationship. We were both just 15.
He ditched his girlfriend just before asking me out for the first time. She was was the girl who kicked me up the backside. No doubt she was jealous because he was one of the boys up dancing with me that night. When he walked me back, he always gave me a goodnight kiss in front of the hotel. More to keep Mrs Cameron off my back, I gave in and provided the urine sample.
I was startled when two men wearing long dark coats and trilby hats suddenly walked into the morning room.
"Are you Patricia Whyte?", the older of the two demanded.
"Yes", I stammered nervously.
"We're police detectives. We'd like you to come with us to the station."
"Why? What's happened? What's wrong?"
There was neither an answer nor any explanation or any smiles of reassurance. They looked serious and intimidating, all the time insisting I put my coat on and go with them. My throat was dry and my legs trembled. I grabbed my coat and walked in between them, down the main staircase of the hotel, watched from a distance by the staff who all stopped working. Mr and Mrs Cameron were nowhere to be seen.
A few seconds later, I was outside and heading towards a waiting car, feeling bewildered, my stomach in knots. One of the detectives opened the back door and pushed me inside and we drove away. The journey to the police station only lasted a few minutes. I was ushered out of the car and led past a uniformed constable at the front desk to a sparsely furnished side room. There was a table in the centre of the room on which lay a large black ink pad. A single chair stood up against one of the whitewashed walls.
Before I knew it, one of the detectives pulled up the sleeves of my coat and without permission pressed my fingers and thumbs into the ink pad. Then he rolled each one onto a piece of white card. He told me to stand next to the wall and not to smile. A flash of bright light blinded me for a second or two. I was ordered to sit down on the chair. Only then did they tell me what it was all about. Someone broke into the hotel's electric meter and stole the money inside. Did I do it?
"No", was my one and only word of reply.
I couldn't think straight as they bombarded me with question after question, asking me what I was doing and where I was on Friday night. The interrogation continued for about 10 minutes, but it seemed to last much longer than that. Suddenly, the questions stopped. They glanced at each other. Then one of them told me they were taking me back to the hotel.
Within a couple of minutes I was standing outside the hotel entrance watching the car and the detectives driving off and disappearing out of sight. Still feeling shaky and upset, I drew a deep breath and walked inside. The first person I saw was Elizabeth. She appeared concerned and asked me what what happened.
"The police are saying I broke into the hotel meters and stole money. I don't even know what a meter is or what it looks like", I said.
"That's terrible", gasped Elizabeth.
"Did they ask you questions?"
"No, they never", she said.
"What about any of the rest of the staff?"
"No. No one", she replied.
I didn't know what to make of it all. Other members of staff who saw me come in were now watching us. Whenever they noticed me looking back at them, heads turned away or stared at the floor. They couldn't look me in the eye. It was then I knew I was guilty as far as they were concerned, a thief, accused and convicted without a shred of evidence against me. The atmosphere felt so bad I couldn't stand it any longer and I headed upstairs to my room.
On the way there, I bumped into Mrs Cameron. By the reaction on her face, I was the last person she expected to see. I realised then she must have blamed me for the break-in and called the police. From that moment onwards, I knew I had to leave the hotel. How could I continue to work for someone who thought so little of me, who was now making me out to be a thief? My position here was impossible. There was nothing else left for me to do.
Over the next few days, I made the best of a bad situation, avoiding talking to Mrs Cameron as much as I could. All the time, she acted as if nothing happened, which I found very odd. But the damage was done as far as I was concerned. It was only a matter of picking the right moment to tell her I was leaving. Until then, I needed time to think. I didn't know what to do or how to go about leaving and finding somewhere else to stay. There was no one to turn to for advice.
My mind was still in a quandary on my day off. As it was such a beautiful morning, I decided to grab a breath of fresh air to escape the hotel for a few hours. Outside, in the street, I passed the public entrance to the hotel bar and glanced through the open door. Something made me stop dead in my tracks.
A man was sitting drinking a pint. When I looked at him I knew instantly he was the thief. I couldn't explain it but it was an all-knowing feeling. As I stared at him, he stared back at me and it made him feel so uncomfortable he turned his head away. He was smartly dressed and in his early 30s with curly brown hair. I was certain that he knew I knew what he did. But what could I do? Who would believe me? Certainly not Mr Cameron serving behind the bar.
Later on that evening, there was some good news and some bad news. Mrs Cameron told me I wasn't pregnant after all. The urine sample came back negative from the doctor, just as I knew it would. But I was apparently going to die.
"You're seriously ill", she said. "Don't you understand?"
I saw she was getting a little upset at my indifferent attitude. If she was expecting me to break down or to take her seriously then she was very much mistaken. I didn't care any more and I didn't even bother answering her as I walked to my room.
There was a buzz in the air when I came downstairs the next day and walked into the dining room. Elizabeth rushed over to me and told me the thief had been caught. As soon as she described him, I kne
w it was the same man I saw sitting in the public bar. The attitude of the rest of the members of staff now changed towards me, becoming warm and friendly instead of distant and cold. But there was never a hint of an apology from Mr and Mrs Cameron.
I felt now was the time to tell Mrs Cameron I was leaving. I waited until she was alone and then announced the news. She was shocked and tried to bribe me to stay, offering to buy me new dresses and to take me to South Africa on holiday with the family. I refused and despite further attempts to make me change my mind, she finally accepted I was going to leave. So she suggested I fill in as a waitress at the hotel until something was organised.
In the meantime, I decided to telephone the house mother at the home to ask for advice. I didn't know who else to turn to. As I dialled the number, I felt resentful inside at having to ask her for help. But there was an anger growing inside me and a determination to get as far away as I could from the Camerons.
"I'm not staying here", I told the house mother, after explaining it all. "I just want to leave, but I've nowhere to go."
The telephone went silent. There followed a long pause, but I was hopeful the house mother would understand the predicament I was in. But there were no words of comfort from her. Instead she passed me on to Allan. I thought to myself, how could he know? He only left the home a year before me. So what was he doing there?
Allan's voice was calm and reassuring. The boy who grew up with me all those years was now this mature voice on the telephone, telling me not to worry. He was going to contact the social work and see if they could send someone out to the hotel to see me. I said thanks and put the receiver down.
Feeling much happier than for a very long time, there was a bit of skip in my step as I went back to my room. When I turned the handle, the door wouldn't open. I was locked out. So I found Mrs Cameron and asked her for a spare key. But there was no spare key. Mr Cameron volunteered to climb out onto the roof through the window of the room next door. Mrs Cameron was horrified at the thought because the roof was more than 40 feet above the ground. But she couldn't stop him. The colour drained from her face.
"Richard, Richard", she howled. "Remember what your astrological chart predicted. Please come back in."
But he ignored her plea and gingerly inched the few feet across the roof to my window. Fortunately, it was open. He slid through into my room without too much difficulty and let me back in. Exactly what the dire astrological prediction was I never knew. The prediction must have been wrong. It certainly got Mrs Cameron in a fluster.
The days which followed crawled by at a snail's pace. I was only going through the motions of being a waitress, nothing more. Keeping busy helped me to concentrate on something other than my present difficulties. Although Mrs Cameron made a huge effort to be nice and friendly towards me, I still didn't feel comfortable around her. She tried to play the part of the concerned employer, asking me if I liked the job and how I felt I was coping. But it was all pretence. I saw right through it all.
The dining room was quiet. Earlier, it was very busy and I was rushed off my feet with hardly a moment to myself. The tables were cleared and now awaited the arrival of any hotel guests who wanted to take high tea later on in the afternoon. The temporary lull also allowed me the time to pop into the kitchen to grab some leftovers.
I poured myself a lemonade and put two scoops of ice cream in the glass. This was my favourite drink which I liked far too much. I understood now why Mrs Cameron thought I was pregnant. Since taking meals in the kitchen, where I almost had a free hand, my weight ballooned from all the rich food available.
The break lasted half-an-hour and then it was back to work again. I heard the dining room door click open as guests started to wander through and sit down for tea. I was on my own. Gone were the other two waitresses who normally worked alongside me over the dinner period. They were at home and no doubt glad of the half-day off to rest throbbing feet.
Mrs Cameron was already on duty in the dining room. As I passed her, my eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. Sitting at a table no more than four or five feet from me was the house mother and some of her relatives. I wanted to about-turn and run back into the safety of the kitchen. But I knew I couldn't. I just stood rooted to the spot, staring in disbelief. Mrs Cameron broke the silence.
"Patricia, would you like to serve them tea?"
Mrs Cameron addressed them all by name and seemed much too friendly. So I assumed they'd already met earlier for a chat. After a quick nod of the head, I hastily made my way back to the kitchen, hating the idea of having to serve the house mother and pretend all the years at the home were now forgotten. Maybe she could forget how badly she treated me but I was still raw inside.
The house mother neither acknowledged my existence nor uttered a single word to me as I served her. Her relatives were all just as silent as she was. Mrs Cameron tried to break the ice, suggesting I sit at the table for a little while. Although I nodded in agreement, I made an excuse to get back into the kitchen to avoid the very uncomfortable situation. I was glad when more guests walked in. Serving them meant I didn't have to talk to the house mother. When I turned to look at her table, a short time later, she was gone.
The hotel staff were a lot more friendlier towards me than before, trying hard in their own way to make up for wrongly thinking me a thief. I suppose they felt guilty, wanting to put the whole episode behind them, which I was more than happy to do. Even the cook, a lady in her 30s, allowed me to help myself to any food in the kitchen whenever I was hungry.
One of the older waitresses started to confide in me, telling me all the problems she had living with her husband. He drank their money away at the pub. Whenever she confronted him, they had furious rows. He promised to change but she wasn't convinced. She was unsure whether to leave him or to stay and work it all out.
Several days later, I was in the kitchen at the end of a busy lunch time, piling cups and saucers on to a tray ready to lay the tables for afternoon tea. Mrs Cameron suddenly appeared and told me to stop what I was doing and follow her through to the dinning room.
Standing near one of the empty tables was a young woman. She was in her early 20s, smart but casually dressed, with long dark hair falling across her shoulders. After introducing herself as my social worker, she told me to get my belongings together. I was leaving. She had managed to find me somewhere else to stay. Hardly able to hide my delight, I ran upstairs to my room to pack.
It took me no more than a couple of minutes to pile the few clothes I had into my battered brown suitcase and head downstairs again. I wasn't at all sorry to be leaving. But I was surprised how quickly events had suddenly moved. Perhaps it was something to do with the visit by the house mother. I never understood why she turned up out of the blue and then disappeared just as quickly.
Whatever the reason, my one and only regret was having to leave the hotel staff. I was really getting to know them well. They completely accepted me. Elizabeth was a good friend now and I was sorry not to be able to say goodbye. That was really hard. The social worker asked me if I was all set to go and I said I was. As I sat in the back seat of her small car, being driven through the streets and then out into the countryside, I still didn't know where I was going.
"Where am I going to live?", I asked, starting to worry about the social worker's complete silence on the subject.
"I've managed to get you some accommodation at a girls' hostel", she said eventually.
"I'm not living there", I replied instantly.
Visions of living in a place similar to the home I lived in all my life filled me with dread. I only just escaped and now I was being thrown back in. The social worker sensed the worry and anguish in my voice.
"It's only temporary", she reassured me. "It's only for two weeks until I find something more suitable for you."
There was nothing I could do. Arbroath was far behind me now. Although upset and a little bit wary, I reasoned that two weeks wasn't very long and I could survive that. Th
e time would soon pass and then I'd be somewhere better. It wasn't very fair to put so much pressure on my new social worker who was only trying to do her best by me.