* * *
As a part time bit-actor with a CV which extended to playing the Easter Bunny, I was persuaded to take on the role of the ghost – much against my better judgement. Although, now I come to think about it, I was in some ways taking on my natural role – appearing when summoned by Maggie. At Halloween, Maggie would tell ghost tales to all the visitors standing near the moat pool. The tales would culminate in a story about The White Lady and her appearance across the field. The children would ring a bell which they were told summoned The White Lady. So on the third ring, to the accompaniment of much shouting and screaming, I would emerge in costume from the woods at the other side of the field. A well trained ghost. One year there were horses in the field which added to the spectacle. As I stood up to scare fellow humans the equine audience reared up and galloped across the field. I felt as if I had supernatural powers and so did the audience. They were enthralled and thought the horses were all part of the show.
Earlier, as I had been getting ready for my appearance by climbing into the costume in the public wood, I had terrified two anglers who were walking along to the fish ponds which lay deeper in the woods. Their horrified faces were a treat to see, but I took my hood off to reassure them.
The tables were turned the following year when a ferocious Rottweiler, rather than two anglers, confronted me. So, on that occasion I was the one who was terrified. Fortunately the dog’s owner had two hands on the leash and kept the growling animal at bay. Without those steady hands I would have been off over the field pursued by an angry canine. No doubt it would have led to hilarity from the onlookers who had come to be frightened rather than humorously entertained.
* * *
Our first Christmas event was very low key with just a few visitors and we had to keep on waking Father Christmas up to greet the children. The coal fire had just been far too cosy for our Santa and he was continually nodding off and snoring. His grotto was in one of the smaller rooms next to the kitchen and as the popularity of the event increased over subsequent years a bigger room was required. We now have the grotto in the tower room, and with scheduled appointments, so that we have a clear idea of how many people will be visiting. No time now for a napping Father Christmas. We are always fully booked.
I remember an incident in those early days when panic spread through the Laplanders as Santa had run out of presents. The last visitor, a young boy called Sam, was destined to have no gift. A quick thinking elf, aka Maggie, ran upstairs to our private accommodation and took one of our children’s presents from under our tree. Sam went home with a lovely present and Ian still does not know that he was a present down that year.
A treasure hunt is organised for all our events and Christmas is no exception. We have a hidden clue in each garden and there is a small prize for all the children who successfully complete the hunt. For some inexplicable reason one little girl thought she was going to be rewarded with a real live kitten. She was very disappointed when she was handed a small candy bar.
Some of the interactions with Father Christmas have been memorable; the young boy who came in and fell to his knees praying as if the man in the red suit was a messiah. Another boy, when placed on one of the small seats, had his feet firmly facing the exit so he could run out as soon as he got his present. One boy asked if he could have a private consultation with Father Christmas in order to report that he was being bullied. He hoped Santa could make the torment stop. That one touched my heart.
Nearly all the children are looking for rather more material presents from Father Christmas. They usually have a fairly fixed idea of the toy they want. One youngster brought out three sheets of foolscap and started to reel off his requirements. It sounded like the inventory of Hamleys. Father Christmas had to let him down gently by pointing out that he only had one sleigh.
We have information about each child on booking so Father Christmas is always well briefed about the children who are scheduled in to see him. In one instance a six year old boy called Joshua came along. Father Christmas had been told that it was Joshua’s seventh birthday the next day and he had a dog called Rocky. Joshua came in with two of his siblings and a cousin.
He inspected Santa carefully before asking suspiciously “Are you the real Father Christmas?”
Santa responded by asking “Are you the real Joshua? Is it your birthday tomorrow? And will you be taking your dog Rocky for a walk?”
There was complete silence as Joshua’s eyes grew almost to the size of plates and his jaw dropped. He remained silent for the rest of the interchange. He was entranced.
Sometimes there have been embarrassing moments for the adults. Father Christmas always asked the children whether grown up family members had been good.
On one occasion a young boy replied, “Yes Mum has been good but Dad has been very naughty.”
“What makes you think Dad has been so naughty?” enquired Father Christmas.
“Because Mum says so. She says he is so naughty that he has to sleep in the spare room.”
Mum added grimly that he would be remaining there until he began to behave better. Toes were curling. Too much information. Father Christmas moved swiftly on.
* * *
People sometimes leave some of their belongings at the Hall. I usually wander around the gardens after we are closed just checking that all the gates are shut. One evening I thought all my birthdays had come at once when I almost tripped over a large wad of cash – rolled up twenty pound notes. I was most excited. I knew that I would have to hand it in at the police station, but I also knew that if it was not claimed I would be able to keep it. Unfortunately for me the owner rang ten minutes later to ask if we had found any cash in the gardens. My disappointment was matched by his delight when I said I had found it. Some of the older readers may remember Lorraine Chase of ‘Luton Airport’ fame. We found her purse in the Hall. Fortunately for her I am old enough to remember her persona and was able to trace her and return her credit cards, currency etc.
One woman left a very pretty ring in one of the bathrooms. Maggie found it and popped it on her finger for safe keeping. A couple of hours later she and Nicola were having a wedding planning meeting with a bride and her mother. The bride’s mother asked if an eternity ring had been handed in. Maggie was most embarrassed and wished the ground would swallow her up as she flashed her hand at the woman and asked if this was the lost ring. Nicola pointed out that looking after lost rings was a very important job at Crook Hall. Everyone laughed as the ring was returned to the rightful finger.
* * *
Throughout the year we welcome lots of coach trips and sometimes there are passengers who have mobility issues. One such trip is indelibly imprinted on my memory. A very thoughtful coach driver had arrived with five mobility scooters on board for the use of his elderly passengers. Unfortunately, he assumed riding a mobility scooter was a universal skill. Such an assumption was poorly grounded as were the first drivers arriving at the gates. Five mobility scooters hit the garden led by a Lewis Hamilton-like character who was definitely in pole position. Well, that was until they hit the first corner at high speed. They crashed into each other and one of the drivers was thrown off.
She sprawled on the grass and shouted at the top of her voice “GET ENID! GET ENID.”
I imagined Enid arriving in some sort of support vehicle. Instead an elderly woman strode around the corner like some Matron from a pre-1970 sitcom.
“Thank goodness you are here,” one of them called to her, “Maureen’s badly hurt.”
Enid was not sympathetic. She pulled the woman to her feet, brushed her down and marched her off into the gardens. I heard her admonishing her charge for being far too mobile to need one of those scooters and besides they were death-traps.
I was left to push, rather than ride, the scooters back to the bus. Seeing the crash site the coach driver was now interviewing the passengers as to w
hether they knew how to drive the scooters. Those who had fallen off were exchanging tales of their near death experiences.
* * *
I am always amazed by how many people present fiction as fact. On numerous occasions I have been firmly told that Crook Hall is a National Trust property and that we are ‘in the book’. This is usually propounded by people who have the card in their hands and no book.
One particular dad, on being told that under threes could get in free, introduced his son as a three year old. The indignant young boy chirped up that he was five next week – much to dad’s embarrassment. Indeed he was so embarrassed that he offered to do the washing up.
One day we had a very special visitor. This was Olwyn Ratcliffe who had been an evacuee during the war. She was very excited to be back in Durham and told us that she and her younger brother John had fallen on their feet when they were evacuated from the Blitz to Crook Hall. She told us of the kindness of the owners, Mr and Mrs Cassels, who had been incredible and they had felt so welcomed by the wider Durham community. Her main memories were of the site being right on the edge of the town with the countryside behind. She also had a few stories to tell about the ghost. It was lovely to know that things had not changed.
The majority of our visitors are absolutely lovely and we have been delighted to welcome them into our home. Our lives have been enriched by our contact with them. They come from countries all over the world, places as far flung as Tasmania, Uzbekistan and Mongolia to name just a few.
* * *
As I say most visitors are very pleasant but sometimes we get an exception and then I try to bite my tongue and keep my own counsel but I don’t always succeed.
If I was at the entrance and anyone was rude I refused them entry. Sometimes in a rather Basil Fawlty sort of way. One young woman approached the gate on a very busy bank holiday. She demanded free entry for herself, her mother and a few others in her party to discuss the prospect of using the premises as her wedding venue. I informed her that this was not possible but we could fix an appointment for another day. She could of course pay to have a look around today, however, she would not be able to meet with any staff member to discuss her wedding as it was too busy. She became quite insistent. As did I. Then she said she did not like my attitude. I told her I was less than keen on hers. She then announced to me and her family that this might not be the right place for her wedding. I voiced my agreement with her conclusion. This did not go down well. She stormed off, shouting over her shoulder that she intended to write a letter of complaint to the owner.
“Good luck with that,” I responded.
On another occasion I was met by a very rude person who had a group of walkers with her. They hovered some distance away, possibly fearful of the wrath she was about to let loose on me. She was insistent that she and her party could come in for free to have a coffee. She told me she had been informed of this by someone she had met in town. I told her this was not possible. She then tried to give me a rational business case as to why free access should be given to these very thirsty coffee drinkers. I was adamant. I explained to her we had plans to build a café at the entrance which would be open to all, but, at the moment, if they wanted to visit our café in the Hall then an entrance charge would be required. She kept on going back to her group to report the progress of the negotiations. She finally came back and crossly informed me that she would never come here again. To my shame I sarcastically pointed out that this was not possible as she had never been here once. She marched off leading her compliant group away, muttering that the unpleasant man on the entrance gate must think he owns the place.
We were not open every day and on occasion people appeared on days we were advertised as closed. Some people persisted in trying to gain access, coming up the private lane. Maggie, forever the diplomat, dealt with most of these people with sympathy and politeness. However, one day a woman was particularly angry that we were closed. Maggie said the woman was very aggressive and rude. She shouted such abuse that in the end Maggie let her know in a very calm voice that she would not be welcome even when we were open. I sometimes wish I could be calm and collected in such situations. I tend to lose it.
* * *
A woman who lived in England emailed complaining about a visit which she had made with her mother-in-law. She claimed that her mother-in-law, who was visiting from Africa, had not enjoyed her visit. I had to send a reply to her pointing out that her mother-in-law had indeed loved her visit and her comments in our visitor book attested to this. I enclosed a scanned entry of her mother-in-law’s comments.
‘What a beautiful place. Thank you for a wonderful day. I am visiting my son and daughter-in-law and this has been a highlight of the trip.’
She had signed her comments and left her African address.
Maybe the complainant was stressed by having her mother-in-law staying with her. You just never know what is going on in people’s lives.
I sometimes struggle to understand what people are thinking. I served a table of four elderly women and a retired man. He insisted he would tip the waiter and the women all thanked him for his generosity. I less than gratefully accepted the 2p he put in the tip jar.
One thing that people are very generous with is advice. One person, on an especially busy day, suggested that we should run a bed and breakfast. I thanked her for the suggestion but it left me muttering crossly to myself.
I am busy trying to get a life. I certainly do not need any more activities to manage. People sleeping in our beds at night? Over my dead body.
Others would suggest that we should do some marketing to let people know we are open. Most irritating when the comments follow a week when we have had some national press coverage or have been on television.
We have also had some visitors suggesting that we need more signage around the city – as if we have some magic wand and a wave is all it takes. These visitors are always surprised when we let them know that we have paid for many of the white on brown signs. And they do not come cheap.
However, these customers, although frustrating, are nothing compared to the people who look down their noses at you and treat you as a second class citizen or worse. That is, they do, until they discover that you own the place. They then metamorphose into fawning fools. Thankfully, these people are fairly rare. Maggie and I have no time for them.
One Easter we estimated we would have about 350 visitors and knew we would be busy. 600 arrived and we struggled to cope. We then had some poor feedback saying there were not enough chairs, that people had to wait for tables, and that it was chaotic and poorly managed. The feedback was valid. That particular Easter led me to sit back and once again reassess our position.
“Why do we bother?” I asked Maggie. “We do not need to do this. We do not have to share the place with anyone else.”
Then I thought of all our staff who had worked alongside us to build up the business and the wonderful feedback we usually receive. I quickly dismissed those negative thoughts.
* * *
When we do receive poor feedback, and I am pleased to say it is only occasionally, I always respond. One visitor wrote in saying that she had met an old man in the garden (that was me). She had asked him what a particular plant was and he told her what it was (and I was right) but the lady wrote that the scruffy old man did not look as if he knew what he was talking about. On that occasion I enjoyed writing a reply peppered with Latin plant names – from the old man in the garden.
Apart from these isolated examples most of our visitors are delightful people who we are pleased to welcome into our home.
* * *
We have always encouraged groups to visit us and Maggie is adept at welcoming them and making them feel at home. I used to help serving teas and scones but rarely spent any time with them. All this changed when Maggie and Amanda organised a long weekend in New York. It seemed such a good idea
at the time and I actively encouraged Maggie to go.
While she was away a volcano erupted in Iceland and spewed an ash cloud across the whole northern hemisphere. This huge ash cloud grounded all aircraft across Europe and North America, so Maggie and Amanda were stranded in New York for nearly two weeks. One of the groups booked in over her extended absence had ordered baked potatoes. This was the first time we had served hot potatoes and the first time I had cooked one, let alone forty-eight.
The group were due at twelve noon and I was in the kitchen by seven. I was feverishly reading Delia Smith’s page on baked potatoes. I do not think I had read a page of text so often since I was at school attempting to decipher a French translation. At least I understood the content this time but the stress levels felt very similar. Delia suggested what you should do with four potatoes, and I had over forty sitting on a table in front of me. I reassured myself that it was just a question of scale. Then I looked at the small door of the Aga.They would not all fit in that little space. I cursed the ash cloud. It did not help. I then thought I would cook them in batches. I had time on my side and by 9.30 the staff would arrive.
Fortunately for me and our visitors one of the staff saw that I was floundering and took control. Within seconds we had a process established and things went swimmingly. Everyone enjoyed their baked potatoes.
The weeks Maggie was ‘trapped’ in New York on an extended holiday I was extending myself in a quick induction into all the duties Maggie usually undertook. What hard work. All the team, but especially me, were pleased to see her return so that normal service could be resumed.
Blood, Sweat and Scones Page 12