Claridge’s Hotel
Brook and Davies Streets
Mayfair, London, England
Tuesday, September 16, 1975
The Lunch Ladies’ bus arrived at Claridge’s Hotel not quite two hours later.
From their vantage point in the front of the bus, Phil and Ginger could see that the Magna Carta bus had won the race to the hotel, for the Magna Carta Dames were lined up on the sidewalk. They were making strange bobbing movements.
“Precious, what in the world are those old women doing?” Ginger inquired.
“They are practicing curtsies,” Phil explained.
“Whatever for?”
“You see that Rolls-Royce? The one with the funny lamp over the windshield and the license plate reading ‘ER’?”
“Daddy left me a couple like that,” Ginger replied. “The last time I looked, there was one in the garage of my penthouse overlooking Biscayne Bay, and I suppose the other might still be in the garage of the Waldorf Astoria in New York City, which is where Daddy was when he passed on to that Great Hedge Fund in the sky. But what about this one?”
“That’s what they call a Buck House Car,” Phil said. “Which means a car belonging to the motor pool at Buckingham Palace.”
“Oh, really?”
“That’s what the funny light over the windshield means, that and the ER license plate, which does not mean ‘Easy Rider,’ as most think, but ‘Eleanor Regina.’ Which means Queen Eleanor.”
Phil was taking a little pride in being able to show Ginger his insider knowledge of London culture, which he had first acquired in his youth when he had regularly stayed at Claridge’s Hotel when he had been an armed CIC sergeant courier.
Before I met Brunhilde, who became my wife and the mother of our three children, he thought, and whom, with any luck at all, I am about to betray by having unlawful carnal knowledge of a beautiful woman almost as young as our daughter.
He forced this disturbing chain of thought from his mind and continued, “What I think is happening here is that, seeing the Buck House Car, the Magna Carta Dames think that Her Majesty, Queen Eleanor, or one of the minor Royals, is in the hotel and about to come out, and they want to be ready to curtsy should that happen.”
“You’re probably right,” Ginger said. “But, Precious, I may be wrong, but I think that’s Queen Elizabeth.”
“Slip of the tongue,” Phil said. “Well, let’s get off the bus and see if there’s room for us in the inn, so to speak.”
So they went down the stairs onto the first floor, and then stepped off the bus.
Two men were waiting for them.
One was George, the top-hatted head doorman of Claridge’s Hotel. The other was Mr. “King Kong” Kingman.
No sooner had George said, “Welcome back to Claridge’s Hotel, Mr. Williams, and you, too, Miss Gallagher, although your unexpected presence here is an unexpected pleasure,” than Mr. Kingman launched all the nearly four hundred pounds of himself at Mr. Williams with the obvious intention of causing him great bodily harm.
This was a mistake.
Seconds later, he was on the ground, moaning piteously from the pain caused to his nose and groin area by two of the Claridge’s bellmen, all of whom had been trained in the Ancient Korean Art of Taekkyeon at the Royal Korean Archery & Taekkyeon Academy on London’s Dried Fish Street as part of their bellman training.
Mrs. Kingman, screaming naughty words, rushed to defend her husband, which shortly afterward caused her to be lying beside him, as two tea-servers of the Sidewalk Tea Tables, on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, who were famed for the crisp paper tiaras they wore in their hair and their feminine daintiness in general, had literally leapt to defend the bellmen, their fellow alumni at the Royal Korean Archery & Taekkyeon Academy.
“Sir and madam,” George then said, leaning over the Kingmans, “I must tell you that sort of behavior, even for Americans, is beyond the pale and will not be tolerated. Should you persist, you will be asked to vacate the premises.”
“George,” one of the Magna Carta Dames who had been in London often before and knew the head doorman pretty well, “that sort of behavior is to be expected, sadly, of white trash like those two. I say give them the boot!”
This caused other members of the Ladies of The Tuesday Luncheon Club to offer some unkind words in response and a royal brouhaha was clearly about to occur.
George said to Phil and Ginger, “Why don’t we hustle you inside and get you accommodated in your accommodations?” and proceeded to hustle Phil and Ginger into the lobby.
Dr. Waldo Pfefferkopf was standing just inside the revolving door.
“Well, here I am in London, Herr Williams,” he said. “Dare I hope to now have the few minutes of your valuable time you promised to me yesterday in Atlanta to discuss your wife, Madame Brunhilde?”
“Dr. Pfefferkopf, while there is nothing I would prefer more than to discuss my wife,” Phil lied through his teeth, “now, sadly, is simply not the time. Try me tomorrow.”
“I have to tell you I am determined to discuss your wife with you, sir.”
“So I see. Try me tomorrow,” Phil repeated, then walked quickly after George and Ginger, catching up with them at the reception desk.
“Ethelbert,” George announced to the reception desk official, “we are going to have to find suitable accommodation for Miss Gallagher here, as she has again graced us with her patronage but this time without letting us know beforehand that she was coming.”
“George,” Ginger replied, “that will not be necessary, as I will share the accommodations of my Uncle Philip, as I am his niece.”
George nodded. “Well, in that case, why don’t we get on the lift to it?”
And they did, the lift being the elevator, and when it began rising, Phil asked, “George, what was that Buck House Rolls-Royce doing here? Is, or was, Queen Eleanor here?”
“Actually, sir, the Buck House Rolls carried a message for you, borne by Lieutenant Colonel Sir Brathwaite T. Smythe, Equerry to H.M. Queen Elizabeth.”
“A message to me from Queen Eleanor?”
“Uncle Philip, dear, I’ve told you twice already it’s Elizabeth. Queen Elizabeth.”
“Of course it is, niece dear. So where’s the message?”
“I will give it to you when you and your niece are accommodated in your accommodations, together with another message we have been holding for you.”
“Another message? From whom?” Phil asked.
“Well, here we are,” George replied as the lift door slid open. “At the fifth, or Aristocratic, floor. If you will be so good as to follow me?”
George led them down a thickly carpeted corridor to a double door on which was a shiny brass plaque identifying it as the Maharaja Jaswant Singh of Marwar Suite.
George opened the door, said, “Compliments of Mr. Pat O’Malley and the U.S. IRS, Mr. Williams,” then handed him a five-page single-spaced letter.
Phil saw that it was from ol’ Pat, and sat down to read it. It took him some time as the one literary flaw the Master of American Literature had was a tendency toward loquaciousness. He never said, in other words, what could be said on half a page if he could find a way—and he almost invariably did—to write what he wanted to say over five single-spaced pages.
The nut of what he wanted to say here was that after he’d spoken with Phil and told him that the tank-tracks-chewed-up wifely rose garden had precluded his going to London and Scotland with Phil, he had spoken with their mutual friend and literary legal counsel, His Honor Gustave Warblerman, L.L.D., and told him that ol’ Phil was off to ol’ Blighty, where he had suggested ol’ Phil pass the time by watching them lock up the Crown Jewels in the Tower of London.
Ol’ Gus, the e-mail went on somewhere on page three, had then said that was a marvelous idea, inasmuch that if Phil actually w
ent to the Tower of London to do so, they could tell the IRS he was doing research not only for himself, but for O’Malley as well, and they could deduct the entire expenses of such research, including those expenses incurred, but not yet paid, by Mr. O’Malley when he was over there watching them locking up the Crown Jewels, including the two weeks Mr. and Mrs. O’Malley had spent in the Maharaja Jaswant Singh of Marwar Suite in Claridge’s Hotel; Mrs. O’Malley’s little incidental expenses in Harrods and Marks & Spencer and other such establishments; and Pat’s bar tab at the Royal Yeomen Warders Club, which was in the Tower of London and which, Pat being Pat, had been a doozy.
So, Phil, ol’ buddy, ol’ Pat’s letter finally ended, instead of sitting around lonely and alone with absolutely nothing to do and no one to talk to in your London hotel room, you can go to the Tower of London and watch them lock up the Queen’s family jewels. Fondly, your pal, Pat.
George then handed Phil the message from Lieutenant Colonel Smythe, and announced, “I will leave you and your niece now so that you can rest from your journey. Since you were traveling with all that white trash, you must be exhausted.”
LIEUTENANT COLONEL SIR BRATHWAITE T. SMYTHE
KNIGHT COMPANION OF THE BATH
AND
EQUERRY TO H.M. QUEEN ELIZABETH
BUCKINGHAM PALACE, LONDON W.1
My dear Mr. Williams,
For reasons I am loath to put to paper, it is absolutely essential that you go to London Tower to watch the sequestering for the night of the Crown Jewels rather than sit around the Claridge’s Lobby Bar getting sloshed out of your mind as our mutual friend, Mr. Pat O’Malley, thinks you would much rather do.
If you could find it in your kind and warm American heart to do so, please do knock me up at your earliest convenience at 677-777-234, and thus greatly oblige,
Your faithful servant,
“Smitty” Smythe
Phil went looking for Ginger and found her jumping up and down on the emperor-sized mattress in the bedroom wearing nothing but the intimate undergarment with the two hearts joined by Cupid’s arrow and the legend My Heart Belongs to Phil! embroidered all over thereon.
He averted his eyes.
He handed her Lieutenant Colonel Smythe’s message.
“How do I deal with this?” he asked.
She stopped jumping up and down on the mattress, read the message, and then reached for the telephone.
After Phil had explained to Ginger that when the Brits say “knock me up,” they are not talking about impregnation, but rather asking to be telephoned, she got on the telephone.
“Colonel Smythe, this is Miss Ginger Gallagher, personal executive assistant to Mr. Philip Williams. How may the Master be of assistance to you?”
Since he could only hear one side of the conversation, he didn’t understand what was being said from the other end, so when Ginger said, “We’ll be there,” and hung up the telephone and appeared to be in the act of removing her intimate undergarment, he logically asked, “What was that all about?”
“I’ll summarize it briefly while you take your clothes off,” Ginger said.
He began to do so, and she did so:
“At five-fifteen, a Buck House car will pick us up here and take us to the Tower of London, where we will watch the sequestering of the Crown Jewels, after which we will go to the Yeomen Warders Club, where you will be very nice to Generalissimo and President for Life Sir Montague Obango of the People’s Democratic Republic of Chongo—a member of the British Commonwealth of Nations—who thinks your book Love and Lust in the Kremlin Necropolis is the finest he has ever read dealing with love, lust, and international intrigue, and intends to award you the order of Montague Obango Second Class in person at the Tower of London. Smitty says that if you’re not willing to go along with this, you’ll be threatening the entire British Commonwealth of Nations establishment. And Smitty suggests I bring along a can of Mace, as Generalissimo Sir Montague Obango has wandering hands.”
She paused, and then said, “Let me help you with that zipper, Precious. The way your hand is shaking, you’ll never get it down.”
—
And here, dear reader, we must once again draw the curtain of modesty across the narrative stage of this romance novel.
[ FIVE ]
Her Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress, a/k/a the Tower of London
On the north bank of the River Thames
London, England
5:45 p.m. Tuesday, September 16, 1975
At 5:10 p.m. that same afternoon, a Buck House Rolls-Royce rolled up to the front door of Claridge’s Hotel, and an elaborately uniformed officer, who was of course Lieutenant Colonel Sir Brathwaite T. Smythe, Companion of the Bath to H.M. Queen Elizabeth, got out and went through the revolving door and into the hotel.
He came out of the hotel approximately three minutes later, which elapse of time permitted the Ladies of The Tuesday Luncheon Club and the Magna Carta Dames to leave their widely separated tables in the Sidewalk Tea Tables at which they had been impatiently waiting and to form opposing lines between the Rolls-Royce and the revolving door.
At a quick glance, the couple whom the elaborately uniformed officer ushered quickly through the lines of opposing ladies didn’t look much like Royalty, but the ladies curtsied anyway.
When the Buck House Rolls had rolled away, there was some discussion about who the couple had been. At least two of The Tuesday Luncheon Club Ladies were convinced that the man had been that EXPLETIVE DELETED!! Yankee friend of Randy Bruce, but admitted they knew nothing about the blonde except that she was visibly not wearing the upper intimate undergarment without which a Muddiebay young lady would never dream of going out in public.
Two of the Magna Carta Dames were strongly convinced that they had just seen the Duke of Harlborough, H.M. the Queen’s Second Cousin once removed, and his French mistress, basing their convictions on two things. First, that the duke was known to have a weakness for young French women, who have a weakness for going brassiere-less, as this blonde was so visibly doing. And, second, that the duke was known to go around with a dazed look on his face.
Mr. Philip Williams did indeed have a dazed look on his face as he passed between the opposing lines of Ladies and Dames. But he also had a look of wonderment and joy on his countenance alternatively.
The looks flashed rapidly from one to the other in the manner of the flashing red warning lights at railway crossings when a train is due to cross the crossing.
One second, he would be thinking, and his countenance would reflect:
I am the happiest, luckiest EXPLETIVE DELETED!! in the world.
A beautiful blonde loves me and I love her and together we have made the greatest whoopee I have ever experienced in my life!
And then, next second, F L A S H!, he would be thinking, and his countenance would reflect:
I am the most miserable EXPLETIVE DELETED!! in the history of the world, who has just taken sexual advantage of a fine young woman young enough to be his daughter, which at the same time constituted infidelity to his wife of all these years and the mother of his three children, none of whom even suspect what a terrible person their husband and father is!
And then, next second, F L A S H!, he would be thinking, and his countenance would reflect:
I am the happiest, luckiest, EXPLETIVE DELETED!! in the world.
A beautiful . . .
—
Und so weiter.
Ad infinitum.
—
Practically any aficionado of romance novels will follow my meaning, as this isn’t nearly as difficult to understand as some of the narrative I’ve encountered in romance novels written by others, and I’m not talking just about the lousy grammar and sometimes unintentionally hilarious spelling.
—
Things went well at the Tower of London, far
better than Lieutenant Colonel Sir Brathwaite T. Smythe had dared hope, although on three occasions during the night when things didn’t seem to go well, he nearly had a heart attack.
The Queen’s jewels got safely tucked away for the night, following which everyone repaired to the Yeomen Warders Club, or as it is sometimes called, “The Beefeater’s Bistro.”
Generalissimo and President for Life Sir Montague Obango was already there with two of his younger wives. He was about as heavy as “King Kong” Kingman but stood only five feet five inches tall. With him were two officers, whom he introduced as Field Marshal Percy Dingo and General of the Army Ethelbert Jones. They were both the size and the height of “King Kong” Kingman.
To judge by their medal-covered chests, all three officers had served with great valor in every war from the Wars of the Roses (1455–1485 A.D.) onward.
“Please come in, Mr. Williams,” Generalissimo and President for Life Sir Montague Obango said. “Sit by my side, have a little taste of Famous Pheasant, and tell me how much you’re asking for the blonde.”
Phil pretended to misunderstand, and said, “She’ll have what I’ll have, Generalissimo, which is a double Famous Pheasant, water on the side, and two ice cubes.”
The drinks were produced by a Yeoman Warder, rims touched, and downed.
“I was thinking you could have your choice between these two,” the generalissimo said, pointing to his wives, “plus, I will up the Order of Montague Obango Second Class I am going to award you for your distinguished literary achievements writing about love, lust, and international intrigue to First Class, which comes with a purple sash to drape over your skinny shoulders.”
Again Phil pretended to misunderstand, and said, “Don’t mind if I do.”
Phil had hoped the first drink would turn off the flashing railroad lights.
It didn’t, but the second had helped, so he held up his glass for a refill.
“Okay,” the generalissimo said. “I should have known that someone of your intelligence would drive a hard bargain. Both wives, the Order of Montague Obango First Class, plus two camels. I confess the blonde has caught my eye.”
The Hunting Trip Page 35