by Iris Danbury
As usual, the reception telephone was ringing its head off when Fenella scuttled back to the office, but fortunately Miriam was nowhere in sight.
The Gairmorlie was now beginning to be inhabited by strangely assorted types. A tall, distinguished-looking Spaniard known as Alvaro was often to be seen in the main restaurant apparently counting the spoons or checking various sizes of plates. He spoke excellent English, his manners were superb and he carried his head regally.
Then there were several young women, one with a pronounced Irish brogue. Whenever there was a burst of laughter, the Irish girl was usually in the middle of a group.
A small, dark man stalked about the kitchens, accompanied sometimes by Cameron, and asking questions in rapid Italian. The chef? wondered Fenella.
She knew that she must get all these unfamiliar faces sorted out and attached to the correct names before the hotel was overrun with visitors or else she would make the most appalling mistakes of identity.
When she had a few spare moments she went outside to see how the new pavilion was coming along. Jamie was standing there watching the men at work. He had no room now for any more signatures on his plastered arm and some of the small caricature sketches were beginning to rub off and fade.
‘The men call this the bandstand,’ Jamie told her, pointing to the structure which was now being roofed.
‘Aye, laddie,’ chimed in one of the men, ‘yon reminds me of Blackpool.’
Fenella said, ‘It looks like a giant jampot with a lid and a knob on top. No windows. How on earth are they going to see?’
‘It’s all wired up for strip lighting,’ Jamie informed her before the man could speak. ‘There’s a floor inside, too, and it bounces up and down when you walk on it.’
Fenella laughed. ‘I hope the conference party won’t feel seasick when they’re sitting there.’
But she did not really feel amused. Only two days remained before this huge conference was due to arrive and hundreds of tasks were not yet finished.
Cameron said shortly before dinner, ‘Fenella, I’d like you and Miriam to have dinner in the restaurant tonight instead of the snug. You can be the guinea-pigs. Then we shall find out what goes wrong.’
Fenella’s eyebrows went up. ‘Do I wear my best evening dress for the occasion?’
‘That’s not necessary. There’s no one to impress. What I want is representative bodies sitting at a table.’
Fenella nearly doubled up with laughter, but she did not share the joke with Cameron. ‘Representative bodies’ was something that might have been better phrased. What he really meant was that representative mouths had to be stuffed with food to see what might be right or wrong with the service.
At the appointed time, Fenella, Miriam and Cameron solemnly trooped into the restaurant, were ceremoniously conducted by Alvaro to a table in the centre of the room, and handed a long menu.
‘Disregard most of the items,’ advised Cameron. ‘Only a fairly simple meal has been cooked. These other things don’t exist yet.’
Fenella was fascinated by the variety and extent of the dishes that might eventually be ordered. Vichyssoise and coq au vin, baked trout, kebabs and saddle of lamb a Tarlesiemte. Oh, it all sounded very exciting, but would more than the discerning few demand anything but roast beef or substantial high teas?
Tonight each course was served by a different waiter or waitress, the wine chosen by Cameron from a long list, most of which were probably not yet in the cellar, Fenella guessed. Alvaro looked on with a word here and there to his staff as they collected plates or brought the next course.
‘A delicious meal!’ Fenella said, when the coffee arrived. ‘I’ve never tasted better in the Gairmorlie.’
Too late, she realized that Miriam’s glance opposite was sullen and displeased.
‘I’ve had enough to cope with lately,’ began Miriam, but Fenella interrupted her soothingly.
‘Oh, I didn’t mean that you haven’t cooked marvellously for us until now.’
‘Ernesco knows his profession, I think,’ Cameron said.
After dinner, Cameron said, ‘The rehearsal’s over.’ Miriam immediately went away. Fenella received a dazzling smile from Alvaro and Cameron stayed in the restaurant to talk with him.
She caught something about the difficulty of serving breakfasts to large parties when the staff was comparatively small. After that she was out of earshot, but as she returned to the reception office to finish her work, the idea entered her head that perhaps Mrs. Macgregor and other village women might be persuaded to serve breakfasts and then be free for the rest of the day.
She waited until Cameron came out of the restaurant, then practically pounced on him.
When she explained her idea, he was thoughtful for a few moments. ‘It depends whether they’d be any use waiting at table. If most of them are only good at cleaning floors or bathrooms, that doesn’t solve any problem. You realize that in most large hotels there’s a special breakfast staff, or else the apprentice waiters, the commis, come on. They have to learn to be general dogsbodies. What I want to avoid is having too many of the staff loafing in idleness throughout the day and have to pay high overtime rates at night.’
‘I could try,’ suggested Fenella, ‘if you give me clear instructions about exactly what you want from them. You’d better tell me the rate of pay, too, for whatever the horn they’d work.’
He scribbled down a few figures on a sheet of paper and Fenella set off in her car.
A high wind had sprung up and spatters of rain hurtled against her windscreen like handfuls of peas.
Mrs. Macgregor seemed willing to come to the hotel for three hours in the morning.
‘I know it means getting up early,’ apologized Fenella, ‘but you’d have the rest of the day to yourself.’
‘Och, at six every morning it is that I am out of bed, summer and winter. I would like to be giving it a try.’
Fenella pursued her advantage. ‘If you agree, will all the other women who refused when Mr. Ramsay came with me? What about them?’
‘I cannot be speaking for them.’ Then she laughed. ‘But no doubt, Miss Sutherland, they will decide if they’ll be coming.’
‘Why wouldn’t you agree to work for Mr. Ramsay?’ Fenella queried.
Mrs. Macgregor shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘Och, he was that sharp and businesslike. Not like your father who would always be having a smile and a joke with us.’
When she left Mrs. Macgregor’s house, Fenella hoped that the battle was won. She now had only to assert that Mrs. Macgregor would work at the hotel for most of the others to fall into line.
One woman objected that the last time she worked at the Gairmorlie she did nothing but peel potatoes and carrots.
‘I would be liking another kind of job this time,’ she said.
‘There’ll be nothing of that,’ Fenella assured her. ‘We’ve wonderful machines to peel, skin, chop, dice, shell the peas, string the currants—everything.’ Enthusiasm carried her away on a wave of exaggeration, but no matter. The woman was delighted to serve breakfasts and at least see some of the hotel guests, instead of being confined to a monotonous job behind the scenes.
Every time Fenella alighted from her car and ran up the front paths to the various cottages, the rain soaked her and on the journey back to the hotel the gale nearly lifted her car off the road.
‘I need a lorry in this weather,’ she muttered, peering through the blackness ahead. She was relieved when she saw the lights of the Gairmorlie. Men were still working indoors, but outdoor work had been stopped. Fenella realized that there was a limit to the rough conditions in which Cameron could expect his teams to work.
She tried to find him somewhere in the hotel to tell him news of her successful recruiting, but he had apparently retired to his room, although she knew he would probably not be sleeping, but working well into the night hours.
She decided to say nothing to Miriam about the breakfast brigade, but Miriam met her on the st
airs as she went to her bedroom to take off her wet clothes.
‘Have you been swimming in the loch?’ asked Miriam.
‘It’s a shocking night,’ Fenella answered as casually as she could.
‘Secret rendezvous?’ pursued Miriam.
‘Not exactly. I had to go out.’
‘It must have been urgent to go out in this weather. Why didn’t you take the car?’
‘I did,’ Fenella replied. ‘I had to get out several times.’
Miriam leaned back against the landing banisters. ‘I can guess your errand,’ she said. ‘Trying to get the village women to come here and work. I told you I’d do it myself.’
‘But you’ve been so terribly busy,’ protested Fenella. ‘Surely this was one thing I could do.’
Miriam smiled and for the first time Fenella noticed that although Miriam’s lips curved, her eyes were hard and unsmiling.
‘I suppose you think this is the way to ingratiate yourself with Cameron?’ she queried.
‘Not exactly. I was trying to help, that’s all,’ Fenella said. ‘Miriam, why are you so—so different these days?’
‘Different? In what way?’
Fenella looked away, afraid to see that harsh light in Miriam’s deep grey eyes. ‘Well, you used to be so easy to get on with and we used to laugh at the same things. Now you seem to resent my being here. Do you?’ She jerked her head quickly towards Miriam.
Miriam smiled more pleasantly this time. ‘Why should I resent you?’
‘It’s not as though I’m here permanently or likely to be a menace to your career. You’re efficient and experienced, while I’m only a stop-gap.’
Miriam sighed. ‘Perhaps you ought not to regard your job here in that way. Cameron likes people to be wholehearted about the work they do. It’s only my personal opinion, of course, but I do think, Fenella, that considering the amount of money your father spent on giving you the chance of training in London as a dress-designer, you ought to make some use of those two years.’
‘But I intend to. During the summer I shall try to find some fashion firm that will take me on.’ Fenella was aware of her father’s outlay and it irked her that Miriam should constantly remind her of it.
‘I’m glad to hear you say so,’ Miriam said smoothly. ‘No doubt you’ll miss Alex very much, but you’ll be able to see him at intervals and you can always write to each other. Separation might even bring you closer together.’
Fenella stared at the other girl. She had no coherent thoughts, let alone lucid words to speak.
‘You ought to get those wet clothes off,’ Miriam advised her. ‘I’ll send you up a hot drink when you’re in bed.’
Fenella watched Miriam descend the stairs, then dashed along to her own room. Why on earth had Laurie seized on the ridiculous idea that Miriam was in love with Alex? Nothing than that could be farther from the truth when here was Miriam counselling that separation might prove a benefit to Alex and Fenella, uniting them.
Fenella was in bed after a hot bath when one of the new chambermaids brought a glass of hot milk. She was a rosy-cheeked girl of about eighteen or so and her movements were clumsy and fumbling.
‘Thank you,’ Fenella said, taking the glass from the tray. ‘You’re new, aren’t you? Tell me your name.’
‘Alison, miss—I mean—ma’am—madam.’ The girl blushed furiously.
‘Oh, you don’t have to “madam” me,’ said Fenella easily. ‘I’m in reception. I hope you’ll like working here and find it pleasant.’
‘Yes, miss. Och, it’s a terrible night. The gale is howling.’
‘I know. I’ve been out in it,’ replied Fenella. ‘But it isn’t always like this in the summer. What part of Scotland d’you come from?’
‘Skye. A wee village in the north of the island.’
When the girl had gone Fenella reflected that even in Skye to which tourists flocked in summer there was still not enough work except for the highly skilled. On the other hand it might be that girls like Alison hankered after the bright lights of a town where gaiety might be found.
Fenella settled down to sleep, but the gale outside kept her awake for hours. The pines and firs whistled and roared like jets coming in to land, there were sundry crashes and bangs, rain beat on the windows as though shingle was being flung from the bed of the loch. Towards dawn she must have dozed off in spite of the noisy accompaniment, for when she woke daylight filtered through the curtains and the maid, Alison, brought her a tray of tea.
‘So we’ve both survived a stormy night,’ Fenella said to the girl.
‘Aye, miss, but the trees are blown down and—’ she stopped as Miriam knocked and entered the room.
‘Alison, will you please go and attend to your duties and stop gossiping,’ Miriam said sternly. The girl scuttled off.
‘What else has happened?’ asked Fenella.
‘The pavilion is badly damaged, quite unfit for use.’
‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Fenella. ‘And the conference only two days away!’
‘So if you could get up and dress as soon as possible,’ Miriam continued, ‘there’ll be a lot of telephoning this morning.’
‘Of course!’ Fenella sprang out of bed before Miriam had gone from the room. She dressed hurriedly and peered out of the window, but from here she could see only one tree blown down.
Outside the hotel there was wreckage everywhere and it looked as though a typhoon had struck the hotel. Broken glass, planks lying in heaps, the strong plastic sheets under which the men worked for shelter, had been ripped and torn from their fastenings. Worst of all was the pavilion. The wind had lifted the roof almost completely off so that now it hung crookedly down one side. Without roof protection panels all round the sides of the ‘bandstand’ had loosened and stuck out at all angles. Rain had soaked the interior and electricians were busy finding out, without electrocuting themselves, how many cables had been damaged and short-circuited.
The foreman, McPhail, was giving instructions to gangs of men to repair the damage.
Cameron was nowhere to be seen and after enquiries, Fenella was told by McPhail, ‘He’s away to Edinburgh.’
‘Edinburgh?’ she echoed.
‘Aye. He’ll be back tonight.’
‘Your telephone is ringing, miss,’ someone shouted, and Fenella hurried into the hotel to answer it.
When the call was finished, she sat motionless, wondering how Cameron could possibly cope with this appalling disaster. Of course he had bitten off more than he could chew, booking conferences at this early time of year was inviting trouble, his planning abilities had run too far ahead of the practical side. There was no end to the charges and reproaches one could bring against him and Fenella realized that she ought to have been in high feather to see his downfall. Yet she could take no satisfaction from this terrible setback. Her work as even a not very efficient receptionist was no summer fill-in. Almost against her will her interests had become inextricably bound up with those of Cameron Ramsay. She wanted him to make a resounding success of the Gairmorlie.
CHAPTER SIX
During the morning Alex came to the hotel to see the gale damage and ask if he could help in any way.
‘I heard from someone in the village that the hotel roof had blown off and landed in the loch, but I didn’t really believe that.’
‘The Gairmorlie was built soundly enough to stand a few gales,’ said Fenella. ‘It was the pavilion. I haven’t the faintest notion how Cameron is going to have everything ready now for this conference. It was a tight schedule before this happened.’
‘He can put them off, I suppose? Transfer the whole thing to some other hotel at Aviemore or Kingussie, even Fort William.’
‘Not at such short notice.’
‘As I came along,’ Alex continued, ‘I noticed one of your boats has taken off from the shore into the loch. It’s half full of water and lying on its side.’
Fenella gave a great sigh. ‘Just one thing after another!’
&nb
sp; ‘I could probably rescue it for you. I’ll bring down a rope and some tackle and see if I can beach it.’
‘Angus might help you,’ she suggested. ‘I know Cameron gave him the brush-off over the gardening job, but he still likes to feel that he’s useful. Call in at his cottage on your way back.’
‘Where is Cameron?’ asked Alex. ‘I thought he’d be on the scene of the battlefield directing operations.’
‘Gone to Edinburgh, so I’m told,’ replied Fenella.
Alex stood and laughed with sheer amazement. ‘To Edinburgh? Perhaps he couldn’t stand the sight of his wrecked bandstand.’
‘It’s no joking matter, Alex,’ Fenella reminded him. ‘I was nearly in tears when I saw what had happened.’
Alex put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Oh, come, Fenella, that’s taking it all a bit too seriously. It isn’t even as if it’s your father’s loss or mishap. Cameron will sort it out with the insurance company, no doubt. He can’t exactly be blamed for Scottish gales.’
The telephone rang and Fenella moved towards the reception office. Alex followed her in and sat down while she finished the call.
‘Can’t you get someone else to man this phone? If there’s nothing useful I can do here, I might as well take you out to lunch somewhere.’
Fenella shook her head. ‘I can’t leave my post,’ she said, smiling sententiously. ‘Besides, you can have a marvellous lunch here. We have Italian chefs and Spanish head waiters and a menu as long as your arm—only don’t order too many exotic dishes yet.’
Alvaro appeared at that moment to ask politely when the electric current would be restored. ‘Signor Matteo is making very loud complaints.’
Fenella guessed that this was a remarkable understatement. ‘I’d better go and soothe Signor Ernesco Matteo this minute.’
She hurried off to the kitchen where the Italian chef was not only shouting apparent imprecations, but gesticulating in a most menacing manner with a very long thin knife. Various members of his staff scurried about at his bidding, but when he saw Fenella he gave her his dazzling smile and laid down his knife.