A Winter's Child (24 page)

Her eyelids, slightly against her will, opened and she found, once again, that all she could see of him was a dense, overwhelming mass of shadow.

‘Benedict-'

‘Don't trouble. She needed a quick excuse and she will have had no time to come and warn you. When she comes tomorrow there is absolutely no reason to disillusion her. So – wherever it is she decided you have been together this evening you may confirm it to me – should I happen to ask. Is that understood?'

Mesmerized, her head jerking forward like an obedient puppet on a chain, she nodded, her mouth opening to produce one hoarsely whispered word, ‘Polly?'

But, of course, as she ought to have known, he had thought of that.

‘Polly did not see me. And she wouldn't dream of mentioning tonight's little escapade to Nola. I shall manage to lecture her on the evils of drink and debauchery without mentioning your name, never fear. I shouldn't worry about any of this you know. There's really no need.'

‘No.'

He opened the gate.

‘Good night then.' She walked through it, reached the door and then, fumbling with the lock, unable to turn it, dropped her keys with what seemed a mighty clatter on the path.

‘Oh
damnation!'

The dense shadow that had this powerful, complicated man at its centre moved swiftly beside her, engulfed her, retrieved her keys and deftly unlocking the awkward, heavy door, held it open.

‘Good night, Claire. Remember – don't worry.'

Yet, as she walked hurriedly, gratefully inside, leaving him behind her, two things loomed large in her stunned head to worry her. First – and perhaps foolishly – poor Nola, feeding her craving for excitement, and perhaps for much more than that, on deceiving this man who knew himself to be deceived and did not care. How cruel. And then, on the other side of the coin, how merciful. How tortuous. First Nola. And then herself, her own part in this sorry charade; the awful realization that Benedict, only the other night, had sat coolly at his dinner table and watched her lie to him.

The Crown Hotel opened its doors a week later to considerably less than universal applause, at least eighty per cent of Faxby, who could not afford its prices, greeting the event with complete indifference; the remainder divided between those who disapproved of new innovations, those who disapproved of everything, and a minority – small but persistent – who simply wished to reverse the bleak coin of the past few years and enjoy themselves.

There were no residents on that first evening apart from Nola's cousin Arnold Crozier, wool merchant, property developer,
bon viveur,
a widower of few words and undistinguished appearance who had reminded Claire at once, and greatly to her discomfiture – since she had been warned to make herself very pleasant to him – of a benign and immensely shrewd black beetle. Yet the arrival of his Rolls had released the spring which set the hotel in motion, the doorman, a former sergeant of the Welsh Guards, descending the shallow marble steps with the air of a general to take charge of Mr Crozier's car and luggage, followed by Kit Hardie himself, looking far better suited to the part of a millionaire than shrewd, shrivelled, sallow-complexioned, presumably lonely Arnold Crozier. They had walked into the lobby together, apparently deep in conversation, Kit Hardie saying exactly – and only – the things which, in his assessment, Mr Crozier would wish to hear. The receptionist, Mr Clarence, had exuded the charm for which Kit Hardie had engaged him. The housekeeper had accepted Mr Crozier's compliments with an air of efficient yet somehow maternal dignity, giving the impression – as Kit Hardie had instructed her – that she genuinely and deeply cared about the temperature of his bath, his supply of warm towels, the flask of iced water at his bedside, the positioning, to suit his exact convenience, of cushions and lamps. Young girls with bright fresh faces and handsome immaculate young men answered Mr Crozier's bell throughout the duration of his stay, smiling, attentive, looking – as Kit Hardie had painstakingly taught them – as if nothing could delight them more than serving him tea, which he took every hour, replacing his ashtrays, which he filled as regularly, taking his telegrams to the post office, finding him a gardenia for his buttonhole, a copy of an Austrian newspaper, a manicurist who, it was noticed, stayed rather longer than anyone thought needful, a map of Northumbria, various railway timetables. Chef Keller, who admittedly had little else to do that evening, consulted him on the menu, serving in the otherwise deserted restaurant, a dinner of salmon trout on a bed of lobster mousse, chicken breasts poached in white wine with crayfish butter, and Mr Crozier's favourite apple pancakes flamed in brandy. While the resident pianist, sloe-eyed, willowy, dandruff-free Miss Adela Adair, played soulfully and exclusively for Mr Crozier and his guests; his party consisting of his much-married brother, Bernard, whose wife would be expecting him home in Manchester no matter how late the hour; two stately yet accommodating ladies whose acquaintance with the Croziers did not appear to be recent; two more prosperous looking men of affairs, one bald, one hairy, and Nola.

They drank large quantities of champagne and three different clarets, Arnold Crozier being in the mood for claret that evening and declining, since he was paying the bill, all suggestions of ‘white with fish, red with meat', even brushing aside the fears of Chef Keller that so robust a wine would swamp the delicate flavour of his salmon.

‘He who pays the piper,' said Arnold Crozier in his dry little whisper, ‘calls the tune.'

‘Absolutely right, sir,' murmured Kit Hardie, pouring the claret himself, making sure the glasses were no more than half full to leave space for the aroma to collect below their rim, beginning a pleasant discussion on the respective merits of
Cháteaux Lafite
and
Latour
while, at the same time, giving Claire a discreet signal to run down to the kitchen and pacify the chef.

The following morning, after a breakfast of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, Arnold Crozier returned to his large empty house in Bradford, having reserved the Tangerine Suite for the following weekend, leaving an impression that he regarded the Crown rather as a convenient
pied-a-terre
of his own. He had left the hot water tap running in his bathroom and had not tipped any member of staff.

‘Old goat,' said Mr Clarence, the receptionist, his voice charming now only from habit.

‘Skinflint,' said the housekeeper, no longer motherly.

‘Dirty old man,' declared the fresh-faced young chambermaids in chorus.

‘Miser,' shuddered Miss Adela Adair, the pianist, who felt entitled to something more substantial than a pat on the behind for sitting up half the night playing Viennese waltzes.

‘Barbarian,' muttered Chef Keller, not at all pacified.

‘Agreed,' said Kit Hardie pleasantly, firmly, ‘and we'll be just as kind to him next week, and the week after that. Agreed?'

The same courtesy, the same lavish attention was to be extended to every guest without exception.

‘There is only one kind of tray,' decreed Kit Hardie. ‘It is made of silver. A napkin is starched white linen. Ashtrays exist to be filled and then
immediately
to be emptied. Mirrors and windows are there to be polished. A guest is made of gold – cherish him.'

But, in the early days, there were very few to cherish, the bedrooms remaining in such pristine condition that the occasional occupant seemed almost an intruder, the restaurant serving no more than a nightly dozen; businessmen mainly, ‘trying the place out', their sombre attire and heavy conversation creating an atmosphere which, although perfectly respectable, and producing nothing of which even the most careful of mothers or the most pernickety of town councillors or magistrates could possibly complain, was undoubtedly dull.

For ten days, fifteen days, a month, and then rather more, the beautiful rose-pink lounge with its baroque ceiling remained empty, feathers Teashop full. Yet, nevertheless, tea was there to be had should anyone require it, magazines and periodicals continued to be laid out on the map table, the flowers to be changed twice weekly, the lounge waiters to hover if not in attendance then certainly in anticipation.

‘Is it looking very bad, Kit?' Claire asked him, wondering if she should offer to forego her salary, uncomfortably aware of the money which had been spent on decorating and furnishing, for which the Croziers would want a speedy return. But, whatever his private opinion, he remained outwardly of good cheer.

‘No more than I calculated. But you could invite your mother to tea. And should there be the remotest possibility of Miriam Swanfield –?'

Miriam, albeit most charmingly, declined – yet, since the Swanfields in a spirit of
noblesse oblige
felt bound to offer some measure of support to their former butler, Eunice appeared one afternoon and, sitting down somewhat gingerly at first in a pink armchair, was so impressed by the strawberry
mille-feuilles,
so delighted with the array of fashion magazines – having given up such luxuries herself in favour of Toby's motoring and racing journals – that she returned the week after, her approval obliging Edward to lift his ban on Dorothy, ‘ever setting foot in such a place', although of course, with his delicate digestion, he could not come himself.

‘Who else can I invite?' asked Claire, looking extremely anxious.

‘Who do you know? Look up the girls you were at school with – and their mothers. The kind who meet friends for tea. And we need women in the restaurant. I can manage the occasional celebrity from the Princes Theatre or the Grand, but a few smart young ladies – not too young mind – wouldn't go amiss. Women who wear big hats for luncheon and low-cut dresses at dinnertime.'

And so Claire, who had not wished to play the game of old acquaintances, wrote notes to addresses of which she was no longer quite certain, made telephone calls which varied from the amusing to the embarrassing, catching in her net an assortment of women who had been girls when they had last met and who reacted variously to her approach. Yet there were some among them, comfortably married and slightly bored, or war-widowed and lonely who, once the lounge in the Crown Hotel had been pointed out to them, found it a more comfortable gossiping place than Feathers; others who, having admitted that the slaughter of their generation had made marriage a matter of chance rather than the certainty it had once been, were beginning to make lives and careers for themselves without men, and for whom dinner in town with friends was no longer improper.

‘Well done,' said Kit Hardie.

‘What next?'

‘Let's give some attention to lunches.'

Claire telephoned Swanfield Mills and asked for Mr Hartwell.

‘Claire?' Toby's voice sounded nervous. ‘What
am
I guilty of now?'

‘You haven't been to see us at the Crown, that's all.'

‘Can I afford you? I rather promised Eunice I'd economize, what with the new Merc, and well – one or two other things… A little flutter on a horse last week for instance that's still running …'

‘Oh Toby, don't let me down,' she said, sounding a little like Polly. ‘I suppose there must be an important customer somewhere that you'd like to impress. Come and see what we can do.'

He came that same morning for coffee, glanced at the wine list, sampled a pate, disappeared into Kit Hardie's office to emerge, an hour later, openly savouring the after-taste of old brandy and looking well satisfied. He returned to lunch with a party of four others, a celebration, or possibly a consolation, lasting until four o'clock in the afternoon and, before long, had become so much a part of the hotel that his constant presence, always vague and sweet and half apologetic, popular with the staff, generous with tips he could not afford, ready at all times to drop everything and lend a sympathetic ear – or a five pound note – to anybody's problems, gave Claire a sharp pang of conscience. Did Eunice know how he spent his time and the Swanfield money? Did Benedict know? She supposed they did. And there was no doubt that his value to the Crown, if not to the Swanfields, not only on his own account but for the customers he introduced, was immense.

‘What next, Kit?' she asked.

‘We keep on giving good food and wine, good service, good value. The news will get around.'

She sincerely hoped – for his sake at least and partly, already, for her own – that it would.

But from the night of its opening, a week after, the cocktail bar was filled to capacity, every table around the minute dance floor booked in advance, every seat, every bar stool, eagerly taken by young people not only from Faxby but from miles around who asked nothing more from life, it seemed, than to dance, all night if possible, to these sensual, staccato American tunes and drink these American concoctions of gin and vermouth, pernod and grenadine, green and yellow chartreuse.

The war was over. And half of the young men who came roaring up to the back door of the Crown in their dashing little roadsters had too many medals for gallantry under fire to be cautioned by parents on the evils of late hours and strong drink. The future, which had once seemed limitless, had turned out to be very short. And what mattered now was to cram its little duration, its insignificant span of time, with brief passions, temporary joys, to make a noise loud enough to echo when the voice faded, to paint colours vibrant enough to last at least the night; to be – in accordance with the latest fashion – both ‘crazy'and ‘smart'.

‘Sandwiches only in the cocktail bar,' decreed Kit Hardie. ‘Dainty ones. Curls of smoked salmon, rare roast beef cut like paper, a dash of caviar, silver trays and lace doylies and plenty of garnish – tomato roses, cress, lemon wedges, black pepper, horseradish, all the trimmings. Very pretty. Looks a lot and pleases the eye but just
whets
the appetite.'