At My Mother's Knee (34 page)

'Don't say anything, will you?' Audrey pleaded afterwards.
'It was just a bit of company, two unhappy people snatching a
quick bit of affection.' Don't worry, I assured her, I wouldn't
be discussing this with anyone . . . except maybe Denise,
Barbara and Robin, who made up the rest of the bar staff. I'd
been momentarily struck dumb by the sight of two old people
having sex over a billiard table. Ugh. It was not a memory that
I was keen to hang on to.

'There's been no man in my life since I divorced that bastard,'
she whined, wobbling unsteadily for a moment on her
four-inch heels; she'd been at the brandy again, 'and I'm the
kind of woman who needs to be looked after by a man, if you
get my drift,' she added with a wink.

Audrey went in for a lot of pouting. Her lips fascinated me.
They were coated à la Kathy Kirby with a gallon of red gloss,
which shimmered perilously on the surface when she spoke so
that she hardly dared move them in case the reservoir of gloss
broke away into a rogue estuary and took off down the side of
her mouth. It made her look like a ventriloquist's doll. She
stank the place out with her liberal use of a heady and whory
perfume and sounded like a temple dancer in full flight whenever
she moved her arms and jangled her numerous charm
bracelets and bangles.

Mrs Mack the bar steward and some of the members, mostly the wives, looked down on Audrey with her big bust and
flirtatious manner and resented the way their husbands
bought her large brandies and held on to her hand for
longer than necessary when receiving their change. They
thought she was 'fast', and not quite the kind of barmaid one
might expect to greet one when ordering a port and lemon at
the RAFA club.

Meanwhile back at the Social all was not well. I was in trouble
again, and summonsed to appear at the head office in Bootle
to face a disciplinary hearing. The charge was all the usual
offences: not amenable to discipline, spends far too much time
talking, does not concentrate, is frequently late or absent,
shows no aptitude for advancement . . . in short, why was I
still in the employ of the civil service and wasting everyone's,
including my own, time? Good question.

At this so-called disciplinary hearing I was taken into a room
and verbally abused by two senior officers. It was as if I were
being interrogated by the police for a bank heist: these two
highly uncivil servants did everything but hit me.

'I ask you again, for the umpteenth time, give me one good
reason why I shouldn't dismiss you, O'Grady,' said one of my
inquisitors, who obviously saw the bully Flashman from
Tom
Brown's Schooldays
as his role model in life.

I sat calmly contemplating these two officious jokers, and
then I suddenly became aware of my own voice saying that I
could honestly think of no good reason why they shouldn't
sack me, but to save them the trouble of all the form-filling in
triplicate that a dismissal would obviously require, why didn't
I just give 'em a week's notice and we'll call it quits, eh,
boys?

The slapping sound I could hear was the noise shit makes as
it hits the fan, but I didn't care. I felt exhilarated by my sudden
stand against authority, but how the hell was I going to explain to my parents that the good steady job and the pension that
went with it had just bitten the dust?

I sat on the top deck of the bus watching Stanley Road go
by. My decision to quit couldn't have come at a worse time.
Nerves were very fragile. My nephew had been rushed to
hospital near to
death
with gastroenteritis, my sister had miscarried
and Aunty Anne had lost her
husband
Harold after a
long fight with cancer. All these disasters had happened within
three weeks, and now to chuck the cat among the pigeons I'd
gone and walked out of my job.

I'd have to find another one quickly. Maybe I'd try a shipping
office or a pub . . . and then a thought hit me. Why not
get a job in London? I'd dreamed about living in London for
years. It was Avengerland, a mythical place where everybody
lived in a smart pad in either Westminster or Primrose Hill and
drove around deserted West End streets in a Lotus Europa on
their way to chic soirees and discotheques. What was I dithering
for? Here was a chance to actually make it happen, to say
goodbye to Birkenhead and make a go of it in the Promised
Land. What could I do? A bar job maybe, in a hotel or pub,
living in – that would kill two birds with one stone. My mind
was racing. There was an employment agency at the bottom of
Wood Street that specialized in catering work, called
Lifeline
.
It was written on the whitewashed wall in big black letters,
with 'Proprietor, T. Brailey' in a smaller hand underneath. I
tore up the two flights of stairs, anxious to see if the mysterious
T. Brailey could indeed throw me a lifeline.

John Christie's back bedroom was never as grim as the waiting
room of that agency. The walls and ceiling had been
painted in a depressing bottle green and brown, and traces of
ancient lino clung to the bare, uneven floor, absorbed into the
very grain of the wood by time and wear, refusing to leave even
though the rest of it had crumbled and gone west years ago. A
small gas fire with most of its elements burnt out popped in the grate, creating a claustrophobic atmosphere in the airless little
room.

I wanted to turn on my heel and get the hell out of it but was
halted in my tracks by the arrival of a pale, ethereal creature
enquiring if I were looking for flats or employment. One half
of the office was devoted to finding suitable accommodation
for their clients and was run by herself, she explained, while
the other half, the employment agency, was the domain of her
sister Thelma who would be with me shortly, that is if she was
correct in her assumption that I was seeking employment
within the hotel and catering industry. She spoke like a
character from
Cranford
, one of the vaguer, more wistful ones,
and had a whiff of mothballs and lace gloves about her. Her
sister Thelma, the T. Brailey of the sign outside, exploded out
of the inner office. To describe
Thelma Brailey
is to describe
Renee Houston as the arts mistress in
The Belles of St Trinian's
crossed with Jennifer Paterson of
Two Fat Ladies
fame.

Thelma was a powerhouse. Small and stocky, she wore her
hair up in a bun that she anchored together with two pencils
wedged in the top. She had a tendency towards sloppy Joe
sweaters, once popular with beatniks, black leggings and
biker's boots.

'Yes, what can we do for you?' she demanded, scrutinizing
me through a pair of enormous specs that magnified her
watery eyes to startling proportions. 'Have you had any
experience in the catering field?'

I told her about the RAFA club, which went down very well,
and assured her that I could get a reference from them.

'And are you in the employ of anyone at the moment?'

She was very impressed when I told her that I was a civil
servant.

'You're not a common or garden barman,' she said, rifling
through a mountain of papers on her desk. 'You're management
material, and I know of an excellent hotel in
Virginia Water
which is looking for a smart lad with ambition like
yourself to fill the currently vacant position of trainee manager.
Does that appeal?'

I couldn't believe it. It was that easy. Within minutes I had
the prospect of a fabulous job.

'Is Virginia Water in London?' I asked her.

'Just round the corner from Piccadilly Circus,' she said without
missing a beat, picking up the phone. 'Just fill in that form
while I give the manager, a very charming man, a call.'

Thelma was wasting her talents in this dismal little office.
She'd have made an excellent white slaver, crating up
unsuspecting would-be chambermaids and shipping them off
to the opium dens and brothels of Shanghai.

'Yes, he's here with me at the moment,' she was saying down
the receiver, rubbing her forefinger on her forehead as she
spoke. 'He's very smart, very bright, a civil servant who also
has years of experience in the catering field and can run a bar
single-handed if required. Impeccable references, just what the
Wheatsheaf is looking for . . . I'll put him on the phone.'

I was interviewed down the line by the manager who was, as
Thelma had said, a 'charming man'. I was to learn all aspects
of running a hotel, would work both in the bar and in the
restaurant, and if I were to consider taking this position would
not only get all my food provided free, but would receive an
excellent salary and the promise of a neverending stream of
generous tips. Also included in this once-in-a-lifetime offer was
my own room within the hotel, overlooking the lake in
Windsor Great Park. I was instantly sold on the idea and
agreed without considering the consequences to start work in
a week's time at this glorious
Wheatsheaf Hotel
. 'Welcome to
the Wheatsheaf,' I envisioned myself saying as I greeted guests
from behind my plush Crossroads Motel-style reception desk
or mixing a pre-dinner martini behind a chic cocktail bar to the
accompaniment of a Laurie Johnson bossa nova piped through the ultra-modern muzak system. I just had to get round my
parents.

'I've quit the civil service and I'm going to work
in a hotel
just round the corner from Piccadilly Circus.' No, honesty was
not always the best policy, especially where my mother
was concerned. I gave it a bit of thought on the ferry going
home and decided the best option was to lie. I'd tell them I'd
been offered a temporary transfer to an office in London with
digs in the civil service hostel. Far easier and gentler to feed
them this line. The truth was only going to cause a third world
war.

'London? You mean London down south London? That
London?' My mother's reaction was as I expected.

'Well there's only one London, Mum.'

'You wouldn't know with you, it could be a London anywhere.'

My dad took a bit of persuading. I painted a rosy picture of
helping with the Christmas rush on Giros in a nice little office
in Euston, protected from the evils of the big city by the
omnipotent civil service who looked after their young employees
like a parent, even going to the trouble of caring for them
in the monastic confines of the mythical civil service hostel.

'Where is this place you'll be staying?' he asked suspiciously.
'What's it called?'

'The Wheatsheaf Hotel. It's in a place called Virginia Water.'

My mother pounced. 'That's in Surrey, not London.' Unable
to comprehend the speed at which the civil service required my
transfer to London, she was looking for holes in my flimsy
plot.

'It's only round the corner,' I answered airily. 'Takes about ten
minutes to get to the West End.' I knew this to be a fact, for in
The Avengers
wouldn't they be in a city street one minute and
then turn a corner and be in a country lane the next?

'This tale is as far-fetched as a bucket of shite from China,' my mother said, poking me in the chest with her finger. 'And
if I find out that you're up to no good, or if you dare to bring
trouble to this door again, then I'll swing for you.'

In the end it didn't take her long to rumble the whole story.
Thelma Brailey sent me written confirmation of my new job
and my mother opened the letter. My parents were waiting for
me when I got home from my final day at Horden House. My
mates had thrown a leaving do for me in the pub and I was
more than a bit pissed, but I sobered up pretty quick when my
mother waved Thelma's letter under my nose. My dad was saddened
that I'd lied to him and couldn't understand why I'd
even want to consider running off to work in a strange hotel.

'Why would you want to wash dishes all day?' he asked. 'Or
wait on people? Bloody kowtowing to someone who thinks
they're royalty just because they've spent two quid on a meal?'
He wasn't angry with me, which made it worse, just confused,
unable to comprehend my irrational behaviour. It took some
time to persuade him but in the end he reluctantly agreed that
I should 'give it a go', adding none too convincingly that it
might be the making of me.

My mother had taken to her bed and lay in the dark staring
up at the ceiling, clutching a hanky dramatically to her breast.

'I can't believe it,' she sobbed accusingly. 'You've gone from
the civil service to domestic service. What in the Mother of
God's name has come over you?'

'I'm going to be a trainee manager,' I pleaded, 'and it's not
domestic service. Times have changed.'

'Trainee manager my arse,' she spat, propping herself up on
one elbow. 'You'll be skivvying behind a bar all the hours God
sends. Hotel work is the lowest of the low, always has been, it's
the last knockings of service and attracts every loner, misfit and
deadbeat that God ever put in shoe leather who can't get a
decent job anywhere else.' She slumped back on to the pillows
and sobbed into her hanky.

'You did it,' I said. 'You ran away to a hotel in the Isle of
Man.' Maybe Aunty Chris was right, maybe what was in the
bitch came out in the pup after all. But I didn't dare say so.

'Yes, and I wish that I'd stayed there,' she snapped, sitting
bolt upright in bed again and pointing at me accusingly. 'I
didn't have a good job in the civil service, unlike some;
I didn't have opportunities that I carelessly threw away. I had
nothing . . . nothing.' She lay back down on the bed, exhausted
by her temper. 'Get on with it,' she moaned, closing the
subject. 'I don't care any more.'

I went to my bedroom and packed my holdall with what few
clothes I had, including my one good suit for my 'managerial
duties'. When I got downstairs my mother was in the kitchen
filling a flask.

'I've made some tea and a few sarnies for the coach,' she
sniffed, not meeting my eye. 'And I want this flask back.' My
dad slid a five-pound note into my hand, 'in case of emergencies',
as we said our goodbyes. What with that and what was
left of my week's wages and holiday pay, my finances came to
the grand sum of a tenner.
London
, here I come.