Dolly's Mixture (16 page)

At first I took as pride in his work his boasting that he was his company's premier driver, and I was only half listening; but then I observed a tenseness in my four companions. I realised we were pasing all cars going our way. Vaguely I had thought, ‘Why so many stationary cars?' I looked at the speedometer – 75!
And then it happened.
In front of us bounced a large, black object, I thought it had fallen from the sky so sudden and violent was its coming. It was the spare tyre from one of the cars behind us, and, because we were going downhill, it had hurtled over the roof of our car. Our car swerved violently and to our utter horror our driver began to chase the tyre which was rushing full pelt down the hill. I thought he was trying to catch it but he was actually trying to race it, his noble attention being to warn other drivers
en route
. He had assumed the mantle of St George. We, his charges, were entirely forgotten, the limousine now his fiery charger.

At the bottom of the long hill the tyre leapt over a hedge into a field.
‘Stop!'
yelled Chas in a voice of frantic command. We alighted from our carriage and tottered into the gardens of a nearby country tea-room. Our driver followed us. ‘We reached a hundred miles an hour, then,' he said excitedly. ‘Did you notice?' Disappointed, no doubt, that we did not pat him on the back or begin to pick some laurel leaves for a garland of honour for him, he went off into the cottage to impress the people there with his Ben Hur exploits. ‘He's mad,' said Marjorie. ‘I'm not going to set foot in that car with that driver again,' I said, my head throbbing. As usual Alf kept calm. ‘I'll go and talk to the driver,' he said. ‘We have only a hundred miles to go now.' A hundred miles! It seemed an interminable distance to me. Alf spoke quietly to the driver, who looked at me and, possibly because I looked a bit green at that moment – I certainly felt that colour – we did the rest of the journey in a relatively calm manner, reaching a mere seventy-five miles an hour again. I kept my mind on the heaven which awaited me. Cool linen sheets and pillowcases, soft country air in a pretty hotel bedroom, for I would go straight to bed. The others, I imagined, were thinking of the delicious meal Chas had ordered for them. He was so well organised he left nothing to chance.

By a miracle we arrived safely at our hotel. We went into the reception lobby. No one was there. Chas, in charge, rang the bell on the counter. No one appeared. We waited. Chas rang the bell again; still no sign of life. After our third wait Chas decided something more commanding should be done and took the daring course of going through a green baize door marked ‘Private'. As if by magic, a little man emerged from another door and went after Chas, calling out truculently, ‘Can't you read? It says “Private”!' Chas ignored this slur on his intelligence, for obviously the man was the boots boy, although a bit on the elderly side for a ‘boy'. His uniform stressed his menial standing, for he was wearing a crumpled, faded, blue cotton outfit, the trousers very tight accentuating his short, narrow legs. He was like a cartoon character, for his head was large and, except for his bad-tempered expression, rather on the noble side, as he possessed white, shining, well-brushed hair and wore a white, curling moustache. Headwise, he could have been a colonel; bodywise, an ‘odd job man', feetwise, a tired long-distance runner, for he wore dirty, old, white plimsolls.

It wasn't difficult to observe that the little man had taken an instant disliking to Chas. I was in the mood to burst into tears at any argument. Everything was going wrong and Chas had been so anxious that we should all have a lovely holiday. We couldn't possibly have come to the wrong hotel, surely? ‘I am the owner,' announced the little man suddenly. ‘Oh,' replied Chas. With a wave of his hand towards we travel-stained characters, he said, ‘I am Charles Scannell, and this is my party.' William now had his deep-sea fishing outfit on again, his spear, unhooded, upright by his side. He looked like an eccentric centurion. ‘What time do you call this?' said the owner belligerently. ‘I wrote you we'd be late and that we would like a meal on arrival,' continued Chas, politely but firmly. ‘A meal!' expostulated the man. ‘Dinner has been over for ages. In any case, I received no letter from you.' ‘Well, I have your receipt for the money I sent,' continued Chas, fishing in his pocket. ‘Oh
that
,' said the man, disgustedly. ‘Well, if you can tell us of a restaurant, or another hotel, we'll get some food elsewhere,' said Chas. ‘Oh, all right,' said the owner. ‘Come into the breakfast room when you are ready and I'll find something for you.'

We carried our own cases upstairs and Chas persuaded me to have a cup of tea, at least, before I went to bed. I was miserable and longed to be home again. My head was thundering, and I could see only half objects. The breakfast room was pleasant and I arrived to find the rest of our party gazing at their viands. Strange, bony-looking fish, cold and dried, broad beans and round chunks of carrot, all cold. No tea was forthcoming and I went back to our room. Perhaps things would be different in the morning. I doubted it, somehow, for it was still only 8.30. Surely hotels don't lock the larders at eight o'clock; not top hotels, as this one was supposed to be?

Headache gone, I went down next morning to an attractive dining-room. Six tables were occupied by pale-looking guests, obviously new arrivals too. Chas went off to find the office. The winceyette sheets on his bed had been thin and much darned. He had put his feet through them and had awoken in the night wearing sheets Gandhi-wise. Mine had split, too, but I would have to complain at some other time, for I had grumbled when Chas woke me up to tell me
his
complaints and could hardly now flaunt my own.

‘Sausage and egg, egg and bacon, bacon and tomatoes,' asked the waitress of each guest in a parrot-like dirge. This recitation greeted us every morning, and Chas, being very brave, one morning replied, ‘I'll have a combination of all three.' The waitress returned to the kitchen. The hatch was opened and a red-faced owner, cum odd-job-man, cum boots, and now chef, searched the dining-room for Oliver Twist. Chas put his newspaper to his face, but the waitress's description of Chas must have been on the vague side, for, when the combination breakfast arrived (the owner probably felt it was breakfast and lunch), the hatch was not closed but lowered to an inch and through the chink I could see two searching eyes. The sausage, a midget one, had obviously been the runt of the litter, the streaky rasher was halved, the tomato quartered, but the egg, of course, had conquered the owner's ingenuity, and I imagined this was the cause of his apoplexy.

The weather was miserable, dull, misty, trying hard to rain, but we had to get our money's worth and we went off to the beach, complete with native spear. William was soon in the water and I implored him to say near the edge, for I thought the sea looked a bit choppy. ‘Oh, mum, you've forgotten I have my certificates for swimming,' he reminded me. Of course he had, but swimming in the gentle waters of the local baths was a different kettle of fish.

The sea became rough and William was getting too far out from the shore. I stood up and yelled. He couldn't hear me and suddenly life became very serious. Alf galloped off down the beach shouting that he'd seen a long rope hanging on a beach notice. Marjorie started to undress, Chas began to follow suit, while I just shouted, ‘Come back, William.' Of course he
couldn't
. I too began to tear off my clothes. The fact that Marjorie was the only strong swimmer among us, and she hadn't swum for years, didn't sink in. We could make a chain. Alf returned when my son's head was just a black blob in the distance. ‘It'll be all right,' said Alf. ‘A young man's reached him, look,' and I saw two blobs getting nearer the beach. I sat down and put my hands over my eyes. ‘For God's sake, Dorothy, go and put some clothes on,' said Chas, gazing at me in disgust. I was down to bra and pants, but there was no one on the beach, it seemed, except us. I tried to work out in my mind the reason for Chas's annoyance at my summer apparel. It couldn't be that I was so beautiful he didn't want another male to glance at me. One's brother-in-law is, after all, like a brother to one. No, it must be that I looked frightful. I decided it would be an excellent opportunity for slimming, this week at this ‘luxury' hotel. I wouldn't even have to be strong willed.

After William's narrow escape Alfred offered to take us out to sea in a boat with an outboard motor. At the last minute Marjorie and I changed our minds. Chas was sea-sick before they'd gone fifty yards and Alf returned him, green and tottery. Finally, when Alf reached the pier, the motor conked out and he and William had to wait in a choppy sea for some time before attracting attention from a passing craft. Marjorie and I felt sorry for the man who took visitors for trips in his large boat, so that, one pouring wet, windy day, we gave him our custom. Chas said we were mad, and a weather-beaten Devon man and two females with the sea in their blood faced the angry waves. It was a terrifying experience and we gained new respect for the men who go down to the sea in ships.

The wet evenings we spent in the little bar where the owner was a delighted barman. He had installed a fruit machine, although there was hardly any room. It took sixpences and people poured money in, simply out of boredom. Every morning the owner would empty the machine. We never saw anyone win. On our last evening there a honeymoon couple came to life again. They were, obviously, the owner's favourite guests, not a bit interested in food, rapturously in love. I envied them their seventh heaven; I couldn't imagine my darling letting food be of no interest to him for two whole weeks! The bridegroom bought drinks for all while the bride confided in me. No, not the lurid details of their nights-to-remember, but other very interesting matters. The fruit machine had been pronounced out of order on the day of their arrival and the service mechanic had hung about its neck the appropriate sign, informing the owner that a new machine would arrive in three weeks' time! The owner had promptly removed the sign after the mechanic's departure. He had also acquired the hotel after the organisation had awarded their accolade. Many of the other guests had cut short their holidays, transferring to other hotels, but, as we only had barely a week, we stuck it out.

Possibly to make amends, or to prove that really he was a munificent man, the hotel owner decided to celebrate our departure with a special dish. Dry Madras curry. I was the lucky one that evening, for, braving the owner's displeasure, I stated that I detested curry. He announced his Blue Riband dish to all the guests who sat with a warm glow of anticipation at the thought of this special treat. It arrived, and hysteria spread from our table to the whole of the dining-room. One main dish was placed on each table, a mysterious concoction of dried rice and some brown ‘material', and given pride of place in the middle was a small bowl of curry powder.

In the bar that evening the owner remarked that he wondered sometimes why he bothered, for the majority of people didn't appreciate fine dishes. His customers apparently were gourmands and not gourmets. He was an awful man and certainly profited out of the Englishman's natural trait, reluctance to make a scene, or even complain.

Alfred has never forgotten the night in the bar when (the owner appearing to be in a kindly mood) he asked if we could possibly have some sandwiches. The owner shouted, ‘Good God, haven't you had enough to eat?' Then he continued to rave angrily that we were most inconsiderate. While we were on holiday, he worked from morn till night, up early, finishing late in the bar. Alfred stood his ground well, I thought, at this tirade, and said he was only asking if it was possible to purchase sandwiches, as dinner had been early and we were all used to a snack at bedtime. The word ‘purchase' mollified the owner and he said he would make an exception and get us something. Of course, everyone in the bar then wished to get on this sandwich wagon and while the owner was away we had a sort of guessing game as to what sandwiches he would return with, for he had not given us a choice of fillings. Crab? Ham? Tongue? – and then our host returned. He was carrying a plate of Marie biscuits which worked out at two apiece. ‘You will need extra drinks with the food,' said the owner. Alcoholic, of course!

Susan was in love. I knew it before she did. I knew before she ever spoke about it. I was happy for her and I was sad for her. Suppose her love was not returned? Anguish for her. If her love was returned, what would happen about the young man who already was sure he would marry Susan? That romance had started through school dances. A boy and girl affair. Now she had fallen out of love, if, I wondered, she'd ever really been in love. I had always thought it a calm affair. A dependable young man, a quiet girl, almost like brother and sister, or peaceful friends. He would be the sort of husband never to leave her side; he would help with the chores, do the shopping, clean the windows. It was like the goal my mother wished for me, ‘getting a good dependable job with a pension at the end of it'.

It was the life many parents wished for their children, a normal life; but Susan, to my mind, had had no girlhood. She had been by my side during Chas's long illness. Her boyfriend had been away for two years, abroad on national service. It was no life for her, doing the cooking and helping with the housework. She did it willingly, but I wondered if, in the years to come, a peaceful marriage might not turn into a boring marriage. At the moment it was all work and no play for her. She wrote letters to the national service boy and sometimes visited friends from her school days.

Then came the day when I knew her love was returned. She went out at weekends and came home radiant. Her letters to her boyfriend abroad became difficult for her to write and she would take all evening over them. She went about in a happy, almost dream-like state, content, it seemed, to let events look after themselves. But I knew an explosion was ahead, hurt for the boy in foreign climes, perhaps even more hurt for his parents, for Chas and I had become great friends with them.