Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea

a gravy boat. I would not be fussed either way, but when Superpoof waits until Mrs C. has been called to Miss Ruperts’ office and invades the kitchen it is like asking for his stamp collection.

      I sense something unpleasant is going to happen when he comes staggering out of the kitchen with a great tureen of gunge in his hands. His face is pink and it is obvious that the kitchen staff have said a few nasty things to him.

      I tighten my grip on my parmesan as he slaps the bowl down on a serving table and waves at one of the chefs du rang to get on with it. The dining room is pretty crowded by Cromby standards and in view of what is about to happen this is bad luck for everybody. As the chef du rang is about to start serving, the swing doors to the kitchen burst open. It might be a water buffalo but–even more terrifying–it is Mrs Caitley. The expression on her face makes me shrink back against the wall. Always a close contender with Miss Ruperts for the world’s ugliest woman title she is now threatening to break clear of the field. One glance at her mush and I feel like I am standing at the mouth of a cave with a tiger cub under my arm just as Mummy gets back from the butchers. Her eye falls on Bentley like a factory chimney collapsing and she eats up the distance between them in half a dozen giant paces.

      ‘Return to your province, Mrs Caitley,’ squeals Superpoof, retreating from the table.

      ‘Odious toad,’ hisses Mrs C. ‘To set foot in my kingdom is to declare war. How dare you interfere with my arrangements!’

      These words are delivered in what I believe is called a stentorian bellow and every bod in the dining room freezes with his fork half way to his cakehole.

      ‘I am responsible for how the food is served,’ sniffs Bentley. ‘Return at once or I will have my staff eject you.’ If I am supposed to be one of his staff he can count me out. I would not back Joe Frazier against Mrs C. Current form proves me right as she feints to jab and then throws a left hook which explodes on the point of Bentley’s jaw.

      ‘Seize her,’ he howls, staggering backwards. There is a half-hearted shuffle from those more courageous than myself, but before any action can be taken Mrs C. has snatched up the tureen of pre-mixed spaghetti bolognese.

      ‘If this is what you want, you can have it,’ she howls. Whoosh! Everybody within twenty feet gets a helping and if they want seconds then Bentley is the man to come to. He is covered in the stuff and his eyes blink out like he is trapped in a cage of spaghetti.

      You have to laugh but before I can get into my stride the swing doors to the kitchen burst open and reinforcements arrive. As I have said before Caitley’s Corps tend to be on the rough side and this lot do not look as if they are on their way to the Badminton Horse Trials. Crunch! Biff! Wallop! Before further words can be spoken they wade into the waiters and the guests have to fend for themselves. The bright ones scarper while others cower at their tables and two effeminate coves, trapped in a corner, slide under the table cloth at floor level.

      There is never much love lost between waiters and kitchen staff and anybody who does not believe me should be standing in the dining room of the Cromby at this moment–preferably behind a sheet metal screen. Spaghetti bolognese–mixed and separate–is flying in all directions, usually still in a container, and the walls look like the site of an action painting contest. Tables collapse under the weight of the bodies struggling on them and shouts and screams of pain and fury fill the air. Many old scores are being settled and when I see Superpoof staggering past with a soup tureen wedged down over his lugholes, I reckon it must be game, set and match to Mrs Caitley. Surely this little lot will spell finito for both of them. What a wonderful opportunity for Sidney to start swinging his axe.

      Crunch! The table in the corner goes and the two lank coves scuttle out holding hands. One of them is clasping a yellow wig to his chest like a woman clinging to her jewels as she leaves a burning house. Yes, it must be goodbye Bentley, goodbye Mrs C.

      But, not a bit of it. Superpoof gets marching orders or resigns–there is some doubt as to which–but Mrs Caitley remains firmly in command of the kitchen.

      ‘She’s done a good job,’ says Sid when I complain. ‘We won’t get anyone better. Also, she has this special relationship with Miss Ruperts.’

      ‘You mean they’re a couple of old–’

      ‘No need for any of that, Timmo,’ says Sid reproachfully. ‘I am referring to their working relationship.’

      ‘Get rid of both of them. They’re useless.’

      ‘They know the business, Timmo.’

      ‘They’ve been giving you the business ever since we got here, Sid! What do you need them for? Anyone could make a better job of running this place. With all your Funfrall experience you could do it standing on your head.’

      Sid looks haughty. ‘I am not trying to run a Funfrall operation. Something classier than that. I think Miss Ruperts has the contacts to help me. I’ve been discussing an idea with her.’

      ‘Selling up?’ I say, hopefully.

      ‘Don’t take the piss, Timmo. No, I was considering the possibility of catering for specialist groups. Conventions, clubs, conferences. That kind of thing. That way we could guarantee filling the hotel and making a few bob on fringe activities, dances, cocktail parties. See what I mean?’

      I hate to admit it but Sid does seem to have the germ of an idea there. He interprets my silence correctly.

      ‘Not bad, is it? We could make quite a name for ourselves.’

      ‘Anything would be better than the Cromby. When are we going to change that?’

      Sid looks shifty. ‘Well, Miss Ruperts has a great sentimental attachment to the name and–’

      ‘Oh, forget it, Sid. She’s got you completely under her thumb. When are you going to tell Rosie about it?’

      Sid does not care for that remark and, before I can ask him more about his plans, we engage in a swift verbal punch-up which leads to me being banished to assist Martin the hall porter, commissionaire and octogenarian. This man is so past it he has to get the guests to help him carry the room keys up two flights of stairs and has been known to sit on their bed for five minutes to recover.

      I am pacing up and down trying to keep out of the draught when a car squeals to a halt outside and three smartly-dressed middle-aged men sporting red carnations in their buttonholes leap out. One of them is carrying a large bunch of flowers. They ignore me and press forward to Miss Primstone.

      ‘I believe you have a suite reserved for Mr and Mrs Beecham?’ says one of them.

      Miss Primstone never has any problem hearing upper class voices and checks her register.

      ‘Yes. The Pallgrave Suite.’

      ‘Excellent,’ purrs Smoothie-Chops. ‘They should be here any minute. From the registry office.’

      He winks conspiratorially and Miss Primstone switches on her ‘Oh, young love’ expression.

      ‘We’ve got a few flowers we’d like to decorate their rooms with.’

      ‘Well, I don’t know. If you leave them with me–’

      ‘I know you’d do it quite beautifully.’ Smoothie-Chops’ smile would melt concrete. ‘But it’s the messages. We haven’t got much time. They’re going to be here any minute.’

      I don’t like the way the tall gangling one is giggling through his stained teeth but Miss Primstone does not seem to notice that.

      ‘Oh, all right then. I shouldn’t really be doing this.’ She reaches behind her for the key.

      ‘You’re too kind.’

      They brush past her, look for the lift like so many before them, and disappear up the stairs.

      ‘Second floor, turn right,’ calls Miss Primstone after them. She turns to me and shakes her head. ‘That’s the class of person we used to have all the time in the old days.’