working well. Johnny and Melinda went to the door and Mrs Houghton showed them into the passage, then headed for the stairs and the welcome cup of tea.
âYou really shouldnât let your imagination run away with you like this, Mrs H.,â Johnny shouted down at her. She heard the door of Room 23 open and then close again, and smiled with satisfaction. He had really sounded quite affectionate this time.
Chapter 5
âCridge!â
Mrs Routledge peered down the dark stairs that led from the dining room of the Westringham Hotel to the black basement where her servant lived. She was used to the smell, which was like stagnant water at the bottom of an enamel pitcher and a horrible sweetness thrown in, the effect of Cridgeâs tobacco on the stale, damp air, but this morning it was particularly sickening. Cridge had a habit of defecating in a selection of antique jars and vases stored there and forgotten by a former resident, and on Thursdays he would come up, go through the dining room with them and empty them in the Gentlemanâs Cloaks behind the reception desk in the front hall. Today was Wednesday. Mrs Routledge wobbled over the top step, her nostrils drawn together and her eyes searching the gloomy air for the man.
âCridge, youâll serve the tea, please. Come up at once.â
The top of Cridgeâs head appeared a few steps below Mrs Routledge. It was yellow and striped with grey hair, like a badger. His eyes, of the same colour but with an admixture of red from the long hours spent under the Westringham, looked up at her without expression. Mrs Routledge sighed with disgust. Cridge had been with her only two years, but his abject stance and the atmosphere of hopeless servility which emanated from his threadbare naval jacket and worn slippers often led her to think that he had obeyed her every command since childhood. Sometimes, on Thursday evenings when the air from the basement was cleaner and Mrs Routledge permitted one of the residents to treather to a sherry from the bar, she boasted that Cridge had been the butler in her fatherâs mansion in Worcestershire. âHe used to give me piggy-backs. Didnât you, Cridge? And of courseââhere she would give a little smile, modest and self-deprecating, showing that even the upper classes could suffer deprivation in their upbringingââI saw more of Cridge than I did of my own parents. We children were brought up by the staff, you know. Dressed in our finery and brought down to tea in the drawing room. That kind of thing!â Now, as the wretched figure lurched past her into the little room with its arrangement of five tables, plastic ferns and thick teacups upside down on the sideboard, she repressed her loathing and attempted a tone both brisk and friendly. This was for the benefit of Mrs Houghton, who had booked in early this morning and spoken of grand relations who had had to move temporarily out of their house in Knightsbridge while it was undergoing redecoration.
âAnd not so many lumps of sugar in the bowl, Cridge,â she hissed. âTwo each is quite sufficient.â
Steps sounded on the flight of stairs that led to the first-floor bedrooms and Mrs Routledge gave Cridge a sharp nudge in the ribs.
âYes, Miss Amanda,â said Cridge, in response to this particular blow. He shuffled over to the sideboard, turned the cups to a receptive position, and with an unsteady hand poured the tea into them. For a moment his lingering subterranean smell was obliterated by PG Tips. Mrs Houghton, for indeed it was she, swept into the dining room and then stopped dead. Mrs Routledge was accustomed to this first reaction from her guests and went towards her with a wide smile.
âThis is your table, Mrs Houghton. Near the door, of course.â
âThank you.â Mrs Houghton took a handkerchief from the crocodile handbag in her hand and covered her nose, then made a pretence of blowing it. She sat
âYou really shouldnât let your imagination run away with you like this, Mrs H.,â Johnny shouted down at her. She heard the door of Room 23 open and then close again, and smiled with satisfaction. He had really sounded quite affectionate this time.
Chapter 5
âCridge!â
Mrs Routledge peered down the dark stairs that led from the dining room of the Westringham Hotel to the black basement where her servant lived. She was used to the smell, which was like stagnant water at the bottom of an enamel pitcher and a horrible sweetness thrown in, the effect of Cridgeâs tobacco on the stale, damp air, but this morning it was particularly sickening. Cridge had a habit of defecating in a selection of antique jars and vases stored there and forgotten by a former resident, and on Thursdays he would come up, go through the dining room with them and empty them in the Gentlemanâs Cloaks behind the reception desk in the front hall. Today was Wednesday. Mrs Routledge wobbled over the top step, her nostrils drawn together and her eyes searching the gloomy air for the man.
âCridge, youâll serve the tea, please. Come up at once.â
The top of Cridgeâs head appeared a few steps below Mrs Routledge. It was yellow and striped with grey hair, like a badger. His eyes, of the same colour but with an admixture of red from the long hours spent under the Westringham, looked up at her without expression. Mrs Routledge sighed with disgust. Cridge had been with her only two years, but his abject stance and the atmosphere of hopeless servility which emanated from his threadbare naval jacket and worn slippers often led her to think that he had obeyed her every command since childhood. Sometimes, on Thursday evenings when the air from the basement was cleaner and Mrs Routledge permitted one of the residents to treather to a sherry from the bar, she boasted that Cridge had been the butler in her fatherâs mansion in Worcestershire. âHe used to give me piggy-backs. Didnât you, Cridge? And of courseââhere she would give a little smile, modest and self-deprecating, showing that even the upper classes could suffer deprivation in their upbringingââI saw more of Cridge than I did of my own parents. We children were brought up by the staff, you know. Dressed in our finery and brought down to tea in the drawing room. That kind of thing!â Now, as the wretched figure lurched past her into the little room with its arrangement of five tables, plastic ferns and thick teacups upside down on the sideboard, she repressed her loathing and attempted a tone both brisk and friendly. This was for the benefit of Mrs Houghton, who had booked in early this morning and spoken of grand relations who had had to move temporarily out of their house in Knightsbridge while it was undergoing redecoration.
âAnd not so many lumps of sugar in the bowl, Cridge,â she hissed. âTwo each is quite sufficient.â
Steps sounded on the flight of stairs that led to the first-floor bedrooms and Mrs Routledge gave Cridge a sharp nudge in the ribs.
âYes, Miss Amanda,â said Cridge, in response to this particular blow. He shuffled over to the sideboard, turned the cups to a receptive position, and with an unsteady hand poured the tea into them. For a moment his lingering subterranean smell was obliterated by PG Tips. Mrs Houghton, for indeed it was she, swept into the dining room and then stopped dead. Mrs Routledge was accustomed to this first reaction from her guests and went towards her with a wide smile.
âThis is your table, Mrs Houghton. Near the door, of course.â
âThank you.â Mrs Houghton took a handkerchief from the crocodile handbag in her hand and covered her nose, then made a pretence of blowing it. She sat