And even more….

“The important thing to remember is that at the end of the day, you work here. We say that the guests ‘stay’ here. Rubbish. They don’t stay here. They leave. We stay here.” Despite Lizzie’s grumpiness, Veronica prayed that it was true. Please no more flighty, fly-by night temps. Please. “Any guest is dispensable, it stands to reason. Good staff members, on the other hand, are worth their weight in gold.” Veronica gave Lizzie another assessing glance, and her look rather betrayed her thought that she wasn’t at all sure whether Lizzie was worth her weight in anything.

“All the food is ready and waiting by the time the guests come downstairs, so if anyone asks for anything special: no stuffing with the turkey, or no peppers in the lasagne, you’ll have to judge it. If they look like a complainer, apologise, say that it’s not possible as the chef’s on holiday this week, or that we’re refurbishing the kitchen, or that our normal vegetable supplier is on strike, and the kitchen staff can’t cope with special requests.”

“And if they don’t look like a complainer?”

“Make a big show of jotting it down in your notebook, double-check with them to see that you’ve got it exactly right, and then ignore it. Carry the food to the table as if it’s exactly what they wanted. Nine times out of ten, they won’t kick up a fuss. They’ll eat it up. The great British public.”

The great British public, almost bound to eat up whatever rubbish was set in front of them, fifty years on, still with a spirit fresh out of the Blitz and the days of food rationing, and a terrible fear of ‘making a scene’. Lizzie’s mother still told her that she should finish the food on her plate and ‘think of the starving in China’… even though Lizzie could not remember any starving in China.

Yet even Lizzie could never scrape even the most horrible of the concoctions Sam and Keith made into the bin without a shudder of regret. The warchild in her, Lizzie – whose only war was the Gulf war, whose only shortages were those of petrol – wanted to keep it, fry it, and re-serve it with yesterday’s cold cabbage, or baked with layers of potato, for the sake of economy. Lizzie – who could not cook if her life depended on it, who had difficulty opening a tin. She did not know where these ideas came from, but they were as deeply ingrained in her as her love of the smell of frying bacon, and of freshly cut grass. Things she did not have to be told she loved.

“The great British public” repeated Veronica and her bosom moved tremulously.

“Anyway!” she snapped. “Dinner time!” And it was.

It was half past nine by the time that Lizzie put her key in the front door, and opened it quietly. She took her shoes off carefully in the hall, and tip-toed into the kitchen. Not quietly enough, though.

“Elizabeth! Is that you?” A scared voice from the bedroom, across the hall.

Lizzie went in there quickly, “Yes, it’s me. I’m back from work.”

“Right.” The figure in the bed was almost motionless now.

“Don’t you want the light on?” The room was dark except for the blue flicker of the television.

“No.”

“Okay. ’Night, Mum. ” Lizzie tip-toed out, hearing a roar of canned laughter from the sitcom sweep after her, made her way into the kitchen, and started to make herself some toast. Once she’d stuffed down a couple of slices, she made her way back out, swiftly.

“How was it?” asked Marie, passing Lizzie a Marlboro Light.

“Shit.” said Lizzie, automatically.

“Yeah?”

Lizzie paused as she lit up, looking up from her cupped hands and reviewing the day. “Yeah. Totally shit. Crappy pay. Crappy place, all falling down. No one there under the age of, like, ninety, except me.”

“Any nice young men?”

‘Shut up!”

“Well, are there? Hmmmm?”

“There’s a guy on reception….but he’s not… well…”

“Wooooh!” Emma and Marie shrieked delightedly in unison.

“So? Does he like you? Do you like him?”

“Do you? Do you like him? Are you flirting?”

“Dunno. He was looking at my skirt this morning.”

“Well.” Marie sucked determinedly on her cigarette, “Well. So he fancies you. That should liven things up a bit.”

“Not sure about the rest of them.” Lizzie continued, “Weird fucking place, I’m telling you. Full of weirdos.”

“I like weirdos.”

Marie and Lizzie stopped, mid-puff, to stare at Emma. “What?” Marie seemed furious with her for speaking out of turn. “What are you talking about now?”

“I like weirdos.” Emma was placid and immovable. “They’re interesting. And besides, there are more of them around than normal people. You’ve just got to live with it.

Lizzie continued to smoke, thoughtfully.

End of chapter one

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