Read Online Hotel de Dream by Emma Tennant - Free Book Online Page B

the silk curtains, hemmed with rows of greying white bobbles. A large fly, woken by the spring heat, droned about the room and settled on her foot. Mrs Routledge waggled her toes and thought of Miss Scranton and the sand at tea that morning. The smile slowly faded from her face. Where could Miss Scranton have found a sand-pit? Had she regressed to childhood, a possibility she had read about in one of the new psychology magazines she leafed through in the newsagent on the corner? Or was this part of what Miss Scranton called a “project” at the school where she taught? Whatever it was, it didn’t look good. Mrs Routledge remembered that even if she did buy herself a new dress and invite Mr Rathbone to the Westringham, there was the risk of Miss Scranton’s sandy feet spoiling everything. She sighed; and made a mental note to invite the residents for sherry in the dining room tomorrow evening, Thursday, when the basement had been cleaned out. It was the only way, as she often explainedto them, of airing problems and grievances, even if it did too frequently become a mutual criticism session. She would tell Miss Scranton then that shoes and stockings were
de rigueur
in the hotel, and she would do it before Mrs Houghton came down for the drink. Thinking about these difficulties made Mrs Routledge’s eyes open again and she sat up, looking accusingly round the familiar room as if her clients were already there and awaiting her expressions of disapproval. She felt restless and dissatisfied. Perhaps she would go to Miss Scranton now and get it over—call on all the guests in turn and inform them that a very important person was invited for sherry tomorrow. That their future depended on the way they conducted themselves on that occasion. The more she considered the idea, the better it seemed to Mrs Routledge. Her hand went out to the address book on the bedside table, and then paused. It would be more sensible to ascertain the condition of the residents of the Westringham before giving the invitation. When one was normal, another could be decidedly odd. She pulled on her mules, and hoisted her heavy body off the side of the bed.
    A clear voice was speaking on the landing of the floor below. Mrs Routledge frowned; the voice was instantly recognisable but she couldn’t quite place it; she went to the door and shuffled over to the banister to look down. She recalled, as she peered through the gloom, that Mrs Houghton had complained of there being someone in Miss Briggs’s room that morning—a foreigner, that was it, some exiled monarch or other, causing Mrs Routledge to doubt Mrs Houghton’s sanity—but the voice was undoubtedly English. On the other hand, the vowels and consonants could have been warped by the uneven plaster and boarding of the wall that separated Mrs Houghton’s room from Miss Briggs’s; and Mrs Houghton had shown, by going off to Harrods as she had—and she had mentioned lunch later in Harvey Nichols with one of the rich Knightsbridge relations—that her sanity was no longer in question. What if Miss Briggs was in fact hiding someonein her quarters, housing two for the price of one, sneaking out to buy food for the illegal occupant? Mrs Routledge went on tiptoe down the first couple of stairs, screwed up her eyes in the accustomed darkness of the stairwell.
    Her Majesty the Queen was standing on the first floor landing. She was wearing a tiara and an off-the-shoulder white tulle ball dress, with a great sash over one shoulder. Mrs Routledge was unable to see her face, but there was no doubt about the identity of the monarch, who was smiling and waving in the direction of Miss Briggs’s half-open door. Mrs Routledge found herself smiling, and waiting for the famous voice to continue.
    â€œI shall do my utmost,” came the clear syllables. “We will overcome!”
    â€œGood heavens!” Mrs Routledge had spoken in spite of herself: like the