Read Online The Tea House on Mulberry Street by Sharon Owens - Free Book Online
Authors: Sharon Owens
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crate of supplies for the hotel beauty parlour. There, packed carefully in the wooden container, were sweet-smelling potions and lotions of luxury quality. Almost without thinking, he reached into the crate and took out a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo.
He smuggled them out of the building that night, with his heart pounding as he said goodnight to the doorman. They were only little things for his own personal use, he told himself. A little perk of the job, as it were. To make up for the low wages and long hours that were the scourge of all hotel workers. It gave him a good feeling, a rare feeling of power in his otherwise humdrum existence.
As the weeks went by, Daniel kept his eyes open for more opportunities to help himself to hotel property. Cupboards left unlocked, deliveries not yet counted. He took bundles of paper towels and a tin of shoe polish from the caretaker’s cupboard. He took handfuls of tea bags, packets of chocolate biscuits and individually wrapped portions of Cheddar cheese from the staffroom tea-bar. When the barman’s back was turned, he took wings of cooked chicken and bottles of orange lemonade, hidden under a tea towel. From the bedrooms, he took a luxury bath towel, some fitted sheets and a kettle.
He was caught up in the excitement of it all. It was so easy to do and the hotel was so busy that no-one noticed him slipping along the corridors. Once, he walked through the crowded lobby with a cut-glass rose-bowl balanced on his head, underneath his crisp new chef’s hat. Even when he stole a travel-clock belonging to Mrs Constance Delargy, one of the guests, and the police were called in, his pockets were not searched. He was above suspicion of any kind.
He began to gain confidence in his thieving ability, and rarely left work without some little item on his person. Within six months, his room was piled high with supplies, and then he hit on the idea of selling them on to the public. He travelled to outdoor markets all over the north, selling bits and pieces out of a suitcase. He was sure that no-one would recognise him, as long as he stayed out of Belfast. The money came rolling in. At last, his bank balance began to look healthy.
Daniel’s crime spree seemed perfect in every way. An everlasting supply of hotel stock and wealthy guests to prey upon; and his market customers were all too eager to pick up some good bargains, even if they were of dubious origin. But it could not last forever. As Kathleen once said: all good things come to an end. It was on the occasion of his thirtieth birthday when he lost all self-control, and lifted a mediocre watercolour of Portstewart Strand straight off the wall of the conference room. He took it home wrapped in his cashmere coat (bought second-hand from Oxfam).
The owner of the hotel, a Mr Ivor Tweedy, noticed the disappearance of the painting at once, and instructed the staff to look out for light-fingered guests or possibly even one of their own. A security guard was hired to stand in the lobby, and all the remaining paintings were fixed to the walls. Mr Tweedy laughed with his guests and smiled broadly at everyone he met, but he was a man who despised theft of any kind, on any scale, and he was watching.
Daniel’s career in the hotel-catering business came to an abrupt end two months later, when he was finally seen selling canned fruit, linen tablecloths and assorted crockery at a market in the neighbouring seaside town of Bangor. It was a dull Monday morning in September and the sharp-eyed witness was John Anderson, the head waiter, himself.
John Anderson did a double-take when he saw Daniel handing over two tins of pineapple slices to a woman in a green coat. The woman held out some coins and Daniel checked the amount and then dropped the coins into his pocket. At first John thought his eyes were deceiving him, but there could be no mistake. Daniel Stanley, it certainly was, with his jet-black hair combed straight back off his tanned
He smuggled them out of the building that night, with his heart pounding as he said goodnight to the doorman. They were only little things for his own personal use, he told himself. A little perk of the job, as it were. To make up for the low wages and long hours that were the scourge of all hotel workers. It gave him a good feeling, a rare feeling of power in his otherwise humdrum existence.
As the weeks went by, Daniel kept his eyes open for more opportunities to help himself to hotel property. Cupboards left unlocked, deliveries not yet counted. He took bundles of paper towels and a tin of shoe polish from the caretaker’s cupboard. He took handfuls of tea bags, packets of chocolate biscuits and individually wrapped portions of Cheddar cheese from the staffroom tea-bar. When the barman’s back was turned, he took wings of cooked chicken and bottles of orange lemonade, hidden under a tea towel. From the bedrooms, he took a luxury bath towel, some fitted sheets and a kettle.
He was caught up in the excitement of it all. It was so easy to do and the hotel was so busy that no-one noticed him slipping along the corridors. Once, he walked through the crowded lobby with a cut-glass rose-bowl balanced on his head, underneath his crisp new chef’s hat. Even when he stole a travel-clock belonging to Mrs Constance Delargy, one of the guests, and the police were called in, his pockets were not searched. He was above suspicion of any kind.
He began to gain confidence in his thieving ability, and rarely left work without some little item on his person. Within six months, his room was piled high with supplies, and then he hit on the idea of selling them on to the public. He travelled to outdoor markets all over the north, selling bits and pieces out of a suitcase. He was sure that no-one would recognise him, as long as he stayed out of Belfast. The money came rolling in. At last, his bank balance began to look healthy.
Daniel’s crime spree seemed perfect in every way. An everlasting supply of hotel stock and wealthy guests to prey upon; and his market customers were all too eager to pick up some good bargains, even if they were of dubious origin. But it could not last forever. As Kathleen once said: all good things come to an end. It was on the occasion of his thirtieth birthday when he lost all self-control, and lifted a mediocre watercolour of Portstewart Strand straight off the wall of the conference room. He took it home wrapped in his cashmere coat (bought second-hand from Oxfam).
The owner of the hotel, a Mr Ivor Tweedy, noticed the disappearance of the painting at once, and instructed the staff to look out for light-fingered guests or possibly even one of their own. A security guard was hired to stand in the lobby, and all the remaining paintings were fixed to the walls. Mr Tweedy laughed with his guests and smiled broadly at everyone he met, but he was a man who despised theft of any kind, on any scale, and he was watching.
Daniel’s career in the hotel-catering business came to an abrupt end two months later, when he was finally seen selling canned fruit, linen tablecloths and assorted crockery at a market in the neighbouring seaside town of Bangor. It was a dull Monday morning in September and the sharp-eyed witness was John Anderson, the head waiter, himself.
John Anderson did a double-take when he saw Daniel handing over two tins of pineapple slices to a woman in a green coat. The woman held out some coins and Daniel checked the amount and then dropped the coins into his pocket. At first John thought his eyes were deceiving him, but there could be no mistake. Daniel Stanley, it certainly was, with his jet-black hair combed straight back off his tanned
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