Читать книгу Imperial Palace - Arnold Bennett - Страница 41

I

“This interview is unofficial,” said Evelyn.

Violet Powler was sitting opposite to him on the other side of the big desk in the Director’s private office. She had loosened her black cloak, and Evelyn saw under it the same blue frock which she had been wearing on the previous afternoon. Her hat was a plain felt. He could see nothing of her below the waist. He remembered that her feet were not small, nor her ankles slim; but he could not recall whether she had high-heeled shoes. As a housekeeper at the Imperial Palace she would have to wear black, and high heels, and he rather thought that the force of public opinion among the housekeepers would corrupt her to make up her face. Those pale pink lips would never do on the Floors of the Palace. If she kept them untinted every floor-housekeeper would say on the quiet to every other floor-housekeeper that poor Violet—what a Christian name! Battersea or Peckham Rye all over!—had been imported from the Laundry, and what could you expect? . . . No!

He had been inclined yesterday to regard her as beautiful; but now, detached, rendered a little cynical by recent events, he decided that she was not beautiful. Her features were regular. She was personable. It was her facial expression—sensible, sober, calm, kindly, contented—that pleased him. She would have no moods, no caprices. She was certainly not one of your yearners after impossible dreams, your chronic dissatisfied, all ups and downs. Even Mrs. O’Riordan had moods, despite her mature age.

“The matter is in the hands of Mrs. O’Riordan, our head-housekeeper,” Evelyn said further. “I’ve really nothing to do with it. But I thought I’d better find out first whether you thought the job would suit you. We want a new floor-housekeeper here. There are eight floors and eight floor-housekeepers.”

He then told Miss Powler what were the duties of a floor-housekeeper. He told her with an occasional faint glint of humour. Her serious face did not once relax; but he fancied that he could detect a faint answering glint in her brown eyes. He was determined to see the glint in her eyes, because he had discovered her as a candidate for floor-housekeepership; as such she was his creation; therefore she simply had to be perfect, and without humour she could not be perfect. (Not that many of the floor-housekeepers had humour. Mrs. O’Riordan generally had, but sometimes hadn’t.) Still, he was obliged to admit that Miss Powler’s eyes were less promising to-day than yesterday. Yesterday, however, she was at home in her own office. To-day she was in the formidable office of the Director, and might be nervous. Yesterday he had acquitted her of all nerves.

“It really all comes down to a question of human relations,” he finished. “I’m quite sure you could manage the chambermaids excellently. They’re the same class as our laundry-maids, and you know them. But the visitors are a very different proposition, and quite as difficult. And partly for the same reason. The supply of chambermaids is not equal to the demand. Neither is the supply of guests.” He almost laughed.

Miss Powler’s lips relaxed at the corners into a cautious momentary smile.

“You mean, sir,” said she, gravely, straightening her already straight back, “I’ve been used to being given in to, and with guests I should have to give in.”

A crude phrase, but it showed that she had got down to essentials.

“Not give in, only seem to give in,” he corrected her. “Say a bedroom’s cold because the visitor hasn’t had the sense to turn on the radiator. Well you turn it on, and fiddle about with it, and then admit that there was something wrong with it, but you’ve put it right, and if it isn’t right you’ll send a man up to see to it. Then just before you leave you say: ‘These radiators are rather peculiar’—they aren’t—‘may I show you how they turn on?’ You’ve won, but the guest thinks she’s won. It’s always a she. No. That’s not fair. It isn’t always a she. Mrs. O’Riordan says there’s nobody more exasperating than a New York stockbroker all strung up after five days’ strenuous business life at sea in a liner.” Violet did smile. “It appears that American men are super-sensitive to the bugle-calls in the mornings. Wellington Barracks next door, you know. Those bugles can’t be explained away. They’d wake Pharaoh in his pyramid. I’ve thought of keeping a graph to show the curve of explosions of temper due to those bugles. Probably about half a dozen a week. Well, you always say that the bugles were unusually loud that morning; you’ve never heard them so loud before; and that I’m negotiating with the War Office to get them done away with. I’m not of course. But it soothes the awakened, especially if you admit that the bugles are absolutely inexcusable. As they are. Put them in the right, and they’ll eat out of your hand, visitors will. If you argue you’re lost. So’s the hotel. Now I’ve given you a sort of general idea. What about it?”

“I should like to try,” said Violet with composure. “I often have to do much the same with my laundry-maids.”

Evelyn laughed.

“If I may say so,” Violet added.

“I think you may,” said Evelyn. And to himself: “She’s all right. But I’d better not be too funny.” He said in a formal tone: “Then I’ll mention you to Mrs. O’Riordan.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m very much obliged to you for thinking of me,” said Violet, with dignified gratitude.

“Of course there would have to be a period of training.”

“Yes, sir. I understand that.”

“But in your case it oughtn’t to be long. . . . In your place I wouldn’t say a word at the Laundry. Mrs. O’Riordan might have somebody else she prefers.”

“No, sir. Of course.” Violet spoke here without conviction. Her steady face seemed to say: “You aren’t going to tell me that this Mrs. O’Riordan will refuse anyone that’s been mentioned to her by you.”

She rose to leave, for Evelyn’s manner amiably indicated that the interview was over. Evelyn did not move from his chair. Suddenly he decided that he would just touch on a detail which had been intriguing him throughout the interview, but which he had hesitated to bring into the conversation.

“I happened to see you talking to Sir Henry Savott in the hall. Then you know the great man?” He spoke with bright friendliness, socially, as one human being to another, not as a prospective employer to a prospective employee.

“Well, sir. I know him, if you call it knowing. He came up to me—in the hall. My sister was his housekeeper, at a house he had at Claygate—he sold it afterwards. My sister was ill in the house, and as I happened to be free, I was engaged to do her work, for a month. Of course I could see my sister every day, and she kept me right. I could always ask her.” Violet’s demeanour was perfectly natural and tranquil, but reserved. She added: “It’s a small world; but I’ve heard it said you meet everyone in the hall of this hotel, sooner or later.” She smiled, looking Evelyn straight in the face.

“But this is very interesting,” said Evelyn, animated. He was intrigued still more; for, like many other people, he had heard all sorts of stories about Sir Henry’s domestic life. “Then you do know something of housekeeping?”

“A little, sir. I think I managed it all right. But of course as I say I had my sister to tell me things.”

“A large staff?”

“About forty, sir—indoor and outdoor. My sister had charge of everything, indoor and outdoor.”

“Then you had charge of everything?”

“Yes, sir. But my sister was there.”

“Sir Henry entertained a lot?”

“Yes, sir. A very great deal, and often without warning us.”

Evelyn opened Miss Powler’s dossier, which contained, among other things, her references and testimonials.

“You didn’t say anything about this, I see, when you came to us.”

“Oh no, sir.”

“I suppose you didn’t count it as a regular engagement.”

“No, sir. And it was so short. But if I had asked him I think Sir Henry would have given me a testimonial.”

“Was Lady Savott there?”

“Oh no, sir.” Just a slight betraying emphasis on the ‘no.’ “I’ve never seen her ladyship.”

“Then you left, and your sister took on the work again.”

“Yes, sir, for a bit.”

“She left. No?”

“My sister is dead, sir.”

“Oh!” Evelyn’s face showed sympathy. “She was older than you?”

“Yes, sir. Five years. Nearly six.”

“Did she die in the house?”

“No, sir. After she’d left. Sir Henry asked me to go back. But I was very comfortable at the Laundry then. So I didn’t go. I don’t believe much in chopping and changing.”

“Quite. You know Miss Gracie?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She was living in the house?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“An extraordinary young lady, isn’t she?”

“Yes, sir,” Violet replied with imperturbable blandness; but their eyes somehow exchanged a transient glance of implications—or Evelyn thought so.