Читать книгу Sorrell and Son - Warwick Deeping - Страница 23

The astonishing thing was that Mr. Roland kept an hotel–or rather that he was about to keep an hotel. He sat under the great elm and explained.

"What did you think I did, man?"

"I hadn't the faintest idea," said Sorrell.

"Nothing–perhaps! I am rather music-mad, and after the war I could not settle,–just drifted about. But I have a practical part to my soul, and it began to cry out."

He rested his head against the trunk of the tree. He looked amused; he was smiling at himself, and to Sorrell, who had been living in a world that could not smile happily at itself, this smile was like Tom Roland's music. It took you into the big, wise heart of the man.

"Knocking about, a dilettante, scribbling songs, with some sort of idea that I could write an opera. And so I can. But, my dear chap, the queer way things happen. The way we react. One day I met a man I most cordially detest, a fellow who is a financial, light–or something. 'Halo, Roland, still scribbling music?' Well, it set me off. 'Damn these commercial people,' I thought, 'I'd like to prove their game is easier than mine.' But–you know– there was a rightness in what that fellow said. He had knocked a chip off me. You can get many a good hint from a man who dislikes you if you are not too pot-bound to soak it up. I had been getting a little–Londonish–shall we call it. I took my car out–and went touring, and then the idea was thrown at me. I had it in my soup; I found it in my bedroom. These hotel places! I went about wondering if there were half a dozen men in England who could run a country inn as it might be run. Well, there seemed to be precious few. And so the idea hit me. 'Why not run an hotel, just to show yourself that you can do it? An Etude Pratique instead of too much Chopin.' Well, that's what I'm doing."

Again that pleasant, roguish smile, and a match held meditatively to the bowl of a pipe. A man of few words as a rule, when the rhythm or verve of a movement took him Roland would break away into a series of short, sharp sentences, pithy and vigorous. He described to Sorrell how, when the idea of managing a country hotel had come to him, he had set about visualizing the scheme with complete thoroughness.

"That is where we people with any imagination ought to score over the commercialists. If we have any vision–surely it should be broader and more far seeing than the wall-eyed stare of a mere money-maker?"

He told Sorrell how he had spent a whole day studying maps and distances, for he had realized that the motorist was the man to be caught and catered for.

"It seemed to me that I ought to fix upon a place on one of the main roads going south-west, half-way between London and Exeter. I drew a circle round a certain area, and dotted in the most like centre for my spiders' web. Then I got in my car and went exploring."

Another match was needed for his pipe, and as he threw it down he smiled at Sorrell.

"I'm not boring you?"

"Is it likely?"

Roland went on to describe how he had gone in search of the ideally situated inn, and how he had found it, an old coaching-house called the Pelican on the main road on the outskirts of Winstonbury.

"The name took me at once. Pelican! Unusual. And it was sited just as I wished. A big old red and white place, part Queen Anne, part Georgian. It stood by itself. It had an atmosphere. Plenty of room for expansion. Other advantages too, a good garden and old trees. Our pub-keepers rarely visualize the atmosphere of a garden. Stuffy people. Also–the Pelican catches the eye; three or four hundred yards of straight road on either side of it. Also– it is within two miles of Hadley school,–parents–you know. Also, Bargrave House–where all the Americans go to do homage to the memory of one of their great men,–two miles off. Then take the road web for the ordinary tourist. London some hundred miles; Salisbury thirty or so, Bath about thirty-two; Cheltenham, the Cotswolds not so very far away, and Amesbury and Stonehenge. Exeter right down the road south-west. Gloucester too–and the Wye valley. Well,–there you are. The Pelican had a reputation of sorts, clean and rather old-fashioned. I offered to buy."

He paused as though passing to another line of thought, and his face grew more serious.

"I am putting nearly all my capital into the show. It is sink or swim. But–after all–one ought to be ready to back one's theories. There has to be courage in commerce. It's an adventure. I am taking the place over in a month. The end of the season you'll say. Queer time! Well–no. There are alterations to make, a lot of building. Meanwhile I'm going to carry on and get things organized and ready. Then–there is the question of the staff."

Roland had realized the importance of a good "staff." In fact it was as important as the setting in which it was to function.

"Difficult these days. But I am being extraordinarily careful in picking my people. I want character, conscience, and above all– smiles. I want people who'll take a pride in their work–and stay with me. I am going to pay good wages, and house and feed my people well. Besides–if the thing goes–and we tap the stream on the road–it is going to be a comfortable and paying proposition for the staff. Perhaps–sixty bedrooms–the place full each night, a constant flux, and tips–mind you–from people who are always coming and going, people who have been well fed and well looked after. I have got my housekeeper and cook. Also–the head waitress–a rattling fine woman. There are the maids, one of the chief problems. I want two porters, and I have got one–a head porter. He can't join me till February."

Again Roland paused, and his pause was explanatory.

"My one piece of sentiment, this Buck. My first porter. An ex-sergeant major. He saved my life out there. I owe him–his chance. He'll get it. The rest depends on–himself." His mouth and eyes hardened.

"I'm not a fool, Sorrell. You know what the war was, managing men. It is no use being soft. I am not sure of Buck, but he shall have his chance. Now, what about it? I've watched you. I don't know anything about you,–but I do know something of men. If you think my job is better than the one–there."

Sorrell sat very still, with his clasped hands between his knees.

"Wait. I'll tell you my history. I have nothing much to be ashamed of."

He told it.

"That's that. My job–is my job for the boy. It's my centre-board–my sheet-anchor. If you offer me this chance I'll do my best to see you don't regret it."

"Second porter–?"

"I realize that. I have learnt a lot–-there."

Roland smiled.

"At least you have learnt how–not–to do it. But–remember–it's an adventure. I may go under. I want people–"

Sorrell nodded a grave head.

"I understand. You want helpers–not merely employees. I shall be a helper. You have given me–a chance–a chance to get out of hell. I'm grateful."

They gripped hands.

"Gratitude! They say that gratitude is a slave virtue."

"Call it good will, Mr. Roland."

"Ah, that's it–every time."