Best Kept Secret

30





‘I’VE GOT A PROBLEM with table three,’ said the waitress as she barged through the door and into the kitchen.

‘What sort of problem, Janice?’ asked Mrs Tibbet calmly, cracking two eggs and dropping them into a large frying pan.

‘I can’t understand a word they’re saying.’

‘Ah, yes, Mr and Mrs Ferrer. I think they’re French. All you need to know is un, deux and oeuf.’ Janice didn’t look convinced. ‘Just speak slowly,’ said Mrs Tibbet, ‘and don’t raise your voice. It’s not their fault they can’t speak English.’

‘Would you like me to have a word with them?’ asked Sebastian as he put down his knife and fork.

‘Can you speak French?’ asked Mrs Tibbet, placing the pan back on the Aga.

‘Yes I can.’

‘Then be my guest.’

Sebastian rose from the kitchen table and accompanied Janice back to the dining room. All nine tables were occupied, and Janice walked across to a middle-aged couple who were seated in the far corner of the room.

‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ said Sebastian. ‘Comment puis-je vous aider?’

The startled guest gave Sebastian a puzzled look. ‘Somos español.’

‘Buenas dias, señ or. Cómo puedo ayudarle?’ said Sebastian. Janice waited while Mr and Mrs Ferrer had finished speaking to him. ‘Volveré en uno momento,’ said Sebastian, and returned to the kitchen.

‘So what do our French friends want?’ asked Mrs Tibbet, as she cracked two more eggs.

‘They’re Spanish, not French,’ said Sebastian, ‘and they’d like some lightly toasted brown bread, a couple of three-minute boiled eggs and two cups of black coffee.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, directions to the Spanish Embassy.’

‘Janice, you serve their coffee and toast while I take care of the eggs.’

‘And what can I do?’ asked Sebastian.

‘There’s a telephone directory on the hall table. Look up the Spanish Embassy, then find a map and show them how to get there.’

‘By the way,’ Sebastian said, placing a sixpence on the table, ‘they gave me this.’

Mrs Tibbet smiled. ‘Your first tip.’

‘The first money I’ve ever earned,’ said Sebastian, pushing the coin across the table. ‘So now I only owe you three and six.’ He left the kitchen without another word and picked up the telephone directory from the hall table. He looked up the Spanish Embassy and, after finding it on a map, he told Mr and Mrs Ferrer how to get to Chesham Place. A few moments later he returned to the kitchen with another sixpence.

‘Keep this up,’ said Mrs Tibbet, ‘and I’ll have to make you a partner.’

Sebastian took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and made his way across to the sink.

‘Now what do you think you’re doing?’

‘I’m going to do the washing-up,’ he replied, as he turned on the hot tap. ‘Isn’t that what customers in films do, when they can’t pay their bill?’

‘I’ll bet that’s another first for you,’ said Mrs Tibbet, as she placed two rashers of bacon next to two fried eggs. ‘Table one, Janice, Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom from Yorkshire. I can’t understand a word they say either. So tell me, Sebastian,’ she said as Janice walked out of the kitchen, ‘can you speak any other languages?’

‘German, Italian, French and Hebrew.’

‘Hebrew? Are you Jewish?’

‘No, but one of my pals at school was, and he taught it to me during chemistry lessons.’

Mrs Tibbet laughed. ‘I think you should get yourself off to Cambridge as quickly as possible, because you’re just not qualified to be a dishwasher.’

‘I won’t be going to Cambridge, Mrs Tibbet,’ Sebastian reminded her, ‘and I’ve got no one to blame but myself. However, I do plan to visit Eaton Square and try to find out where my friend Bruno Martinez lives. He should be back from school by Friday afternoon.’

‘Good idea,’ said Mrs Tibbet. ‘He’s sure to know if you’ve been expelled or just . . . what was the other word?’

‘Rusticated,’ said Sebastian, as Janice came bustling back into the kitchen carrying two empty plates; the most sincere praise a cook can ever receive. She handed them to Sebastian before picking up two more boiled eggs.

‘Table five,’ Mrs Tibbet reminded her.

‘And table nine want more cornflakes,’ said Janice.

‘Then pick up a fresh packet from the pantry, you dozy numskull.’

Sebastian didn’t finish the washing-up until just after ten. ‘What next?’ he asked.

‘Janice hoovers the dining room and then lays up for tomorrow’s breakfast, while I clean the kitchen. Check out is at twelve, and once the guests have left, we change the sheets, make up the beds and water the window boxes.’

‘So what would you like me to do?’ said Sebastian, rolling his sleeves back down.

‘Take a bus to Eaton Square and find out if your friend is expected back on Friday.’ Sebastian put on his jacket. ‘But not before you’ve made your bed and checked that your room is tidy.’

He laughed. ‘You’re beginning to sound like my mother.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment. Be sure you’re back before one o’clock, because I’m expecting some Germans, and you just might be useful.’ Sebastian headed for the door. ‘You’ll need these,’ she added, handing back the two sixpenny pieces. ‘That is, unless you intend to walk to Eaton Square and back.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Tibbet.’

‘Tibby. As you’re clearly going to be a regular.’

Sebastian pocketed the money and kissed her on both cheeks, which silenced Mrs Tibbet for the first time.

He left the kitchen before she could recover, bounded up the stairs, made his bed and tidied his room before returning to the hall, where he checked the map. He was surprised to find that Eaton Square was spelt differently from the school that had turned down his uncle Giles for some misdemeanour none of the family ever talked about.

Before he left, Janice told him to catch a No. 36 bus, get off at Sloane Square and walk from there.

The first thing Sebastian noticed when he closed the guest house door behind him was how many people were rushing about in every direction, at quite a different pace from Bristolians. He joined a queue at the bus stop and watched several red double-deckers arrive and depart before one displaying No. 36 turned up. He climbed on board, walked up to the top deck and took a seat at the front as he wanted to have a good view of everything that was going on below.

‘Where to, young man?’ asked the bus conductor.

‘Sloane Square,’ said Sebastian. ‘And please could you let me know when we get there?’

‘That’ll be tuppence.’

Sebastian became engrossed by all the sights as he travelled past Marble Arch, down Park Lane and around Hyde Park Corner, but tried to concentrate on what he would do once he arrived. All he knew was that Bruno lived in Eaton Square, but he didn’t know the number. He just hoped it was a small square.

‘Sloane Square!’ shouted the conductor as the bus came to a halt outside W.H. Smith.

Sebastian quickly made his way down the steps. Once he was on the pavement, he looked around for a landmark. His eyes settled on the Royal Court theatre, where Joan Plowright was performing in The Chairs. He checked his map, walked past the theatre and took a right, estimating that Eaton Square was only a couple of hundred yards away.

Once he’d reached it, he slowed down in the hope of spotting Don Pedro’s red Rolls-Royce, but there was no sign of the car. He realized that unless he got lucky it could take hours for him to find out where Bruno lived.

As he walked along the pavement, he noticed that about half the houses had been converted into flats, and displayed a list of the occupants’ names by their doorbells. The other half were houses and gave no indication of who lived there, having only a brass knocker or a bell marked ‘Tradesmen’. Sebastian felt sure Bruno’s father wasn’t the kind of man who would share a front door with someone else.

He stood on the top step of No. 1 and pressed the tradesmen’s bell. Moments later a butler appeared, wearing a long black coat and white tie, which reminded him of Marsden at Barrington Hall.

‘I’m looking for a Mr Martinez,’ Sebastian said politely.

‘No gentleman of that name resides here,’ said the butler, and he closed the door before Sebastian had a chance to ask if he had any idea where Mr Martinez did live.

During the next hour, Sebastian experienced everything from ‘He doesn’t live here’ to the door being slammed in his face. It was towards the end of the second hour, by which time he’d reached the far side of the square, that in response to his oft-repeated question, a maid asked, ‘Is he a foreign gentleman who drives a red Rolls-Royce?’

‘Yes, that’s him,’ said Sebastian with a feeling of relief.

‘I think you’ll find he lives at number forty-four, two doors down,’ said the maid, pointing to her right.

‘Thank you very much,’ said Sebastian. He walked briskly on to No. 44, climbed the steps, took a deep breath and banged twice with the brass knocker.

It was some time before the door was opened and Sebastian was greeted by a heavily built man, who must have been well over six feet tall and looked more like a boxer than a butler.

‘What do you want?’ he asked in an accent Sebastian didn’t recognize.

‘I wondered if this is where Bruno Martinez lives?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘My name is Sebastian Clifton.’

The man’s tone suddenly changed. ‘Yes, I’ve heard him talk about you, but he’s not here.’

‘Do you know when he’s expected to return?’

‘I think I heard Mr Martinez saying he’d be home on Friday afternoon.’

Sebastian decided not to ask any more questions, and simply said, ‘Thank you.’ The giant gave a curt nod, and slammed the door. Or was he just closing it?

Sebastian began running towards Sloane Square as he was determined to be back in time to help Mrs Tibbet with her German guests. He took the first bus heading in the direction of Paddington. Once he was back at No. 37 Praed Street, he joined Mrs Tibbet and Janice in the kitchen.

‘Did you have any luck, Seb?’ she asked even before he’d had the chance to sit down.

‘I managed to find out where Bruno lives,’ said Sebastian triumphantly, ‘and—’

‘Number forty-four Eaton Square,’ said Mrs Tibbet as she placed a plate of sausages and mash in front of him.

‘How do you know that?’

‘There’s a Martinez listed in the phone directory, but you’d already gone by the time I thought of that. Did you discover when he’s coming home?’

‘Yes, some time on Friday afternoon.’

‘Then I’m stuck with you for another couple of days.’ Sebastian looked embarrassed until she added, ‘Which could work out quite well, because the Germans are staying until Friday afternoon, so you—’ A firm rap on the door interrupted her thoughts. ‘If I’m not mistaken, that will be Mr Kroll and his friends. Come with me, Seb, and let’s find out if you can understand a word they’re saying.’

Sebastian reluctantly left his sausage and mash, and followed Mrs Tibbet. He’d caught up with her by the time she opened the front door.



He only managed to catch a few moments’ sleep during the next forty-eight hours, between lugging suitcases up and down the stairs, hailing taxis, serving drinks and, most important, translating a myriad questions, from ‘Where is the London Palladium?’ to ‘Do you know any good German restaurants?’, most of which Mrs Tibbet was able to answer without having to refer to a map or guidebook. On the Thursday evening, their last night, Sebastian blushed when he was asked a question to which he didn’t know the answer. Mrs Tibbet came to his rescue.

‘Tell them they’ll find all the girls they need at the Windmill Theatre in Soho.’

The Germans bowed low.

When they left on the Friday afternoon, Herr Kroll gave Sebastian a pound and shook him warmly by the hand. Sebastian handed the money to Mrs Tibbet, but she refused it, saying, ‘It’s yours. You’ve more than earned it.’

‘But I still haven’t paid for my board and lodging. And if I don’t, my grandmother, who used to be the manageress of the Grand Hotel in Bristol, would never let me hear the end of it.’

Mrs Tibbet took him in her arms. ‘Good luck, Seb,’ she said. When she finally let him go, she stood back and added, ‘Take your trousers off.’

Sebastian looked even more embarrassed than when Herr Kroll had asked him where he could find a strip joint.

‘I need to iron those, if you’re not going to look as if you’ve just come from work.’