The Common Room at Bramblewick Hotel
(Inspired by an occasional piece by G.R. Balleine)
It was a blustery evening at Bramblewick Hotel, the sort that rattled the sash windows and made the fire crackle with extra urgency. The common room, all velvet armchairs and mahogany panelling, had drawn its usual crowd: travellers, pensioners, and the occasional clergyman, each nursing a sherry or a pipe and settling in for the evening’s entertainment - namely, each other.
Mr. and Mrs. Penfold were already at it, sparring with the affection of seasoned veterans.
“She thinks more of that blasted dog than she does of me,” Mr. Penfold declared, gesturing toward the spaniel curled by the hearth.
Mrs. Penfold, without missing a stitch in her knitting, replied, “Well, dear, he growls less.”
The room chuckled.
“And when our little girl said her prayers,” Mr. Penfold continued, “I told her to ask God to watch over me, since I was away.”
“She did,” said Mrs. Penfold sweetly. “And then added, ‘Please keep an eye on Mummy too, since she’s all alone.’”
A retired schoolmistress, Miss Elphinstone, leaned forward with a tale of her niece.
“She’d been sent to her room for being beastly. When her mother went up to forgive her, she found her writing a letter.”
“Apology to Daddy?” someone asked.
“No,” said Miss Elphinstone, eyes twinkling. “She was writing to the Archbishop of Canterbury to request a divorce.”
The men, not to be outdone, began swapping stories about wives.
“My college head once told us,” said Mr. Latham, “that patience was the key to marriage. ‘If your wife isn’t ready,’ he said, ‘keep a good book handy. You’ll be amazed how much you’ll learn.’”
“Or how long you’ll wait,” muttered Mr. Penfold.
Mr. MacDougal, a dour Scotsman, offered a tale of his Janet.
“I had a touch of influenza, and the doctor told her to cheer me up. She sat by the bed, silent as a grave.”
“What were you thinking, Janet?” I asked.
She replied, “I’m wondering however we’ll get your coffin down yon awkward stair.”
The laughter was interrupted by Mrs. Featherstone, who had a tale about male deceit.
“A man came into my florist’s, desperate for potted geraniums. I told him we’d only chrysanthemums.”
“He looked stricken,” she said. “‘They’re no good,’ he told me. ‘I promised my wife I’d water her geraniums while she was away.’”
In the corner, the Reverend Pottle puffed his pipe with ecclesiastical calm.
“Come now, Vicar,” said Mrs. Penfold. “Surely you’ve a tale?”
“Well,” he said, “I was called out of bed last week to visit a sick man. After offering what comfort I could, I asked the wife, ‘You don’t come to my church, do you?’”
“‘Oh no, Sir,’ she said, ‘we’re Baptists.’”
“‘Then why not send for your own minister?’”
“‘Oh, we couldn’t let our Mr. Brown risk it,’ she said. ‘The doctor says this fever’s terribly catching.’”
The fire hissed. The dog snored. And the laughter, like the smoke, curled up into the rafters of Bramblewick Hotel, where stories were the currency and everyone paid in full.
It was a blustery evening at Bramblewick Hotel, the sort that rattled the sash windows and made the fire crackle with extra urgency. The common room, all velvet armchairs and mahogany panelling, had drawn its usual crowd: travellers, pensioners, and the occasional clergyman, each nursing a sherry or a pipe and settling in for the evening’s entertainment - namely, each other.
Mr. and Mrs. Penfold were already at it, sparring with the affection of seasoned veterans.
“She thinks more of that blasted dog than she does of me,” Mr. Penfold declared, gesturing toward the spaniel curled by the hearth.
Mrs. Penfold, without missing a stitch in her knitting, replied, “Well, dear, he growls less.”
The room chuckled.
“And when our little girl said her prayers,” Mr. Penfold continued, “I told her to ask God to watch over me, since I was away.”
“She did,” said Mrs. Penfold sweetly. “And then added, ‘Please keep an eye on Mummy too, since she’s all alone.’”
A retired schoolmistress, Miss Elphinstone, leaned forward with a tale of her niece.
“She’d been sent to her room for being beastly. When her mother went up to forgive her, she found her writing a letter.”
“Apology to Daddy?” someone asked.
“No,” said Miss Elphinstone, eyes twinkling. “She was writing to the Archbishop of Canterbury to request a divorce.”
The men, not to be outdone, began swapping stories about wives.
“My college head once told us,” said Mr. Latham, “that patience was the key to marriage. ‘If your wife isn’t ready,’ he said, ‘keep a good book handy. You’ll be amazed how much you’ll learn.’”
“Or how long you’ll wait,” muttered Mr. Penfold.
Mr. MacDougal, a dour Scotsman, offered a tale of his Janet.
“I had a touch of influenza, and the doctor told her to cheer me up. She sat by the bed, silent as a grave.”
“What were you thinking, Janet?” I asked.
She replied, “I’m wondering however we’ll get your coffin down yon awkward stair.”
The laughter was interrupted by Mrs. Featherstone, who had a tale about male deceit.
“A man came into my florist’s, desperate for potted geraniums. I told him we’d only chrysanthemums.”
“He looked stricken,” she said. “‘They’re no good,’ he told me. ‘I promised my wife I’d water her geraniums while she was away.’”
In the corner, the Reverend Pottle puffed his pipe with ecclesiastical calm.
“Come now, Vicar,” said Mrs. Penfold. “Surely you’ve a tale?”
“Well,” he said, “I was called out of bed last week to visit a sick man. After offering what comfort I could, I asked the wife, ‘You don’t come to my church, do you?’”
“‘Oh no, Sir,’ she said, ‘we’re Baptists.’”
“‘Then why not send for your own minister?’”
“‘Oh, we couldn’t let our Mr. Brown risk it,’ she said. ‘The doctor says this fever’s terribly catching.’”
The fire hissed. The dog snored. And the laughter, like the smoke, curled up into the rafters of Bramblewick Hotel, where stories were the currency and everyone paid in full.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment