ENGLAND, THEIR ENGLAND
CHAPTER XVI
The Hôtel Joséphine was a new hotel, run up in a few weeks upon the site of Plantagenet House, which had been for so many years the ancestral home of the Silversteins—the Vienna Silversteins, not the Buenos Ayres lot. The building of it had been a patriotic undertaking, for it was designed to co-ordinate with the Come-to-England movement and the Buy British slogan. If foreigners were to be lured away from the pleasures of Montmartre and Montparnasse, if old-fashioned English hospitality was to be substituted for the meretricious professionalism of Cannes, Nice, and Monte Carlo, it was obvious that comfortable English hotels would have to be provided to house the new visitors. Hence the Hôtel Joséphine.
Everything about it was English, including even the staff. The real name of Bordanaro, the manager, was Hirst; Giacomo, the head waiter in the Restaurant, and Benedetto, the head waiter in the Grill, were a pair of brothers from Merthyr Tydfil called Maggs. Signor Alessandro di Bertucci, the chef d'orchestre, started life in Billericay as Frank Windlesham. And so it was with all the Luigis, the Cosimos, the Pieros, Francescos, Cesares, and Emanueles who served the côtelettes aux pastèques and the filets de soles ravigotte and the royans à la Bordelaise and the soufflés glacés aux pistaches, and all the other chefs-d'œuvre of Monsieur Étienne Bomboudiac (né Wilson) who presided over the cuisine. All, without exception, were English. For the rest, the hotel was equipped with a salle de patinage, a salle d'escrime, half a dozen ballrooms, a thousand bedrooms, a thousand bathrooms, and all the other amenities of modern life.
Esmeralda, in her usual lavish style, had engaged the half-dozen ballrooms for her party. Three were reserved for supping, three for dancing. In the latter, three orchestras of coloured gentlemen performed prodigies of the musical art, and small printed notices, discreetly displayed upon the walls here and there, informed the world that, although these musicians might present a somewhat alien appearance, nevertheless they were of true British strain and were subjects of the great British Empire, being Canadian citizens from Edmonton, Alberta, and Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.
Donald arrived at about 11.30, and was just about to mingle unobtrusively in the crowd and hide in some obscure corner when he suddenly realized that he knew quite a number of his fellow-guests. There was Mr. Hodge, for instance, wearing an enormous gardenia in his coat and a large pearl in his shirt, talking to Bob Bloomer, the ex-cabinet minister. Mr. Bloomer's evening-coat was a triumph of the cutter's art. Captain de Wilton-ffallow was in a corner with Mr. Carteret-Pendragon, Mr. Woldingham-Uffingham, and Mr. Carshalton-Stanbury. They were standing like statues, in a beautiful and poised im mobility, and from time to time their lips moved slightly as if a rose-leaf had been stirred by a zephyr. They bowed gravely to Donald, and the lights gleamed upon the silkiness of their moustaches. Once or twice during the evening Donald found himself near them, and on each occasion he heard one or other of them murmur the same phrase, "Well, yes and no."
Patience Ormerode was there, and Donald noticed two differences about her since they had sat down to dinner that evening at Ormerode Towers. Her universal adjective was now "wan" instead of "grisly," and she was wearing knickers. As an offset, however, to this unexpected dressiness, the lower joints of her spine shone with an admirable polish. She puffed a blast of cigarette-smoke into Donald's face, nodded to him, and observed, "Rupert's sober. Wan, isn't it?" and the next instant she was deep in conversation with one of the Imperialists from Edmonton (or Saskatoon). Lady Ormerode herself was sitting in a corner with Mr. Huggins and was laughing so much that she was apparently about to have an apoplectic fit. The alleged Channel Islander was talking very fast and very loudly, but fortunately even his voice was drowned by the din.
Miss Perugia Gaukrodger, in a terrific confection of puce and lemon-yellow, with long green gloves and green shoes that did not quite match the gloves, had backed Robert Southcott into an angle between two tables in one of the supper-rooms and was reading aloud to him from a small note-book. In a brief lull of saxophonous prodigies, the words, "and I get fifteen per cent over five thousand copies and twenty per cent on anything over ten thousand. For colonial editions——" were wafted across the room. Mr. Southcott's eye was a little glazed, and from time to time he mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief.
Another group that Donald ran into consisted of the youngish professor of ballistics who had played cricket, the exquisite Vision of blue and gold and silk who had typed so stoutly at Geneva amid the clouds of Latin-Americans, the Polish count who spoke no English, and Mr. Charles Ossory. They were listening in French to Mr. Ossory.
From time to time Major Hawker's laugh resounded through the rooms like the clang of a gong. He was extremely busy entertaining Mrs. O. K. Poop, and his palpable success was obviously very distasteful to young Porson Jebb, who was longing to explain to Mrs. Poop the difference between baseball and cricket. Miss Prudence Pott, M.P., upon whom young Porson had had to fall back as an audience, was allowing her mind to wander, and no one can appreciate the finer points of cricket if they allow their minds to wander.
A very silent trio, Sir Ethelred Ormerode, Sir Ludovic Phibbs, and Sir Henry Wootton, had frankly given up conversation for the quails and were tucking away for all they were worth. Shakespeare Pollock, the American, on the other hand, was darting about in great form, chattering of this and that. There was a great stir when the Russian baroness-princess came in; she was looking so lovely that Major Hawker abandoned Mrs. O. K. Poop instantly, and raced round the rooms hunting for someone to introduce him.
Esmeralda's heart misgave her for a moment when she saw the Slavonic beauty come sailing in, and she half regretted that she had invited her. But the next moment she was herself again. After all, pretty gentlemen were grouped round her at least ten deep, and had she not received that very morning her new draft contract from Appelbaum & Zedekiah Rose, Inc., and was there not more than a rumour that "Snarks" Muggleston wanted to fight "Becher's" Boldingham on the sands at Calais with rapiers, all for the love of her? Let the little beast do her wretched little vamp stuff, thought Esmeralda, sweeping the room with her liquid eyes, and making a mental note to give Major Hawker a clip on the jaw next time the opportunity offered. For the gallant Major was no waster of time, and was already bending low over the princess's slender fingers; his nearest rival and senior officer, the Major-General, had been coldly headed back by Mrs. Major-General just as he was beginning to edge towards the Divinity.
The crowd continued to pour in. Esmeralda seemed to have a great many friends, but the six rooms were never entirely packed. For there were other parties in London that evening, and lots of guests were "going on."
At about 3 o'clock the crowd was thinning and Donald was thinking of strolling home in the moonlight, when Esmeralda came across the room to him and whispered in his ear, "Sausages and bacon on the roof at 4. Don't tell a soul."
It was apparently a privileged invitation, for Donald watched her moving slowly about the rooms, whispering here and there to some of the guests, and letting others depart without a pang. The Russian princess was allowed to go, and Major Hawker was allowed to escort her to her taxi, or to her home for all that Esmeralda cared. "Snarks" and "Becher's" were glowering too divinely at each other to let Esmeralda worry about trivialities.
The sausage-and-bacon party on the roof-garden started beautifully. The moon was at the full; the faintest dappling of tarnished silver was silhouetting St. Paul's away to the east, and the lights of London were dulling the stars. In the Park, a blue haze drifted among the trees. The sausages were real home-made Buckinghamshire. The bacon was done to a crisp. The Munich Löwenbrau beer was so cool and smooth that it might almost have been English. And there had been a moment, a delicious moment, when it almost looked as if "Becher's" was trying to push "Snarks" to the edge of the roof in order to chuck him over.
The air was warm, very warm for April, and it rapidly grew warmer.
"Quite like Abbotabad," said the Major-General, fanning his face with a napkin.
"More like Amritsar," amended his wife. The warrior hastily agreed. The little episode of the princess was still marked up on the slate against him, and he knew it.
"It is remarkably warm," said Sir Ethelred, signing to a waiting Lorenzo to refill his glass.
Suddenly Bob Bloomer sniffed loudly once or twice.
"Queer smell," he observed, and the next moment the tranquillity of the April morning was shattered by a cry of "Fire!" from the hotel beneath them.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" said the Major-General, rising to his feet and rapping on the table, "I am the senior officer present. You will kindly regard me as Officer Commanding Joséphine Roof Garden."
Murmurs of "Hear, hear," "Agreed," and some slight applause greeted this announcement.
The Major-General continued:
"Captain de Wilton-ffallow, reconnoitre the main staircase and report to me."
"Yes, sir."
"Mr. Carteret-Pendragon, reconnoitre the outside fire-escape and report to me."
"In writing?" enquired the diplomat, and there was a general laugh.
"Mr. Cameron, Mr. Carshalton-Stanbury, and Mr. Woldingham-Uffingham, reconnoitre for other routes of retreat, and report to me. Remainder, sit at ease."
The noise below had swiftly become pandemoniac, but there was not, as yet, an audible sound of crackling flames. The fire was not as close as that. But the hotel was full of shouts, screams, the opening of windows, the slamming of doors, and the splintering of glass.
At the supper-table no one moved. The Lorenzo, aided by a Giuliano, went round refilling the tumblers with a new supply of Löwenbrau.
"Has anyone got a camera?" called out Esmeralda from her end of the long table. There was no answer, and she went on, "Oh, well, we'll just have to go straight to the nearest studio the moment we get out."
"How about a few rescue scenes?" suggested Mr. Harcourt. "Esmeralda in my arms, and so on?"
"I should adore it," said Esmeralda, bestowing her loveliest smile on the poet.
"You couldn't carry her," snarled "Becher's" Boldingham.
"Come, come!" said Mr. Harcourt severely, "she's not as heavy as all that."
Poor Mr. Boldingham was covered with confusion and started to explain, but was loudly laughed down, especially by "Snarks" Muggleston, who thought that the infernal poet wasn't such a bad fellow after all.
"I hope there's time to get our names into the Society Jottings," said Patience Ormerode, pushing her chair back and hitching up her frock in order to adjust the top of a stocking. It was the longest sentence she had uttered all the evening.
"Not a hope!" shouted Mr. Huggins jovially. "The dailies have gone to press ages ago."
"How wan!" said Patience, relapsing into gloomy silence.
Captain de Wilton-ffallow came back, rubbing his eyes.
"It's not the top floor, sir," he reported, "but the one below that. It's blazing."
"What about the staircase?" rapped out the O.C. Roof Garden.
"Quite impossible, sir. Mass of flames."
"Very well, sir." Captain de Wilton-ffallow sat down and went on with a sausage.
Mr. Carteret-Pendragon was the next to return.
"Well, sir, is there a fire-escape?" demanded the Major-General.
"Yes, and no," replied Mr. Carteret-Pendragon. "To the extent that there undoubtedly is a fire-escape, the answer is in the affirmative. But in that the fire-escape stops short four stories below us, the answer, so far as practical politics are concerned, is in the negative."
Donald was spokesman for the other expedition.
"There's no other way off the roof," he reported.
"Very well," said the Major-General, "there's nothing to be done except wait for the fire-engines. How long do you give us before it reaches us, Captain de Wilton-ffallow?"
The Captain shrugged his shoulders.
"It's hard to say. Perhaps five or ten minutes."
"That's rather wan," said Patience.
"Don't let's lose our heads and try to extinguish it with the beer," said Mr. Huggins firmly. "That would be the last straw."
Esmeralda sighed. "It's a bit hard to be asked to face one's Maker without a single flashlight man," she said.
"Never mind," said Mr. Harcourt, looking over the parapet down into Park Lane, "you are going to play to capacity in your farewell performance. The house is filling up beautifully."
"Positively the last appearance," said Mr. Huggins.
"Miss d'Avenant literally finished in a blaze," said Mr. Harcourt.
"The whole thing went with a roar," suggested Mr. Huggins.
"All of us were aflame," said Mr. Harcourt.
"Sweet pets!" said Esmeralda. "Becher's" and "Snarks" shuffled uneasily and scowled.
"What annoys me," exclaimed Bob Bloomer, "is that my job at the West End Journeyman Tailors will go to Bert Stukeley and he's a dirty little crook."
Mr. Carteret-Pendragon shook his head disapprovingly and murmured, "A very actionable statement," and the other two diplomats gravely concurred.
"Any signs of a fire-engine, waiter, what's your name?" barked the Major-General.
"My name, sir, is Giuliano," replied the waiter.
"I didn't ask you your name," the O.C. roared at him, "I asked you if there were any signs of a fire-engine."
"You did ask him his name," Donald ventured.
"Discipline, by God!" thundered the Major-General, glaring at him. "Anyway, he's a damned dago!"
"Just like the dear old days at Peshawur," murmured Mrs. Major-General, with an adoring look at her Horace.
"My surname is Ellis," said Giuliano unexpectedly.
"And a fire-engine has arrived," added Bob Bloomer.
It was not a moment too soon, for the flames had climbed into the floor immediately beneath the roof- garden, and smoke was already pouring up the staircase. The crackling and roaring of the fire was getting louder and louder, and the air was full of grit and dust and burning smells.
"Dammit," muttered de Wilton-ffallow into Donald's ear, "we're in a tight place."
"The garrison will form column of route," shouted the Major-General above the din, "preparatory to descending by the ladder. Ladies leading."
"And no camera," sighed Esmeralda, as she took her place behind Lady Ormerode.
"The ladder's coming up," reported Bloomer.
"And the floor's going down," added Mr. Harcourt, darting across to an unfinished glass of beer and pouring it hastily down his throat.
"Blast!" exclaimed Mr. Huggins. "I thought I'd finished them all."
"Very bad form," said Mr. Carteret-Pendragon gravely.
"Deplorable," agreed Mr. Carshalton-Stanbury.
"Not done," added Mr. Woldingham-Uffingham.
"Here it is!" shouted Bloomer, and the top of a scarlet ladder shot up over the parapet. Two firemen in full uniform and a civilian in dungarees leapt one after another on to the roof-garden, and the work of rescue began.
"Hullo, mister!" cried a voice in Donald's ear, and he turned to recognize William Rhodes in the dungarees.
"What are you doing here?" shouted Donald, one eye upon the agility with which Lady Ormerode went, so to speak, over the top, and the other upon the tongue of flame which had pierced the roof, and was the herald of the end.
"It's my machine," yelled William Rhodes. "I've just made it, and I'm teaching these fellows how to use it. Had to come up and see how it went."
The race was now desperate. The women were all clear, but the floor of the roof-garden was cracking and sagging. The diplomats went over, quietly and efficiently. Mr. Huggins burst into the Marseillaise when his turn came, and sang it with a marked Lancashire accent. Part of the floor crashed as "Becher's" Boldingham threw his leg over the parapet, but the main part was still holding out when Donald followed Mr. Harcourt through the clouds of smoke and sparks. Half-way down he heard the poet mutter, "Damn it, I'm thirsty."
The last two to come down were William Rhodes, ecstatic over the success of his machine, and the Major-General.
The immense crowd in Park Lane was delirious with joy, and applauded each rescue with wild enthusiasm. At intervals the plaintive voice of Esmeralda could be heard saying, "Hasn't anybody got a camera?" At last a Press photographer arrived, and, to the fury and chagrin of "Becher's" and "Snarks," the divine Esmeralda was photographed kissing William Rhodes.
Above the din a Lancashire voice was singing "Madelon."
