Charity (32 page)

Opening the door to the guests’ part of the hotel was like leaving a slum and entering a palace. The staff bedrooms were tiny, furnished with cast-out pieces that guests had ruined. No new decoration had taken place up on the top floor for years, the carpets were so worn you could see the lines in the floorboards; even the lighting was dingy.

Now Charity felt thick red and gold carpet beneath her feet, breathed in that smell of opulence that came with flock wallpaper, soft wall lights, cigars, expensive perfume and people that had some purpose in their lives.

The other chambermaids had a great deal of curiosity about the guests. They whispered amongst themselves about the expensive clothes, jewellery and the amount these people ate and drank. Charity felt nothing: she picked up clothing, tidied cosmetics and cleaned, almost like a blind person. The other girls might help themselves to chocolates, giggle at naughty underwear and spray themselves with perfume, but she was only interested in keeping the rooms immaculate.

Knocking on doors, then using her pass key when no one answered, Charity went from room to room. She drew curtains, picked up wet towels, turned the beds down neatly, then passed on.

She knocked on number 212 and waited longer than usual, because Mr Marshall was often in his room at this time. He was one of the few guests she knew by name; in fact she had spoken to him several times during his two-week stay here.

John Marshall was a photographer. According to the hotel gossip, a well-known one whose pictures often appeared in
National Geographic
. She’d seen him polishing the lenses in his cameras once and out of politeness had asked him about his work. Rather shyly he had shown her some stunning photographs of a stampede of wildebeest in Africa.

But aside from his profession that made him a little more intriguing than the other guests, Mr Marshall was a real gentleman. She guessed his age to be around the mid-forties. He was tall and slim with a permanent suntan and the kind of leather luggage and good shoes that suggested a man of taste. He never made suggestive remarks as many other businessmen did, he kept his room tidy and he was unfailingly courteous, opening doors for her and generally making her workload a little easier.

Getting no answer, she used her key. As she opened the door a blast of icy wind and the roar of traffic surprised her. Assuming that Mr Marshall had opened the windows, perhaps to clear smoky air, and had then forgotten to close them before going out earlier in the day, she switched on the light and moved in.

She had taken only two steps when she saw his naked legs and feet protruding from behind the bed.

‘Mr Marshall?’ she called, nervousness taking the place of apathy. She had often walked in on drunks, once even finding one asleep in a cold bath, but nothing she’d seen of this man had suggested he was a drinker. ‘Mr Marshall, are you all right?’

It was a bit early for anyone to be drunk enough to fall on the floor. Besides, why was he in the dark?

The curtains were flapping, his bed was rumpled as if he’d been in it, yet a quick glance round showed no bottle, just an empty glass on the cabinet by the bed. She shivered and moved forward to close the windows.

As she reached the end of the bed, she gasped, clasping her hand to her mouth involuntarily. Mr Marshall was stark naked.

He lay twisted, halfway between face down and sideways, his naked bottom startlingly white compared with his deep brown back and legs.

Pulling the windows shut quickly, Charity dropped on to her knees beside him, pulling the bedspread down with her to cover him.

‘Mr Marshall,’ she called again, putting one hand gingerly on his shoulder. ‘It’s me, Charity, the chambermaid. Are you ill?’

His skin was icy cold to the touch. Worse still, she saw an open bottle of pills that had rolled under the edge of the bed, a few white tablets gleaming against the dark carpet.

‘Oh no,’ she gasped, grabbing the phone above her. ‘Hold on, I’ll get help.’

‘Mr Marshall in room 212,’ she said urgently to the girl that answered. ‘He’s collapsed in his room, get a doctor quickly.’

Now help was on its way Charity took his hand and felt for a pulse. She had no idea if it was fast or slow, it was just a relief to find there was one.

‘Help’s coming,’ she said, bending close to his ear.

His lips moved and his eyelids flickered but nothing more.

Seen close up without his specs, Mr Marshall looked far younger than Charity had thought. Of course he was pallid now, his lips blue from cold, but his curly brown hair was thick and soft to her touch, with just a sprinkling of grey at the temples.

As she waited, Charity felt an odd sense of comradeship towards the man whose room she had cleaned so often. Perhaps it was merely those tablets on the floor that reminded her of times when she’d been tempted to swallow a whole bottle of aspirin, but his room had the same stark quality as her own. His jacket was hung neatly on the back of the trouser press. Three pairs of shoes were lined up in a row under the dressing-table, even his shirt and underclothes were folded on the chair. There were no personal belongings strewn about, aside from his cameras, nothing to indicate that he’d been staying for some time, or that he was a regular visitor to the hotel.

Every other guest had carrier bags from the big stores, postcards to send to their families and friends, brochures for everything from theatres to car hire, evidence that they were here for pleasure or business. She had been relieved that his room held no such clutter while she was cleaning it, but now she wondered if, like her, he had faced some crisis during his time here.

The assistant manager Mr Cox came barging into the room suddenly, quickly followed by the house doctor.

Charity jumped up, told them how she’d found Mr Marshall, and moved back to let the doctor examine him.

‘You can go,’ Mr Cox said dismissively. ‘And don’t bandy this around.’

Mr Cox was always unpleasant. A tall, gangly man, he had sharp features and a bad temper. She got the impression he was annoyed at being interrupted drinking and toadying with the guests downstairs.

‘Thank you, Charity.’ The doctor looked up from where he knelt beside Mr Marshall, aware the little chambermaid was deeply concerned. ‘It must have been quite a shock to you finding someone like this. I’ll let you know later how he is.’

It was after ten when Charity heard a knock on her door. She’d had a bath and washed her hair and was wearing her pink dressing-gown, but finding Mr Marshall like that had shaken her out of her usual apathy, and she’d been waiting anxiously for news.

‘How is he?’ she asked when she opened the door and saw Dr Cole. ‘Has he gone to hospital?’

‘May I come in for a moment? I don’t want to talk out here.’

Charity let him in and he sat down on the one chair, while she perched on the bed.

Dr Cole was rumoured to be an alcoholic. He was over sixty, small and worn looking.

‘He’s sleeping it off now.’ The doctor smiled wearily at Charity. ‘I didn’t think he needed hospital, he hadn’t taken enough pills for that. He’ll wake up in the morning with a hangover, but that’s all.’

Charity sighed with relief. She’d been thinking about Mr Marshall all the time while she had a bath, remembering how pleasant he’d been. She had learned to freeze out male guests who made provocative suggestions, avert her eyes from saucy magazines and nudity, but with Mr Marshall there had never been any kind of threat, only a desire to make her job easier.

‘Did he mean to kill himself?’ she blurted out.

The doctor looked hard at Charity. He’d used this incident as an excuse to speak to her, because he’d been worried about her for some time. He sensed she’d had some sort of disaster prior to taking up this job and he’d tried to get her to open up on several occasions. She was far too pale and thin, and he knew she never went out or mixed with the other girls.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘From what I can gather he’d just hit a rut in the road.’

Charity frowned, not understanding.

‘It happens to us all at times.’ Dr Cole shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of sympathy. ‘Grief, private worries, a feeling of hopelessness. In Mr Marshall’s case I think he took a couple of pills to sleep, then woke and took some more without knowing what he was doing. Maybe that’s why the window was open when you found him. I think he must have felt ill, got up to open it, then collapsed. It was a good job you found him, he could have died of cold.’

‘I’m so glad he’s all right,’ Charity said. ‘He’s a nice man.’

‘And what about you, young lady?’ Dr Cole looked at her over his glasses.

Charity dropped her gaze.

The doctor rapped one finger on her pile of books.

‘What’s this? Studying, or just for pleasure?’

He was surprised to see Jane Austen, Dickens and Trollope. Most of the girls who worked here would be hard pressed to read an Enid Blyton.

‘I had an uncle once who called it “improving my mind”,’ Charity said and smiled despite herself.

‘In my time I’ve met a psychopathic chef, a housekeeper who claimed she was a witch, chambermaids hiding from violent husbands and several barmen who’d been in prison at some time. Now I can add a bluestocking to the list. It seems to me the work attracts the lonely, the sad and even the mad. That’s probably why I’m here too.’

Charity’s lips twitched.

‘Go on, laugh.’ Dr Cole’s pale eyes twinkled.

‘Is Mr Marshall lonely?’ Charity knew the doctor was trying to probe into her past and she wanted to lead him away from it.

‘I suspect he’s got a great deal in common with you,’ the doctor said unexpectedly. Charity jerked her head up in surprise. ‘Someone who has chosen to isolate himself while he tries to sort out where his life has gone wrong.’

Dr Cole observed the flush that spread up from the girl’s slim neck, the way her fingers picked nervously at her dressing-gown.

‘Do you mind if I go to bed now?’ Charity said. She was touched by his interest and compassion, but she had no intention of admitting anything for fear a confession might open gates she could never close again. ‘I have to be up early in the morning.’

‘Of course, my dear.’ He got up to leave. ‘I think Mr Marshall would like to thank you personally for rescuing him, so try and find time to pop in and see him tomorrow. If you want to talk to someone any time, don’t forget me. Goodnight.’

Charity woke as usual at six-thirty to alarm clocks going off all down the corridor. She’d lied to the doctor last night; she didn’t have to get up early as it was her day off. She could hear doors open, lavatories flushing and the usual moaning banter between the girls.

Normally she felt a certain dread on her day off – all those spare hours with nothing to fill them – but for once she felt slightly more alive, even curious about the other girls.

She could hear Judy talking about a man she’d met at a Soho club last night and she leaned up on her elbow to listen.

‘I told him I was a guest here.’ Judy giggled. ‘He wanted to come in for a drink and I didn’t know what to do. So I told him I had a business meeting early this morning and I had to get my beauty sleep. I suppose I’d better tell him the truth tonight when I meet him.’

Her voice tailed off as she moved away to go downstairs and Charity lay down again to try and go back to sleep. But for some odd reason her mind kept turning back to Mr Marshall.

It was just after eleven when Charity knocked at his door, balancing a tea tray on one hip. She was aware that this was the first time since she arrived at the hotel she’d felt any interest in anyone, and the sensation was quite pleasant.

‘Come in.’ His voice sounded weak; in the past it had always been quite commanding.

‘It’s Charity. I thought you might like some tea.’

‘That’s very thoughtful of you.’ All she could see of him was a dark shape against the white sheets. ‘I was hoping to run into you at some time today. I believe I’ve you to thank for my rescue?’

‘No thanks necessary,’ she said, putting the tray down on the dressing-table. ‘How do you feel this morning?’

‘A bit woozy.’

‘Shall I open the curtains a little, then I can pour you the tea?’

‘Fine,’ he said and she heard a movement as if he was trying to sit up. ‘I have to warn you I’m not a pretty sight!’

Charity pulled the curtain cord and weak sunshine spilled into the room. The window overlooked Piccadilly Circus and as always at this time of day it was choked with traffic and milling with thousands of people, though through double glass the noise was a mere dull drone.

When she turned she found he had pulled himself up in bed and was leaning back against the head-board. His deeply tanned chest was bare, but aside from a dark shadow on his chin and slightly puffy eyes he looked normal enough.

‘Have a cup with me?’ he said unexpectedly as she poured his. ‘I feel I owe you an explanation.’

Charity turned to him, his cup in her hands and for some inexplicable reason knew she had to stay, even though visiting guests in their rooms was frowned on.

‘Don’t feel you’ve got to,’ she said, putting the cup right into his hands. ‘If you want to talk, that’s fine, but I’m not sitting in judgement.’

There was an empty coffee cup on the dressing-table, presumably brought to him last night. She rinsed it out in his bathroom and came back to fill it.

‘Have you finished your work for the morning?’ he asked. ‘You aren’t wearing your uniform.’

‘It’s my day off,’ she explained, looking down at her jeans and sweater. ‘I’d get shot if I worked like this.’

As she looked at him sitting up in bed she realised his long face was attractive. He had a small, almost pretty nose and beautifully shaped lips. His body too was youthful, slender, yet strong looking and muscular. Although he had the covers well over his stomach, she could see it was taut and flat like that of a far younger man and his curly hair was endearingly tousled. Suddenly she felt rather self-conscious.

‘You look nice in jeans,’ he said. ‘Your uniform makes you look like a Victorian maid. So what prompted a girl on her day off to bring me tea? Curiosity or a touch of the Florence Nightingales?’