Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9, 1927
C lara
A yawn sneaks past my lips. Pushing my cleaning cart toward suite 815, the tiredness from our evening out at the theatre clings to me like a noon-day shadow.
“Miss Wilson, are you only getting started now?” The concern in my friend Rebecca’s voice is difficult to miss.
I pivot to find Miss Smythe, as I refer to Rebecca while we are working as eighth-floor maids, a few paces behind me. “I am. Mr. Barnes remained in his room most of the morning, so I diverted my attention to the seasonal bouquets for the arriving weekend guests.”
“That was good of you, but you know you’ll be cutting it close to guest registration time?” Miss Smythe checks her watch. “Only three hours until they start arriving.”
“I’ll be ready in time.” I give her a reassuring smile as we arrive at the door of suite 815. The sound of movement behind the closed door dashes my hopes and my promise. “Or perhaps not.” I push the cleaning trolley ahead several paces and whisper to Miss Smythe, “He is still in the suite. What should I do?”
“We should check with the front desk. They usually inform us if a guest has delayed their checkout, but perhaps his was a last-minute request.” Miss Smythe places a hand on my cart’s handle and helps me push it over the plush carpet to the nearest storage cupboard. “I’ll go with you, in case something is amiss.”
“Thank you.” We scurry down the back stairs, our footsteps echoing through the cavernous stairwell.
Peeking into the hotel’s lobby, I find myself squinting as my eyes adjust to the dimly lit space filled with dark wood. Today’s weather offers little in the way of warmth or light. Miss Smythe ushers me forward once she has confirmed the registration desk is free of guests.
“Excuse me. I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.” Miss Smythe extends a friendly smile to the desk attendant. “I am Miss Smythe. This is Miss Wilson. We are eighth-floor maids, and we have a guest in suite 815 who appears to still be in his room but is scheduled to check out today. I wonder if you can tell us if the guest has extended his stay?”
“Miss Smythe, Miss Wilson.” The lanky man in a tailored hotel uniform inclines his head in greeting. “I am Mr. Reynolds. Mr. Olson has hired me to manage the registration desk, since the last person who held the position was clearly not up to the task.”
I stifle a smile at the man’s impertinent remark and shift my eyes downward to examine the gleaming wood of the registration desk.
He brushes aside his comment with a wave of his hand. “It is good to meet you both. Now, it was suite 815, you said?”
“Yes,” Miss Smythe says. “Mr. Barnes is the guest there.”
Mr. Reynolds flips through the daily register until he reaches the eighth floor. “I see. Mr. Barnes is departing today on a four o’clock train. There is no note for a late checkout. I imagine he will be vacating the suite within the next two hours if he is to catch his train.”
“Mr. Reynolds, what is the hotel policy when a guest…” Miss Smythe’s lips twist as she contemplates an appropriate way to deliver the question. “Overstays their scheduled reservation?”
“Well, for a guest such as Mr. Barnes, I believe the hotel will overlook his extended stay.” Mr. Reynolds narrows his eyes at us, as though we are the ones out of line. “Given that he is to be a frequent guest on the eighth floor, I would think he is due such a courtesy.”
I exchange a questioning look with Miss Smythe. “I see,” she says to Mr. Reynolds. “Thank you for your assistance.” Miss Smythe steers me by the elbow to the back-of-house corridor. “I don’t think we will get anywhere with Mr. Reynolds. He doesn’t appear to be the sort to concern himself with someone else’s problem.”
By the time we have climbed the eight floors, we have decided that the best course of action is to wait for Mr. Barnes to vacate his suite. We pool our resources, working on Miss Smythe’s last suite of the day, and in exchange, she will help me right suite 815 as soon as it is empty.
Midway through cleaning Miss Smythe’s suite, I venture into the hall to deposit the bedding and towels into the laundry cart stowed within a utility closet. Rounding the corner on my return trip, I find the occupant of suite 815 craning his neck from his suite’s doorway.
“Ah, just the maid I was looking for. Miss…?” The man, whom I presume to be Mr. Barnes, steps forward, a smile dancing on his thin lips.
“Miss Wilson, sir. Pleased to meet you.” I incline my head in greeting and resist the urge to take a step backwards.
“Well, Miss Wilson, I’ve been wondering where you’ve been all day.” He speaks with a light tone, and I sense his words are intended to be teasing. But I don’t miss the hint of accusation.
“I’m sorry, sir. Was there something you needed?” My thoughts instantly go to the holiday bonus. I am very aware that if I am unable to meet the needs of the one and only guest in my care, I won’t even be considered for the prize. Winning such an honour among the eighth-floor maids is a sure way to show Ms. Thompson I’m worthy of her belief in me, and earning the holiday bonus would prove to Lou that Papa and I will be just fine on our own. I can’t be the one to hold her back from her acting career beyond Vancouver.
“I’ve been hanging around this joint”—he gestures behind him to his suite’s door—“waiting to meet you.” Mr. Barnes leans a little closer than I am comfortable with and winks. “You are the girl who’s been taking such wonderful care of my room all week, aren’t you?”
I feel his breath on my cheek, and I hesitate. It takes me a moment to realize the man is unsuccessfully attempting to be friendly. “Yes, sir. I am your suite’s maid.”
“Well then, Miss Wilson. I am pleased to meet you.” Mr. Barnes lifts my wrist and presses his lips to the back of my hand.
Though the urge to withdraw my hand is immediate, I remind myself that hotel protocol is to treat the guest with the utmost respect, especially on the eighth floor. Despite the hall being on the cooler side, I feel a trickle of sweat snake down my back. I brush the unsettling feeling aside, blaming my perspiration on the work I was engaged in earlier.
Not wanting to pressure the man but also wishing to bring our meeting to a close, I press on. “Are you all set for your journey home, then? Is there anything I can get for you?”
“Now that we are acquainted, I am right as rain. Please have the bellboy bring my cases down.” Mr. Barnes moves past me, his shoulder brushing mine as though we are squished together in a tight space instead of in the wide eighth-floor hall. I remain where I stand and am waiting for him to vacate the hall when he turns back to me. “Oh, Miss Wilson. I am not travelling home today. I will be back in town next week. I look forward to getting to know you better then.”
I force into place the smile expected of an eighth-floor maid and clasp my hands in front of me. “Have a safe journey, sir.”
With my heart beating fast, I dash toward the suite Rebecca is tending and let her know Mr. Barnes has finally vacated suite 815.
“I will get started on it right away,” I call over my shoulder as I move quickly in the direction of the supply cupboard. Unable to tamp down the urge to run, I tug my cleaning cart free and move with hurried steps toward the suite, my sole responsibility.
I begin with the bedroom, aware check-in time will be upon us in less than one hour. I strip the bed with more force than is necessary, tossing the sheets into a pile on the floor. The thought of Mr. Barnes’ lips on my hand sends a shiver through my limbs. I shake my head to dislodge the uneasiness, along with any notion that he meant to be anything but cordial, and focus on the room before me. With any dilly-dallying on my part, the suite will not be ready for the check-in hour.
The darkness of the room adds a claustrophobic weight to the space. I turn on both bedside table lamps and am drawing the curtains open, lost somewhere between my list of tasks and ruminating mind, when I am startled from behind. “My suite is all sorted, so I can help with yours.”
I spin around to find Miss Smythe standing at the foot of the bed. “Sorry, you scared me.”
“Don’t worry one bit. Together, we’ll get this done in a jiffy.” Miss Smythe’s eyebrows converge as she takes a step closer. “Clara, are you all right?”
The use of my first name snaps me back to the present. “I’m fine. Anxious about the check-in deadline is all.” I press a reassuring smile into place and thank her for her help. “I’ll start in the washroom, if you’ll take the sitting area.”
We each move toward our designated areas, ready to set the suite right.
My face in the washroom mirror is as white as the bedsheets I just tossed to the floor. I contemplate confiding in Rebecca about Mr. Barnes’ forward actions but think better of it. I have little experience with the goings-on of the eighth-floor guests. For all I know, Mr. Barnes’ behaviour was typical for a guest staying in the opulence of the hotel’s most extravagant suites.
Another look in the mirror has me splashing water on my face. I am being silly, I tell myself. I am simply not accustomed to such attention, and besides, part of my job is to deal with guests and their needs. Some people are more exuberant than others. That is all there is to the situation.
I empty the dustbin and remove the towels for washing before focusing on the vanity’s marble countertop. Eager to complete the suite ahead of the check-in hour, I move quickly as I sweep the black-and-white penny-tile floor.
As I contemplate the situation with Mr. Barnes, I remember fondly another grateful guest, the mother of a small child whose stuffed bear had been forgotten on the train, leaving the child inconsolable and the mother at her emotional breaking point. After I retrieved a stuffed bear from Spencer’s department store during my lunch break, the mother squeezed my arm as she thanked me profusely.
Mundane tasks being the solution to a contemplative mind, I realize that my discomfort is due to my inexperience with receiving such attention from a male guest. The mother’s friendliness wasn’t so different from Mr. Barnes’, and at the time, I was pleased about her appreciation. My lack of experience has resulted in an overreaction. I shake my head at my folly.
I scrub the bathtub clean, and by the time I’ve moved on to scouring the sink’s basin, I’ve resolved the encounter with Mr. Barnes as nothing more than a misinterpretation on my part. I stand on tiptoe, left hand raised to steady myself as I move a dry cloth over the mirror’s surface. The clatter of metal on porcelain echoes in the confined space. My gaze falls to the sink, where Mama’s watch lays inches from the open drain.
Snatching the watch from danger, I grip it in my palm. My heart races and I force myself to take slow breaths. I am overtired is all. I tuck the watch into my apron pocket and retrieve fresh towels from my cart. With the towels lined up and ready for their next guest, I leave the washroom and meet Miss Smythe in the bedroom. Together, we make the bed, dust, and vacuum just in time for the check-in hour.