ARRIVING DOWN FOR BREAKFAST in the Grand Hotel, I became immediately aware of a small fuss occurring in the far right-hand corner of the dining room. A large Philips radiogram, housed in an ugly walnut-veneer cabinet and half shrouded in dark green velvet, rather obscured my view, but – ugly radiogram in green velvet or no ugly radiogram in green velvet – I knew instantly the source of the fuss. For a moment I considered turning on my heel, leaving and making my breakfast elsewhere, but too late. A waiter approached and there was no going back.
‘I’m with them,’ I said reluctantly, and we began to make our way over.
It was Morley, of course, tucked away behind and beyond the walnut veneer and velvet. He was set up as usual with his typewriter, pad, papers, pencils and pens, having doubtless been there for many hours, banging away to the great annoyance of his fellow diners, working on some article or other, something about saints, or knights, or the relationship between the decline in hedge-laying skills in Derbyshire and the strange death of liberalism, or something on newts, or Newton, or the future of the steam-powered bicycle: Morley, irrepressible, indefatigable, and at it as always. With Morley there was Miriam, and Pablo the Bedlington, who seemed to be the immediate cause of the morning’s commotion.
Miriam was busy remonstrating with a waiter as I approached, while Morley was busy writing, oblivious, half buried by papers. Morley travelled everywhere with what he called his tel – ‘Arabic for hill, Sefton’ – a mound of clippings and cuttings, which he used to stimulate his already highly stimulated mind. Part of my job was to keep the tel stocked and stoked with stories and articles from newspapers and magazines, like a fireman on a steam engine. Paper was Morley’s great motor, his compost – and also a kind of impenetrable fortress. The table resembled the ruins of a small circulating library, or the aftermath of an incident at a newsagent’s. Teacups and teapots had been set on the floor, for Morley or for the dog I wasn’t entirely sure.
‘Ah, Sefton!’ Miriam said. ‘Thank goodness. I’ve been explaining to this gentleman that Pablo has only just come into our care and needs constant supervision. Isn’t that right?’
‘That is … correct,’ I hesitantly agreed.
‘Dogs are not allowed in the restaurant, sir,’ said the waiter.
‘In which case I’ll take him for a walk while you finish your breakfast, Miriam,’ I said.
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ said Miriam. ‘We’ll speak to the manager, thank you.’
‘The manager’s not available, I’m afraid, miss.’
‘The manager’s not available?’ said Miriam. ‘What sort of a place is this?’
‘It’s the Grand Hotel, Brighton, miss,’ said the waiter, rather wearily.
‘The Grand Hotel, Brighton,’ repeated Miriam scornfully.
‘Indeed.’
‘And what do you think His Majesty would make of the Grand Hotel, Brighton?’
‘I have no idea, miss.’
‘Well, I think he might expect to bring his dogs to breakfast, don’t you?’
‘I—’
‘Of course he would. And he would expect a supply of constant hot water, would he not?’ Miriam always insisted that wherever we stayed should have a supply of constant hot water. Indeed, the very idea of a supply of constant hot water was for her a defining sign and symbol of modernity: anywhere that failed to supply constant hot water was de facto a place unsuitable for paying guests, stuck in the past, and should really be ashamed of itself. By Miriam’s calculation, therefore, the Grand Hotel, Brighton was seriously struggling on a number of counts, though I thought the place tremendous. It had clearly recently been modernised: wainscoted walls, Lincrusta friezes and lots of what Morley would have called ‘Tottenham Court Road’ leather, with shiny bronze ashtrays absolutely everywhere, fixed to walls and indeed to the arms of chairs and sofas in a fashion I thought eminently practical but which Miriam had already declared utterly vile. Other signs of modernity throughout the hotel included a lot of tiling in the bathrooms, and lashings of chrome and Vitrolite – but all this was not enough for Miriam.
‘By which I mean constant hot water,’ she continued.
‘Constant hot water, miss?’ asked the waiter.
‘Yes, constant hot water. What do you think constant hot water means, in everyday parlance?’
‘Does it mean constant hot water, miss?’
‘It does indeed. With the emphasis being on the word constant. Which your hot water most definitely is not—’
‘I—’ began the waiter.
‘Being indeed entirely inconstant, like Shakespeare’s moon. So, the manager, please.’
‘I’m afraid the manager is not available until nine, miss.’
‘Nine? What sort of a time is nine?’
I glanced up at a large, bright green Ferranti clock, mounted on the wall opposite the walnut veneer radiogram under its dark green velvet cloth. The clock suggested that this was going to be a very long breakfast. The waiter wisely chose to remain silent.
‘Very well, if those are the hours you see fit to keep in the Grand Hotel, Brighton, I suppose we shall have to see him at nine.’
‘Very good, miss. But in the meantime I must ask you to remove the dog.’
‘The “dog”, as you refer to him – he has a name, sir, which you might care to use, Pablo – will most certainly not be “removed”, as you put it, and will be dining with us, thank you.’
‘It’s our rules I’m afraid, miss.’
I had found a breakfast menu amid the pile of papers on the table and was sheepishly glancing through.
‘Father,’ said Miriam, tapping Morley on the shoulder. ‘Father,’ she repeated, Morley being quite engrossed in his work. ‘Father!’
‘Yes, my dear,’ said Morley, looking up from his notebook. He had recently embarked upon a planned two-year project of copying out the entire works of Shakespeare in his own hand, inspired by the example of Edward Capel, the eighteenth-century Shakespeare editor, starting with All’s Well That Ends Well and ending with Winter’s Tale, an enterprise that often occupied him after he’d completed his first article of the day at breakfast. It looked like he was working on a dog-eared copy of Coriolanus.
‘Is there to your knowledge any law that prevents dogs from entering restaurants in this green and pleasant land?’
‘Dogs in Shakespeare?’ said Morley.
‘Dogs in restaurants, Father,’ said Miriam.
‘Dogs in Shakespeare,’ repeated Morley. ‘Not sure if he was much of a dog person,’ said Morley.
‘Dogs in restaurants, Father.’
‘Erm …’ He consulted his mental filing system. ‘Dogs in restaurants, you say?’ He paused. ‘What about them?’
‘Laws regarding,’ said Miriam.
‘Hmm. Good question. Laws, you say?’
‘Yes, laws, Father. Is there a law that prevents dogs from entering restaurants?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ said Morley. ‘Custom and practice, I think, rather than law, though one might reasonably expect the owners of any establishment to ensure there is no risk of contamination in food preparation areas.’
‘Precisely,’ said the waiter.
‘Exactly,’ said Miriam.
‘I wonder if I might have a cup of coffee?’ I suggested to the waiter, attempting to move things along in a slightly different direction.
‘Are we in a food preparation area?’ asked Miriam, who was not one to be moved in any direction other than the direction she had already embarked upon.
The waiter was silent.
‘I said, Are – We – In – A – Food – Preparation – Area?’ repeated Miriam.
‘No, miss, we are not.’
‘There we are then. Some crisp white toast then please, and a cup of coffee.’ The waiter was about to remonstrate but Miriam held up her hand. ‘The matter is closed, thank you,’ she said. The waiter looked at me, at Miriam, at Morley, and at the Bedlington, and admitted defeat.
‘And for sir?’ he asked.
‘A cup of coffee, please,’ I said.
‘Honestly,’ said Miriam, as the waiter retreated. ‘What is this country coming to?’
I took a moment to take a breath. Mood elevated, heart and pulse rate increased, pupils dilated: it was pretty much a typical start to a day with Morley and Miriam. They were like a drug – and I was an addict.
