I’m Swiss. I’m proud of being German.’
‘Be guided by me, my dear girl. If you wish to keep your job, Swiss is what you need to be. Oh, and one thing more, Elsa. I have given you the section of the room in which Mr Fishbane does not sit. Always try to avoid him.’
‘Which is he?’ she asked.
‘His appearance is a trifle anachronistic. Rather dandyish. He sports Edwardian sideburns and wears embroidered waistcoats during the day and in the evening always a black tie.’ Elsa looked completely confused. ‘Sorry, Elsa. I mean by that a tuxedo, as I think you will probably know it. Should he call you over to him, Elsa, I advise you to stay as far away from him as possible, and at all costs, never turn your back. Unless, that is, you enjoy being pinched. Mr Fishbane is obsessed with sex and while I imagine he can’t do a great deal about it any more, poor old boy, until he’s finished his breakfast he’s almost out of control if he spies an attractive girl.’
Elsa directed at Amiss a look of desperation. He shrugged and together they went into the dining-room. One by one, the aged tottered in, each one seemingly more decrepit than the one before. Amiss made a mental note to find out what the average age of members was. To judge by his observation so far, it was somewhere in the region of eighty-seven.
Their charges proved pretty uniform in their habits. They each came in and looked expectantly at Gooseneck, who showed them to a table with great ceremony and handed them a newspaper. Amiss was not surprised to see that all the members – even the residents – had separate tables. The members of this club might be odd, but they were English: the notion of socialising at breakfast would be anathema. They sat behind their newspapers. To his surprise, very few of them took the quality papers: middle-of-the-range tabloids were the norm. Fishbane was one interesting exception. He took both the Telegraph and the Sun . Indeed, as Amiss saw with fascination, his first act on sitting down to breakfast was to open the tabloid at page three, fold it and prop it against the sugar bowl in such a way that the topless pin-up of the day was there to be looked at every time he got bored with the Telegraph .
Having taken the orders and observed the quality of the breakfast on offer to members, Amiss was relieved that Colonel Fagg had been allocated to Elsa rather than to him. A man who could decree that the waiters should be given a disgusting breakfast prior to serving their masters with cold ham, kedgeree, scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, grilled wild mushrooms, devilled kidneys and much, much more, was a man who deserved to have his teapot emptied over his scrofulous head. It was while he was bringing a second helping of kedgeree to Fishbane that the row broke out a few tables away.
‘I asked is the haddock finnan?’ said a querulous voice.
‘I am sorry,’ said Elsa. ‘I do not understand. Could you please repeat it again?’
‘Finnan. Surely you know about finnan haddock. What’s this club coming to when a fellow can’t get a straightforward answer to a straightforward question.’
‘Girl sounds like a bloody Kraut,’ said Fagg, joining in. ‘Are you a Kraut, girl, eh? Come on, come on. Tell the truth. Are you a Kraut?’
‘A what, sir?’
‘Kraut,’ roared Fagg. ‘Boche, Hun, bloody German. Are you a bloody German?’
‘I am Swiss,’ said Elsa, backing away nervously and turning and fleeing to Gooseneck. Amiss hurriedly joined them.
‘It’s all right, Elsa,’ Gooseneck was saying. ‘Old Mauleverer is obsessed with food. I should have warned you that regularly as clockwork, whenever he stays in this club, he checks if the haddock is finnan, if the skin around the black pudding is made of hog’s intestines and so on. For your information, finnan is merely a superior variety of smoked haddock.’
‘Yes,’ said Elsa, sobbing. ‘But why does that horrible old man shout at me?’
‘I warned
‘Be guided by me, my dear girl. If you wish to keep your job, Swiss is what you need to be. Oh, and one thing more, Elsa. I have given you the section of the room in which Mr Fishbane does not sit. Always try to avoid him.’
‘Which is he?’ she asked.
‘His appearance is a trifle anachronistic. Rather dandyish. He sports Edwardian sideburns and wears embroidered waistcoats during the day and in the evening always a black tie.’ Elsa looked completely confused. ‘Sorry, Elsa. I mean by that a tuxedo, as I think you will probably know it. Should he call you over to him, Elsa, I advise you to stay as far away from him as possible, and at all costs, never turn your back. Unless, that is, you enjoy being pinched. Mr Fishbane is obsessed with sex and while I imagine he can’t do a great deal about it any more, poor old boy, until he’s finished his breakfast he’s almost out of control if he spies an attractive girl.’
Elsa directed at Amiss a look of desperation. He shrugged and together they went into the dining-room. One by one, the aged tottered in, each one seemingly more decrepit than the one before. Amiss made a mental note to find out what the average age of members was. To judge by his observation so far, it was somewhere in the region of eighty-seven.
Their charges proved pretty uniform in their habits. They each came in and looked expectantly at Gooseneck, who showed them to a table with great ceremony and handed them a newspaper. Amiss was not surprised to see that all the members – even the residents – had separate tables. The members of this club might be odd, but they were English: the notion of socialising at breakfast would be anathema. They sat behind their newspapers. To his surprise, very few of them took the quality papers: middle-of-the-range tabloids were the norm. Fishbane was one interesting exception. He took both the Telegraph and the Sun . Indeed, as Amiss saw with fascination, his first act on sitting down to breakfast was to open the tabloid at page three, fold it and prop it against the sugar bowl in such a way that the topless pin-up of the day was there to be looked at every time he got bored with the Telegraph .
Having taken the orders and observed the quality of the breakfast on offer to members, Amiss was relieved that Colonel Fagg had been allocated to Elsa rather than to him. A man who could decree that the waiters should be given a disgusting breakfast prior to serving their masters with cold ham, kedgeree, scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, grilled wild mushrooms, devilled kidneys and much, much more, was a man who deserved to have his teapot emptied over his scrofulous head. It was while he was bringing a second helping of kedgeree to Fishbane that the row broke out a few tables away.
‘I asked is the haddock finnan?’ said a querulous voice.
‘I am sorry,’ said Elsa. ‘I do not understand. Could you please repeat it again?’
‘Finnan. Surely you know about finnan haddock. What’s this club coming to when a fellow can’t get a straightforward answer to a straightforward question.’
‘Girl sounds like a bloody Kraut,’ said Fagg, joining in. ‘Are you a Kraut, girl, eh? Come on, come on. Tell the truth. Are you a Kraut?’
‘A what, sir?’
‘Kraut,’ roared Fagg. ‘Boche, Hun, bloody German. Are you a bloody German?’
‘I am Swiss,’ said Elsa, backing away nervously and turning and fleeing to Gooseneck. Amiss hurriedly joined them.
‘It’s all right, Elsa,’ Gooseneck was saying. ‘Old Mauleverer is obsessed with food. I should have warned you that regularly as clockwork, whenever he stays in this club, he checks if the haddock is finnan, if the skin around the black pudding is made of hog’s intestines and so on. For your information, finnan is merely a superior variety of smoked haddock.’
‘Yes,’ said Elsa, sobbing. ‘But why does that horrible old man shout at me?’
‘I warned
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