Above the Bay of Angels: A Novel Page 12

  “That should arouse the curiosity of the local people,” Jimmy said. “With him strutting around in those outlandish clothes and looking like a peacock.”

  “It certainly may,” Mr Angelo said, grinning with Jimmy. “Not to mention her Scottish pipers who always accompany her.”

  “Pipers? Playing bagpipes, you mean?” Mr Phelps sat up, now looking animated. “In their Highland dress? Kilts and all?”

  “Kilts and all, Mr Phelps,” Mr Angelo said.

  “And we still have to refer to her as Lady Balmoral?”

  Mr Angelo nodded. “I think the reason behind it is that her title denotes this is not an official visit, so dignitaries do not feel obliged to arrange formal welcomes and banquets.”

  “Ah, well that makes sense then.” Mr Phelps nodded.

  It didn’t make much sense to me. Why try to claim you were an ordinary member of the aristocracy and yet bring a regiment of pipers with you and arrive on a private train? Surely the name Lady Balmoral would fool no one.

  We steamed into Nice station at mid-morning. The sun was warm as we descended from our compartment and stood on the platform stretching our tired and cramped limbs while the engine hissed and puffed like a tired old gentleman looking forward to a rest.

  “Off you go, Helen,” Mr Angelo said, giving me a little shove. “Find us some kind of transport to the hotel.”

  It was my first real chance to try out my French. The first time they were relying on my skills, and I set off, a little apprehensive. It was true that my French had been quite good in school and at home with my parents, but I had never tried it with real French people. And it seemed the inhabitants of the south spoke with a strange accent—a twang not heard in the north. Nevertheless, I made for the station exit and located a string of open carriages. By the time the men joined us, followed by several porters with barrows piled high with our luggage, I had a vehicle waiting.

  At the sight of our many bags and cases, the coachman let out a stream of rapid French, waving his hands in animation. I only just got the gist of it.

  “He says that five people plus all these bags will be too much for his horse up the hill. We will need a separate cart for the bags.”

  “Very well,” Mr Angelo agreed. “You’d better find us another vehicle for the baggage then, Helen.”

  That wasn’t hard. Other drivers had gathered around, interested in the group of foreigners asking for the Hotel Excelsior Regina. A fight broke out as they vied for our business.

  “You are not royalty?” one of them asked me, looking at our attire.

  “No, but we are with the party of a distinguished English lady . . . Lady Balmoral,” I replied.

  He laughed. “You come with your queen. We know that.”

  So much for her travelling incognito.

  “They build the hotel expressly for her,” he went on. “Millions of francs it cost. No expense spared. Better than a palace. You wait until you see it.”

  The last bags were piled on to a second open cart. We left the station and traversed crowded shopping streets, where donkeys jostled with smart carriages and even the occasional automobile. The streets were cobbled, and we bounced uncomfortably while the contents of our boxes rattled alarmingly. We came to a residential area, and the road started to climb. At first there were elegant apartment buildings, then, as we ascended the hill, we could see villas set amid gardens. There were blossoms on trees and shrubs, and the air smelled delightful: fresh and sweet, but with a hint of tang from the sea. The road got steeper, and I could see why the carter had objected to his horse carrying a heavy load.

  We were now high above the town, with market gardens and olive groves between newly built villas, and in front of us mountains arose, clothed in green at this time of the year. I found it hard to contain my excitement. It was the first time I had seen a real mountain, an olive tree, a palm tree. I glanced at the men in the carriage beside me. If they shared my enthusiasm, they did not show it. In fact, Mr Phelps was looking alarmed. “And how are we supposed to get down to the city, that’s what I’d like to know,” he said. “Walk all that way down and then all the way back again?”

  “I don’t know if I’d want to be going down to the city myself,” Mr Williams said. “Did you see the look of some of those people? Swarthy brigands, that’s what they looked like. They’d rob you and cut your throat without thinking.”

  “Oh, surely not, Mr Williams,” Mr Angelo replied.

  “It’s all right for you, Mr Angelo. You look like one of them,” Mr Williams replied. “I look like a foreigner. I’d be a prime target for robbery.”

  “Look up there,” Jimmy said suddenly. “I bet that’s where we’re headed.”

  We turned to look where he was pointing. A giant white building rose up from gardens, as big as a palace and just as elegant. It swept in what appeared to be a curve across the hillside, topped with turrets from which flags of many nations were flying. And on the front was the sign “Hotel Excelsior Regina.” We had arrived.

  Hotel porters came running out to greet the carriage. They became less enthusiastic when I explained to them in French that we were Lady Balmoral’s servants.

  “We know who she is,” one said. “You don’t need to keep up pretence with us. Why else would they build a hotel for her? Wait here, and I will summon the manager. I know he will want to greet you.”

  We waited. Mr Angelo watched with an eagle eye as the bags and crates were unloaded and then had me pay the drivers. It seemed they were asking for an awful lot of money, but I was unfamiliar with francs.

  “What would be the correct amount from the station?” I whispered to one of the hotel employees. He told me, and I paid accordingly. The drivers did not look pleased, but they didn’t argue either.

  The manager appeared, looking as grand as royalty in his frock coat and high collar. He wore a really impressive black moustache. “Welcome, welcome, dear guests from across the Channel to Cimiez and to the Hotel Regina Excelsior,” he said. “You are part of the queen’s advance party?”

  “We are her kitchen staff,” I replied in French. “Mr Angelo and cooks.”

  “Ah.” He didn’t look quite so enthusiastic. “You are the interpreter for them, mademoiselle?”

  “I am,” I replied.

  “And they do not speak French?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Welcome, dear friends and servants of Her Majesty,” he now said in English. “Since the hotel is not busy at this moment, I shall be delighted to show you personally to your rooms.”

  “Very kind of you, monsieur,” Mr Angelo said. He pronounced it mon-sewer.

  We were led in through a grand entrance, the foyer carpeted appropriately in royal blue with a fleur-de-lis pattern.

  “Is there not a servants’ entrance we should be using?” Mr Phelps asked, glancing around nervously.

  The manager shook his head. “Not for the queen’s wing of the hotel. The entrance was designed so that she can come straight from her carriage to a lift and not have to walk up any steps. We understand that she is very lame and cannot walk.”

  We were now facing the lift, designed with an elegant ironwork facade. “The queen will occupy the whole of the first floor,” he went on. “Her guests and her family members will occupy the floor above. Her military attachés and important household members on the third floor. Her secretaries and doctor on the fourth. Her lesser attendants on the fifth. You will have rooms on the top floor. I will take you up now in our new lift. In the future I am afraid that servants should use the staircase at the back, in case you run into a member of the royal party or inconvenience them by summoning the lift at the wrong moment.”

  A smartly dressed lift attendant leapt out and pulled back the wrought iron door, allowing us to enter. It was the first time I had ridden in such a contraption, and I felt a trifle apprehensive. I saw Mr Phelps glance at Mr Williams and realized they were similarly unfamiliar with lifts.

  “And where are the
kitchens?” Mr Angelo asked.

  “They are situated on the ground floor, in the main part of the hotel, not in the part reserved for Her Majesty. You will be sharing kitchen space with the chefs of the hotel. However, a suitable portion of the area has been set aside for you, following Her Majesty’s wishes.” He paused as the lift gate snapped shut, and with a creaking, groaning sound, we began to ascend slowly. “I will be happy to introduce you to your fellow chefs when you are settled into your rooms.”

  Eventually we came to a halt with a jerk. The gate was opened for us. We came out on the sixth floor. “You gentlemen may select your rooms along this hallway, according to your rank,” the manager said, standing aside to let us emerge from the lift. “The bathroom is at the far end. But you, mademoiselle, I think you should be on the floor below, with the queen’s lesser secretaries and minor officials?”

  “Oh no, monsieur, that would not be right,” I said. “I am also one of the cooks, and junior to these men.”

  “All the same, I think you would prefer that you are amongst ladies of the household and do not have to share the bathing facilities with these men.”

  “Would that be all right, Mr Angelo?” I asked. I certainly didn’t want to offend any of the men at this stage of our trip.

  “I think that is quite right and proper, Miss Barton,” he replied. “You should not have to share facilities with the men in the party.”

  Off they went to choose rooms, and I allowed myself to be led down a flight of stairs to the floor below. These stairs were by no means grand—narrow and made of stone. The room I was offered was also simple—an iron-framed bed, a chest of drawers, a narrow wardrobe and a washbasin. But the view from the window: I stood gazing out and found I couldn’t breathe. The whole of the town of Nice lay below me, elegant white buildings along a waterfront lined with palm trees, pastel-coloured villas clinging to hillsides and beyond the sparkling blue curve of the bay. I had never seen anything as lovely in my life, and my thought was that I never wanted to leave.

  CHAPTER 14

  Reluctantly, I wrenched myself away and unpacked my belongings. Then I thought I had better find out about the kitchen arrangements so that I could report back to the other cooks. I did not presume to use the lift this time, so I walked down flight after flight, each staircase a little grander than the one before, until the last two were very grand indeed—made of marble with a red carpet at the centre. When I reached the queen’s floor, I went in search of a door that might lead to the kitchens, but could not find one and did not want to poke and pry too far, in case I was accused of snooping or even worse. I paused in the hallway, thinking.

  That’s right. I remembered we had been told that the kitchens were situated in the main part of the hotel. I came out through the queen’s porte cochère, looked around on the forecourt, then, not seeing any humble way in, dared to enter through the main doors. Nobody stopped me. I found myself in a breathtaking foyer, soaring two stories high—all marble pillars and with a grand staircase at its centre. The dining room was equally impressive, with white-clothed tables between more marble pillars, a dais for an orchestra and full-size palm trees. Fortunately, it was deserted at this time of the morning. Eventually my clear lack of status caught up with me.

  “Mademoiselle, may I be of assistance?” a voice said behind me, and when I turned to look a very disapproving and very superior waiter was glaring at me. I excused myself and told him that I was part of Her Majesty’s retinue and that I had been sent to locate the kitchens where the English chef would be working. Then he was genial and led me personally through the dining room, through an anteroom with warming tables and finally to a pass door that led to the kitchens. He deserted me at this moment, and I pushed open the door cautiously. I was greeted by enticing aromas and the clatter of pots and pans. The door opened into a long, modern room, brightly lit with electric light bulbs. Several men in white chef’s uniforms were at work, and the smells from those pots on the stove were enticing. Nobody looked up as I came in.

  “Pardon, messieurs,” I said loudly.

  The man who had been trimming a duck at the table nearest me looked up and started violently.

  “Mademoiselle, what are you doing in my kitchen?” he demanded, coming towards me and waving his hands as if he was shooing away chickens. “You must leave at once. This is forbidden to guests of the hotel.”

  He was quite young, fit looking and clean shaven, with dark eyes that were now flashing dangerously.

  “Pardon, monsieur, but I am a member of the queen’s party. We have been sent in advance to be ready for her arrival, and we need to know where we are to establish ourselves. Are we to have a separate kitchen or to share this space with you?” I was glad that I had prepared the sentences in my head as I walked down the stairs because he was rather alarming, and my French was decidedly rusty.

  “The queen’s cooks?” he said with scorn in his voice. He turned back to his fellow chefs, who were all regarding me with interest. “We have been warned about this. We have been told the queen will send her own cooks from England because she thinks we French do not know how to prepare food.”

  The other men laughed.

  “On the contrary, monsieur,” I replied hastily. I could feel my cheeks burning, and tried to stay calm. “The queen is an older lady. She has to be careful what she eats. She wants to make sure the dishes are familiar to her and will not make her sick.” This, of course, was an outright lie. The queen loved dishes that were quite wrong for an old woman’s digestion, and she seemed to have a cast iron stomach, but I also suspected the French could be most sensitive about their famed culinary skills. I hoped this explanation had done the trick, but he was still glaring at me.

  “Perhaps your queen does not know that a French chef can prepare any meal, even the most boring and mundane—although perhaps not quite as boring as English food.”

  Again there was laughter.

  “Then I suspect you have not tasted English food,” I replied. “I hope you will have a chance to taste some of our preparations while we are in residence here. Now, about the kitchen arrangements . . .”

  He frowned. “You are their interpreter?”

  “I am also one of the cooks,” I replied.

  “A woman as a chef?” He made a little “pah” sort of noise. “And what exactly will you be doing?”

  “Cooking excellent meals, one would hope,” I replied. “But as to that, I am not yet a chef. I am still learning the intricacies of the preparation of fine food.” At least that was what I hoped I had said. I would need to expand my vocabulary beyond that of the schoolroom.

  He was still looking at me with scorn. “The queen has to send a woman, an apprentice? Has she no proper chefs in her employ?”

  “Plenty, but I am here as a member of the party because of my facility in the French language. None of the other chefs speak any French. Our Monsieur Roland, the pastry chef, who is French, was regrettably indisposed at the last moment, and I was sent in his place.”

  “As the interpreter, not the pastry chef, I would think.”

  I had a great desire to slap that smug face, but restrained myself.

  “Actually both. I have been studying under Monsieur Roland, and while I am not at his level of perfection yet, the queen has expressed herself satisfied with my creations.” I stood there, staring him in the eye. My fighting spirit was now aroused. I saw the expression of scorn turn to one of suspicion, maybe even of curiosity.

  “This is normal in England to employ women to cook? Are the others in your party also women?”

  “No, I am the only woman.”

  “Thank God for that. The queen has many women in her kitchens?” he asked.

  “Very few. Two older women cooks and myself, newly hired because the queen believes that young women should be given chances to advance.”

  “So how is it that you speak the language? You were born in France? Your family came from our country?”

  “No, monsieur
. I was educated as a young girl. I was raised to be a lady. Unfortunately, both my parents died, and I was alone in the world and had to earn my living.”

  His expression had now softened. “And what is your name?”

  I hesitated. “It’s Helen,” I said. “Helen Barton.”

  “Ah. La belle Hélène.” He actually smiled now.

  “And your name, monsieur?”

  “It is Jean-Paul Lepin. Chef Lepin.”

  I could not stifle a grin. I thought he had said lapin, which is the French word for rabbit. “For a rabbit, you seem quite fearless.”

  This made the other chefs chuckle again, and I saw by the nod of a head that I had scored a point.

  “Ah, very good.” He looked amused now. “But alas my name is Lepin, not Lapin. But you are right. I am quite fearless.”

  “Pardon me, Chef, but do you want to taste the sauce before it is added to the timbale au crevettes?” one of the other cooks called out to him.

  “I trust your judgement completely, Henri,” Jean-Paul Lepin replied.

  I was now staring at him with curiosity. “You are the head chef here?”

  “I am.”

  “You are very young for a head chef,” I commented.

  “No, I am really fifty-five, but I have lived a good clean life,” he replied, loudly enough that the other men in the room looked up again and laughed. He was smiling as he turned back to me. “As a matter of fact, I am only thirty, and I am young to be a head chef, but I started in my father’s kitchen when I was sixteen and learned my skills from the best. Also, the man who built this hotel is modern in his ways and forward-looking. All of us cooks are young and ambitious and will create new dishes to excite the international celebrities who will stay here.”

  “A great opportunity for you,” I said.

  He nodded. “And for you, so it would seem. Well, Mademoiselle Cook, I must get back to my duck breast, or our luncheon service will be behind. You asked about the kitchen facilities. As a matter of fact, we have been informed that we must share a kitchen with the queen’s chefs. We have been instructed to do all we can to accommodate you and make your stay agreeable, since this hotel was built expressly with the intention of housing your queen, and thus hopefully bringing in many other noble and distinguished visitors. So the tables on the far side of the room are reserved for you, as are the stoves on that far wall. The pans hanging above are at your disposal. Please let me know if there is some article of equipment that you lack. I am sure it can be easily obtained.”