We’d had a tiff in the Strand and I’d stormed off. It was late. I didn’t have anywhere else to stay the night, and I live in Devon, so I had to storm off halfway across Britain to get home. I caught the last train out of Paddington by the skin of my teeth. Once aboard, my anger subsided.
It was the last train headed for the west country and it stopped at every station in Berkshire, Avon and Somerset. This put it in a leisurely frame of mind and it also stopped in open countryside for long periods of time just because it felt like it. Finally, at Exeter station, the train decided it just couldn’t be bothered any more and called it a day. Via loudspeakers, the train manager advised all passengers that the train would be going no further and would we please be sure to take all our belongings with us.
I alighted. One-thirty in the morning. Raining. Bitter cold. No taxis. I’m dressed for the theatre. And 50 miles away from my bed still. A hotel for the night was my only remaining option. I started up the hill towards the city centre.
At first glance, the hotel looked closed, derelict even. But as I came level I saw a light on downstairs, and the front door was ajar. The reception desk was deserted, but further in was an unlit bar and a woman dressed in black sitting astride a bar stool. ‘Hallo,’ I said.
She turned and stared. It was an odd, inscrutable stare, signifying fear or hostility or lust. ‘Have you got a room?’ I said. She continued to stare. Then a man, previously out of sight, stood up suddenly behind the bar, took one involuntary step backwards, two to the side, almost lost his balance, regained it, steadied himself both mentally and physically for a moment, and said, ‘Have you a reshervation?’
I had many reservations, to tell the truth.
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