May 13th
Bizarre, it may be. But actually, this strange hotel, perched high in the Austrian mountains, is perfect for my needs. I need such peace, such quiet to concentrate when I’m writing my books, and this place offers just that. Stunning scenery, beautiful mountain paths for when the rain eases and I want to walk, to think. And comfortable, well-equipped rooms at which I can sit undisturbed for hours at a time.
Bizarre? Absolutely. The décor of the hotel has been based on The Sound of Music, but on a lower budget. The food is all sausages, heavy sauces, and Black Forest gateaux. Dreadful. Quite dreadful. The staff look like they’ve appeared out of a comic book, all dressed in quaint Austrian outfits. And for this, they charge an extortionate rate, guaranteeing exclusivity and calm. Wonderful.
You’d think that after six weeks holed up here, writing my book, the staff would at least pretend to know my name. A “Good morning, Mr. Tanner,” now and again. “Herr Tanner” would be fine. “Simon” even. Rather than that blank stare that most of them give me if I’m friendly enough to wish them good morning and ask how their day might be progressing.
There’s one notable exception: one of the Deputy Managers, a young American student who really doesn’t fit in here. Bright, cheerful, intelligent. How the poor girl ended up working in this place, goodness only knows. Well, actually, we did talk about it: apparently some of the top hotels in the States really value experience at this sort of up-market European resort. Goodness knows why, but they do. So poor Beth ended up her with a six month sentence – sorry, placement – from her College, building her resume and whiling away the hours until her flight back to the East coast at the end of her stint.
As she’s the only other person here who speaks any more English than is written on the menu, she and I have almost become buddies. Soul-mates. Partners in crime. Me teasing her about the vagaries of the establishment; she doing her level best to stick up for the hotel, as professionally as she can. Yet Beth teasing me brattishly in return whenever she sees me tapping into my computer: “Haven’t you finished that yet?”; “You must be writing the sequel to War and Peace”; “Do tell me when it’s published, if I live to be that old.” Me bemoaning the lack of HP sauce and Branston pickle in the restaurant; she lamenting the dearth of Starbuck’s and sharing her daily cravings for a double decaf fat-free latte (if I have got the terminology right).
The manager, bless him, Herr Tropp frowns furiously whenever he sees us talking. Fraternising with the customers is strictly forbidden for the hotel’s staff. Keep your distance. Be friendly without being familiar. He might as well add “Give service without a smile”. And Beth seems genuinely frightened of him. She won’t tell me why: presumably being fired would not look good on the c.v., and being kicked out during her placement wouldn’t help her at College. But there’s something more to it. A real look of terror in her eyes when he glares at her.
Poor kid. She’s sweet. Good-natured. Fun. My goodness, if I were thirty years younger, I’d probably be thinking less innocent thoughts; if I were a young and happy student, not a sad old writer with greying hair.
May 14th
A great day! Finished chapter 17. I’m so pleased with it! One of those days when one’s writing just flows, when the words come so easily.
Five chapters to go. Just five. A week? Two, at most, and I’ll be out of this place. I’m convinced it’s driving me mad. A luxury sanatorium for wealthy authors. No escape other than on foot, over the mountains.
I think I’m going for a drink to celebrate. A great day!
May 15th
Walked up the valley for a couple of hours this morning, enjoying the sunshine, thinking about the final chapters.
Bumped into young Beth, too. Shared a cup of coffee from my flask with her. Nice to chat away from the pressures of the hotel, too. Her morning off, it seemed.
Hope she’s not in trouble, though: we walked back to the Lodge together, and good old Herr Tropp noticed her as we arrived back, and gave her a glare that made even my legs turn to jelly.
May 15th – 4 p.m.
I don’t usually update my diary more than once a day. But something so strange has just happened.
I’m typing away at Chapter 18, when there’s a knock at the door. I open it, and there’s young Beth. She hands me this letter, in a formal white envelope, and without speaking or meeting my eyes, turns and runs off down the corridor.
And then I read the letter: it’s an invitation for a pre-dinner drink with Herr Tropp, the manager. A handwritten note from the manager, no less, inviting me to call by for a glass of wine before dinner. “Just ask for me at reception,” it says.
How odd. Six weeks without a word, and then it’s drinks all round. And the one member of staff who does talk to me suddenly falls silent and runs off.
I do hope she’s OK.
May 15th: very late (Well, actually, it’s after midnight, so I guess it’s May 16th)
I’m writing this as quietly as I can, hoping that the sound of my fingers tapping away at the keyboard won’t wake Beth, who’s curled up on my bed, wrapped under my duvet. Asleep at last. Peacefully, I hope, not having too many nightmares. Not that I’d be surprised if she did, after the past few hours.
I should explain.
Well, I accepted Herr Tropp’s invitation to drinks. He’s all smiles, as friendly as can be – quite the opposite of his usual demeanour. He takes me over to a quiet corner of the bar, and gets the sommelier to bring a bottle of good white wine, well chilled. An excellent bottle, in fact.
We make polite conversation – I hear you’re writing a book, yes I am, how’s it going, very well thank you, are you enjoying your stay. The usual sort of thing. And he’s smiling away, and trying to be friendly, when he suddenly places his hand on my arm, and looks serious.
“Herr Tanner – Mr Tanner. There’s something I must ask of you, if that meets with your agreement.”
I agree, of course, curious as to what it might be. And he proceeds to explain how he has noticed one of his staff spending a lot of time talking to me. How it has been getting in the way of her duties, and setting a bad example for the other staff. How he has now taught her a final, serious lesson about her conduct. How he would rather I did not disturb the staff as they went about their duties.
Surprise. Shock, even. Anger. How dare he speak to me like this?
And then concern. Deep concern. For Beth. “You say that you have taught the member of staff a lesson?”
“Yes, sir, I have. She will not be making the same mistakes again, I can assure you.”
“What sort of lesson?”
He looked me in the eye. “I think, Herr Tanner, that that is a matter for her, and for me. Let me just say that up here in the mountains, we have some traditional ways of dealing with young girls who misbehave. So she has been punished, and sent to her quarters for the evening.”
“Punished?” What on earth had the man done to her?
“I think it is better, Herr Tanner, if you leave the details of the running of the hotel to me.” And Herr Tropp turned and beckoned to the Maitre d’, and stood up to leave. “Now, Herr Tanner, I think you will find that your table is awaiting you in the restaurant. I thank you for your time, and hope that your dinner – and, indeed, the rest of your stay with us – will be enjoyable.”
Confused, I shook his outstretched hand. And before I knew it, the menu was in my hand, and I was being asked to order.
“No starter, tonight, thank you. Just a steak, medium-rare. Thank you.” And as the waiter headed off, I added: “And could you do me a favour – I’d like a piece of paper.”
He returns with the paper, and tries desperately to read over my shoulder for the rest of the meal, to see what I had written. Actually, it was fairly simple: ‘Beth – I understand that you have ended up in some trouble, and that I may be in some way to blame for having been seen with you this morning. I’m worried about you, and hope that you are OK. Please come and find me – room 42, as you know. Simon (Tanner).’
I ate quickly, and found my way to the grim accommodation block at the rear of the hotel, where the staff stayed in conditions rather less luxurious than we lucky few in the hotel itself. I tried the door: locked, a numbered keypad to one side. Damn. Suddenly, the door opened, and a rather surprised Austrian girl appeared.
She looked puzzled: “Nein. Nein. No guests,” she tried to explain. I stopped her: showed her the letter. “Beth. American”. And handed her a ten euro note. Oh, the power of bribery: works everywhere! The girl turned, closed the door, and disappeared.
I came back up to my room. And ten minutes later, she appeared at the door of my room. Not the usual, self-confident Beth. Not even the silent, downcast Beth of this afternoon. Rather, a tear-stained, dishevelled Beth.
Who as we closed the door, responded to my gentle hand on her shoulder by fling herself against my chest, and bursting into sobs.
I held her tight, before suggesting we sat down. She shook her head vigorously. “I…I can’t.”
So I lifted her eyes to mine, and asked her to tell me what had happened.
If anyone happens upon this diary, and is of delicate sensitivities, I suggest they skip the next few paragraphs. For the young girl told me how Herr Tropp had ordered her to return to his office as soon as she had delivered his letter to me earlier in the day.
She explained how he had made her stand straight, arms by her side, as he paced around her, lecturing her.
How he threatened her with dismissal. With sending a dreadful reference to her College.
Told her that she was not fit to work in a top-class hotel. (“But I’ve always come top of my class at College – and this is the career I so want,” she sobbed.) How her work was not up to scratch. How she should be ashamed of herself.
And then. How he’d opened his desk drawer, and taken out a fearsome-looking leather strap. And offered her the choice: leave the following morning, or be given one, final chance. How in offering her one, final chance, he would have to take it on himself to teach her a serious lesson. How they knew how to deal with girls, up in the mountains, in the way they had since time immemorial.
“And then he whipped me. I couldn’t bear to have been sacked: it would ruin my career. So…so I asked him to punish me and let me stay. And he ordered me to remove my panties, and then lift the skirt of my hotel uniform out of the way and bend over his desk. He made my hold on to the opposite edge. And then it started.”
She’d lost count of the strokes. The first blow had taken her aback: stunned her with its power, then set her backside alight. The second had been harder still, harder than she ever could have believed was possible. And then they had seemed to merge, to blur into one continuous stream of thwacks, and pain, and humiliation. She had tried to be brave, not to show how it hurt, not to show that she was weak: but how she couldn’t cope; how she’d given way, to tears and sobs, to pleading with him to stop.
How he had left her there, as he put the strap away. Sat at his desk, with her head inches away, and read aloud as he wrote in fountain pen on a piece of hotel paper: “To whom it may concern: Beth Kennedy. Miss Kennedy was an employee at our hotel for a short period, until she was dismissed. I could not recommend her to any other employer.”
How he had folded the envelope, and placed it in the drawer with the strap. Invited her to thank him – for being so kind as to not dismiss her this time. For being so kind as to thrash her. How through clenched teeth, she had given him her thanks.
And then it was over. “He told me to get dressed, make myself look presentable, and go straight to my room and stay there until morning,” she said, before looking horrified. “What if he goes there now? Finds that I’m not there… Oh goodness, I can’t even bear to see him again. I wish I was at home.”
I held her close, my arms wrapped around her shoulders, hugging her tight. Comforting her: “If he so much as mentions this again, he’ll have me to answer to.”
She lay down on the bed, with me sitting next to her, stroking her hair and calming her down. Talking, re-assuring her. Thinking about her ordeal; did I dare admit a secret fascination with what had happened? And soon, surprisingly soon, she fell into a deep sleep.
I whispered softly in her ear: stay there; stay safe; I’ll be back. And then I pulled on my jacket, and set off through the hotel.
Tropp was easy to find – he was lecturing one of his receptionists. I interrupted: “I want to see you in your office, immediately.” He looked amazed; the girl he’d been berating could hardly stifle a giggle as I led him off, towards the scene of Beth’s punishment. Wondering, as we walked, how many other girls over the years had found themselves bent over Herr Tropp’s desk.
It was very easy, I explained to him. As a successful author, I had friends working on all of the quality newspapers in the UK, States and many other countries besides. It would be such a shame for his hotel if they all started printing stories in their travel pages about the falling standards in his hotel. How a damage reputation could take years to recover.
“Why are you threatening me? What do you want?” His eyes blazed, furiously.
I asked him for two pieces of paper. He walked around his desk – *that* desk, I couldn’t help thinking, trying to keep a picture of poor Beth bent over it from my mind. Handed me the paper, and I wrote very carefully on the first sheet, reading aloud as I did: “Dear Herr Tropp, I would like to congratulate you on your outstanding hotel. Standards here are exemplary, and I would not hesitate to recommend it.” And I signed it with a flourish.
“But what….?”
I handed him the other sheet, and asked him to take out his pen. “Now it’s your turn.” He looked at me, then took the pen and started writing: “To whom it may concern: Beth Kennedy. Miss Kennedy worked as a Deputy Manager at our hotel this summer. She was an outstanding employee, and I could not recommend her highly enough.”
I made him book a taxi to the airport for the following morning – for two people. We swapped our hand-written notes, and that was it. I declined to shake his hand.
When I got back to my room, Beth stirred slightly. Sleepily, asked me where I had been. I showed her the letter: she giggled. “How….” “You’d better not ask. And a taxi will be here after breakfast to take us to the airport.”
“But… my ticket will have the wrong date.”
“Don’t worry – I’ll persuade the airline people. Talk some sense into them. I mean, if I can get Tropp to write that, changing a ticket should be easy.”
And we collapsed laughing.
May 16th
I seem to be forming a habit of writing my diary while Beth sleeps near me.
We’re back in England, in my place in the country. It’s been a long day.
Long for Beth, particularly, I’m sure. A rather uncomfortable taxi ride down the mountain roads, as you can no doubt imagine. A quick but successful argument about tickets at the airport (I smile, because changing a non-transferable ticket and getting her upgraded so she could sit with me was quite good even by my standards!).
A flight spent laughing and joking – the relief to have escaped from our Austrian prison overwhelming us.
She’s decided to spend a few days in the UK before catching a connection back home next week. Give her time to recover from her ordeal. (And I’m not sure she was too keen on the idea of sitting for seven hours on a long and uncomfortable transatlantic flight just yet!)
And she’s funny. Witty, sharp, intelligent and attractive.
Too witty, sharp, intelligent and attractive for an old man like me.
Not that my intentions are anything other than honourable. Honestly.
I’m sure she’ll have a wonderful stay. I’m sure her behaviour will be impeccable throughout…
