Mick´s Hotel

“Has anybody ever been to Mick’s Hotel,
Mick’s Hotel by the salt sea water?
None o’yez ha’ been there, just as well
Just as well for ye, oh!”
(from a song by Percy French)

Mick´s Hotel

“No end to these bloody leaves” grumbled Larry, the elderly porter at the Grand Hotel as he swept the front porch for the umteenth time that day. Mick, the manager had been most emphatic. ‘It´s a Head Office visit, Larry, and I want the place in good order’. Larry sometimes felt that he was getting a bit too old for the job. But leaves or no leaves, mused Larry, he enjoyed his job, particularly at this time of the year in the little seaside village of Ballybracken. The russet and gold shades of Autumn were reflected in the incoming tide by the soft, late evening sunlight. A procession of snow-white swans made their stately way through the brightly painted fishing boats, bobbing at anchor by the harbour wall. The new Yacht club marina now had a relaxed air about it as the visitors berths lay empty and most of the local yachts had been laid up for the winter. October was winding down time for the residents of Ballybracken after another busy summer.

Suddenly the peace of the tranquil harbour village was shattered by an ear splitting cacophony of sound emanating from the direction of the Pier road. It sounded as if all hell had broken loose. The ancient station wagon careened through the entrance gates in a shower of sparks and shuddered to a stop at the Hotel frontage, steam pouring from beneath the shattered bonnet. “Never seen the likes of it” Dan the garage-man remarked as he towed the wreck away some time later. One entire side of the mud -spattered Morris Oxford was stove in. Fragments of a stone gatepost were embedded in the bodywork and one door was hanging almost completely off. The car had apparently completed the final part of the journey on three tyres as the fourth wheel was entirely bare and the pungent aroma of burnt rubber was noticeable. The semi-conscious figure slumped over the wheel behind the shattered windscreen bore a rueful half smile, seemingly oblivious to the mass of cuts and lacerations on the aristocratic countenance. Patrick Skeffington Smythe, successful novelist, bon viveur and well known man about town was as drunk as a skunk.

“You’d better get him upstairs quickly and into bed” was Mick’s first enjoinder to Larry “And then send his clothes off to the dry cleaners”. Patrick’s tweed sports coat, patterned velvet waistcoat and cavalry twill trousers - now mud stained and blood spattered - bore telling evidence of his recent misadventures. “Then ask my wife to root out a spare suit of clothes.” The London based head office General Manager, a man not renowned for a sense of humour and with little or no appreciation of the more relaxed West Cork life style was due to arrive at any minute for his an annual tour of inspection. “Make sure you double lock the bedroom door Larry” he called after the two figures as they staggered in the general direction of the lift.

It transpired that Patrick had earlier sat down to a celebratory luncheon with his agent in a well-known city centre hostelry to celebrate the launch of his latest best selling thriller. “My old banger knows it’s own way home’ he called cheerfully to the anxious agent through the open window of his old station wagon as he headed off unsteadily for West Cork. Not this time however. His encounter with several ditches and at least one gatepost on the road down from the city called for a change in plan and he just about made it as far as Mick’s Hotel, a regular stopping off place en route for home.

oooOooo

One quick glance around the dining room reassured Mick that the dinner operation was running smoothly. Mick knew, as they settled into their first course of seafood-chowder, that he’d already made one fatal error. The visit had started badly. It had seemed to him to be good tactics to ask his young assistant to accompany their boss on the morning tour of inspection of the Hotel. But young Timmy McCarthy, fresh out of Hotel school and in his first junior management post was anxious to make an impression and lacked that nose for danger that only comes with years of experience.

Timmy had been given the task of upgrading the staff quarters and was particularly proud of the paint job that, with Larry’s help, had taken three days to complete. `I should have thought to warn him’ thought Mick. The two areas one always steered clear of during an inspection by Health Inspectors, Fire Officers or Head office bods were the back kitchen and staff quarters.

The General Manager had stalked into the first staff bedroom he encountered and found a couple in bed making passionate love as if there was no tomorrow. Word quickly filtered back to Mick. The General Manager however made no mention of it during the accounts meeting, which preceded dinner. It was clear though from his expression that it was only a matter of time before he got around to it. Mick didn’t have long to wait.

The visitor had been most complimentary on the quality of his fillet steak and the accompanying pepper sauce. “It’s the Irish whiskey that makes the difference” Mick got in. The more removed the man felt from the formality of his London head office the better things were likely to go, Mick thought. He topped up the other’s glass of wine as he sensed that the man was becoming a bit more human. He had even managed a smile of acknowledgement when John, the headwaiter enquired if he was enjoying his meal.

“You know Murphy, I visited the staff quarters earlier on”, the District Manager announced setting down his knife and fork and wiping his lips with a linen napkin. “Did you really, sir?” replied Mick with an innocent air. “I hope you found everything to your satisfaction?”

“I'm not so sure about MY satisfaction" his boss replied.I must say the place was in jolly good shape, but the most extraordinary thing happened you know. I found a boy and gel in bed together. Surely you don’t allow that sort of thing”. “Oh indeed not sir” gasped Mick. “That sort of behaviour is completely unacceptable Did you happen to get their names?”

The General Manager took a long swig from his glass of wine, his brow wrinkled in concentration “Well”, he said after a long pause, “I couldn’t see much of the gel as she was underneath, but I think the boy must have been a waiter. He didn’t have anything on his nether regions but I could see he was wearing a bow tie. I dare say, Murphy, sex will rear its ugly head on occasions. Even in Ballybracken, what? Perhaps you´ll get to the bottom of it in your own good time eh?". Mick swore he could see a playful gleam in his boss’s eye. Perhaps the man did have a sense of humour after all.....

THE END