When Hag Fraser came in that day, it was obvious she remembered me, but she didn’t smile or call me by name. She bought a cup of tea and a packet of Custard Creams, then took them outside to the terrace. I thought that was that. But then a while later, she came in again, put her empty cup and saucer down on the counter and said: “Since you won’t clear the table, I’ve brought these in myself.” She gave me a look that went on a second or two longer than was normal-her old if-only-I-could-swat-you look-then left.
All my hatred for the old dragon came back, and by the time Maggie came down a few minutes later, I was completely fuming. She saw it straight away and asked what was wrong. There were a few customers out on the terrace, but no one inside, so I started shouting, calling Hag Fraser every filthy name she deserved. Maggie got me to calm down, then said:
“Well, she’s not anybody’s teacher any more. She’s just a sad old lady whose husband’s gone and left her.”
“Not surprised.”
“But you have to feel a bit sorry for her. Just when she thought she could enjoy her retirement, she’s left for a younger woman. And now she has to run that bed-and-breakfast by herself and people say the place is falling apart.”
This all cheered me up no end. I forgot about Hag Fraser soon after that, because a group came in and I had to make a lot of tuna salads. But a few days later when I was chatting to Geoff in the kitchen, I got a few more details from him; like how her husband of forty-odd years had gone off with his secretary; and how their hotel had got off to a reasonable start, but now all the gossip was of guests demanding their money back, or checking out within hours of arrival. I saw the place myself once when I was helping Maggie with the cash-and-carry and we drove past. Hag Fraser’s hotel was right there on the Elgar Route, a fairly substantial granite house with an outsize sign saying “Malvern Lodge.”
But I don’t want to go on about Hag Fraser too much. I’m not obsessed with her or with her hotel. I’m only putting this all here now because of what happened later, once Tilo and Sonja came in.
Geoff had gone into Great Malvern that day, so it was just me and Maggie holding the fort. The main lunch rush was over, but at the point when the Krauts came in, we still had plenty going on. I’d clocked them in my mind as “the Krauts” the moment I heard their accents. I wasn’t being racist. If you have to stand behind a counter and remember who didn’t want beetroot, who wanted extra bread, who gets what put on which bill, you’ve no choice but to turn all the customers into characters, give them names, pick out physical peculiarities. Donkey Face had a ploughman’s and two coffees. Tuna mayo baguettes for Winston Churchill and his wife. That’s how I was doing it. So Tilo and Sonja were “the Krauts.”
It was very hot that afternoon, but most of the customers-being English-still wanted to sit outside on the terrace, some of them even avoiding the parasols so they could go bright red in the sun. But the Krauts decided to sit indoors in the shade. They had on loose, camel-coloured trousers, trainers and T-shirts, but somehow looked smart, the way people from the continent often do. I supposed they were in their forties, maybe early fifties-I didn’t pay too much attention at that stage. They ate their lunch talking quietly to each other, and they seemed like any pleasant, middle-aged couple from Europe. Then after a while, the guy got up and started wandering about the room, pausing to study an old faded photo Maggie has on the wall, of the house as it was in 1915. Then he stretched out his arms and said:
“Your countryside here is so wonderful! We have many fine mountains in Switzerland. But what you have here is different. They are hills. You call them hills. They have a charm all their own because they are gentle and friendly.”
“Oh, you’re from Switzerland,” Maggie said in her polite voice. “I’ve always wanted to go there. It sounds so fantastic, the Alps, the cable-cars.”
“Of course, our country has many beautiful features. But here, in this spot, you have a special charm. We have wanted to visit this part of England for so long. We always talked of it, and now finally we are here!” He gave a hearty laugh. “So happy to be here!”
“That’s splendid,” Maggie said. “I do hope you enjoy it. Are you here for long?”
“We have another three days before we must return to our work. We have looked forward to coming here ever since we observed a wonderful documentary film many years ago, concerning Elgar. Evidently Elgar loved these hills and explored them thoroughly on his bicycle. And now we are finally here!”
Maggie chatted with him for a few minutes about places they’d already visited in England, what they should see in the local area, the usual stuff you were supposed to say to tourists. I’d heard it loads of times before, and I could do it myself more or less on automatic, so I started to tune out. I just took in that the Krauts were actually Swiss and that they were travelling around by hired car. He kept saying what a great place England was and how kind everyone had been, and made big laughing noises whenever Maggie said anything halfway jokey. But as I say, I’d tuned out, thinking they were just this fairly boring couple. I only started paying attention again a few moments later, when I noticed the way the guy kept trying to bring his wife into the conversation, and how she kept silent, her eyes fixed on her guidebook and behaving like she wasn’t aware of any conversation at all. That’s when I took a closer look at them.
They both had even, natural suntans, quite unlike the sweaty lobster looks of the locals outside, and despite their age, they were both slim and fit-looking. His hair was grey, but luxuriant, and he’d had it carefully groomed, though in a vaguely seventies style, a bit like the guys in ABBA. Her hair was blonde, almost snowy white, and her face was stern-looking, with little lines etched around the mouth that spoilt what would otherwise have been the beautiful older woman look. So there he was, as I say, trying to bring her into the conversation.
“Of course, my wife enjoys Elgar greatly and so would be most curious to visit the house in which he was born.”
Silence.
Or: “I am not a great fan of Paris, I must confess. I much prefer London. But Sonja here, she loves Paris.”
Nothing.
Each time he said something like this, he’d turn towards his wife in the corner, and Maggie would be obliged to look over to her, but the wife still wouldn’t glance up from her book. The man didn’t seem especially perturbed by this and went on talking cheerfully. Then he stretched out his arms again and said: “If you will excuse me, I think I may for a moment go and admire your splendid scenery!”
He went outside, and we could see him walking around the terrace. Then he disappeared out of our view. The wife was still there in the corner, reading her guidebook, and after a while Maggie went over to her table and began clearing up. The woman ignored her completely until my sister picked up a plate with a tiny bit of roll still left on it. Then suddenly she slammed down her book and said, far more loudly than necessary: “I have not finished yet!”
Maggie apologised and left her with her piece of roll-which I noticed the woman made no move to touch. Maggie looked at me as she came past and I gave her a shrug. Then a few moments later, my sister asked the woman, very nicely, if there was anything else she’d like.
“No. I want nothing else.”