A Knocking Indeed – Bentley 29

 

[For back story go here: Story so far at 17 Sept 2020 and mainly this one.]

[Relevant back story also in embedded links.]

I remember going back. There were days before these when hotels were hotels. You know, really hotels. When you turned up and there was a grand sense of occasion – even at a small town like this. You knew you’d arrived, really you did. Treated like royalty, met by a man with a hat and your name on his lips. Second name: “Mr Bentley, sir, how are you this afternoon?” or “This evening” or whatever. Couldn’t do enough for you. “Will you be dining with us this evening?” and “What precisely would sir be requiring for breakfast?” Hell, is that too much to ask?

I get the social distancing and hard to make contact and keep your distance and whatever, but really. Met by a cash point where you flash your plastic and you’re given another plastic card and a room number. So I’m just grateful the screen said Hello. That’s all you can expect now, Bentley. Bentley is checking in and that’s all. No more Mr Nice Guy outside, doubt if room service comes with this either. Just a room with a bed and a screen and a phone and windows that have safety features so you can’t get a bird’s fart past them. Do birds fart?

No dining room here. “Have you ever been to a Harvester before?” Not even one of those. Not even an all you can eat buffet. Sorry, we only do repacked sponge-like pain au chocolate – though we can’t really call them that now cos to be honest they’re not really pains au chocs. Jeez come next year you can’t even have those without waiting for some juggernaut queueing up for three weeks to get past the Port of Dover. So it’ll just fill your mouth but not your stomach. Get on with your day in need of sustenance. I’ll stick with the porridge.

What am I doing here?

The edge of the bed seems comfortable enough but I’m not hoping for as good night’s sleep. That’d be asking too much. Bet there’s nothing on TV an all. And I bet when I turn out the light expecting dark it’ll be street lamp glow from outside. Flooding through the window keeping me awake and. And I miss my cat.

Here. I’ll try it now here. Switch off lights – should be these by the bed. Oh, except that’s turned another set on and now… So how do I turn the one off over there that’s… Oh. OK. Fine. So I can’t sleep because you can’t turn all the lights off anyway. I mean what’s the point?

Ah, now here’s a trick someone told me once. The card the machine gives you downstairs goes into the slot by the door and that connects the electricity supply. So therefore, if you pull it out it will disconnect and hey presto, electricity off, lights go off. So it seems they don’t trust anyone to turn the lights off themselves. Which of course no one would because it’s a hotel and there’s meant to be a degree of luxury and part of that luxury is not giving a damn whether the lights are left on or not. Actually I like leaving the lights on because it feels homely to do so.

So. Find the card. Pull it out.

Ah. It’s really quite dark isn’t it? Must have those special blackout curtains or something I imagine.  So if I can just put it back in…

Where’s the damn thing gone now?

Well, this is a stupid state of affairs. Old man Bentley standing alone in complete darkness unable to relocate card into electricity socket. I could be standing here for hours. Literally. Days even if the curtains keep daylight out too. And if they do that how am I meant to know when to wake up? Why must it be so complicated?

And what am I doing here?

And now – what was that? Someone’s knocking on the door. I’m sure of it. They’re…. Quiet Bentley, quiet. The lights are all out they can’t see under the door. Could they see under the door even if..? I mean it’s a fire door, you know. A fire door with that special sweeper thing to keep the drafts out and the fire in. Or out. Depending on where you’re standing. And then. 

There it is again.

If it was room service they’d say so. And they don’t do it anyway – you have to go to that ridiculous desk they’re calling a bar where the woman with the plastic shield on her face is giving out prepacked sandwiches. And apples that taste of glue.

And again. If I think hard enough they’ll go away. Otherwise I’ll just stand here until my legs give out. The hip’ll be fine though.

I miss my cat.