The Last Doorbell by William Parker

Author:William Parker [Parker, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Deixis Press
Published: 2024-08-28T00:00:00+00:00

Marrakesh, March 1984

‘What did the old girl mean, Alexander? Rather an extraordinary thing to say, don’t you think?’

We’d just sat down to dinner at our usual table in the dining room of the Es Saadi Hotel. I was leaning sideways towards Alexander, who’d made sure to be seated to my left during mealtimes for the last few days, a gallon of water from the pool having settled into his left ear. We’d summoned a doctor with a syringe for the morning. ‘Blind and now fucking deaf as well,’ he’d said in a matter-of-fact sort of tone as we stood at reception a little earlier to make the appointment.

‘What?’ he shouted, flicking his napkin and settling it round his knees in his customary manner. ‘What did you say?’ Perhaps the water had succeeded in flooding his right ear too.

‘Lady Fountain,’ I shouted a little too loudly. ‘She just said, “I like your boyfriend”. What’s she up to?’

‘Oh heavens. Just an expression, I think. She means she likes my friend who’s a boy.’

‘Yes, well I hope Bridget didn’t catch it. Nosey old boot if you ask me. Fishing around for information.’ Bridget, whose hearing was definitely not what it was, had obviously missed the comment and was taken up with looking around to see who exactly was entering the room before reporting the comings and goings back to me, nearly as interested as she was. The gossip that would follow (‘Wasn’t she wearing the same frock last night?’ ‘Not talking to each other at all now – there’s quite obviously been a falling out!’ ‘I say, isn’t that Ludovic Kennedy and Moira Shearer?’) was fast becoming one of our favourite holiday pastimes.

We’d been in the short queue at the entrance to the dining room, waiting to be seated, when Lady Fountain approached us, flustered about having to wait her turn.

‘Oh, not again,’ she sighed, ‘you’d think they’d check the damn guest list to see what’s what, who’s who, wouldn’t you? We had the very same thing last night, you know. In the end I had to tell them who I was–’

‘And who were you?’ said Alexander without a pause. She’d mellowed once she’d caught the eye of the maître d’ who assured her that the table reserved for her and her travelling companion (a Miss Sprite, a tiny wordless thing in a beige cardigan with very straight white hair, clutching a tissue and dabbing at an angry red nose) was very nearly ready. She was certainly being flirtatious when she made the comment about me to Alexander, loud enough for me to hear while looking me up and down with her head to one side and a little sideways smile that put me in mind of a stroke victim. When they were fetched to their table, she’d veered a little off course as she entered the dining room in a cloud of chiffon, running her fingers along the side of the piano to the alarm of the resident pianist who braced himself as though preparing to have her land up in his lap.

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