Some people are ‘choosy’

 

Kathleen and her husband had a large shed right across the bottom of their garden.  In it we stored, free of charge, our spare wheelchairs and commodes and other sundry assets which, from time to time, were given to us by folk who no longer had any use for them.

 

Consequently, when Kathleen asked to be allowed to accompany us on holiday less than a fortnight prior to our departure, we could not be ungracious enough to reject her.  The stipulations were not simple.  She wanted a room to herself, with a lavatory and bathroom.  Not too far to walk and Bovril for every meal instead of tea.  The requests came thick and fast.

 

We juggled the occupants already allocated to their chalets, in an effort to comply with as many of the specifications as possible.  In the end, Kathleen agreed to accept a little single room immediately opposite a bath block and we promised that, if it were at all possible, we would ensure that it did not rain in the middle of the night should she want to cross the footpath to the loo.

 

There was a little tantrum on the coach.  Kathleen could not possibly make her way down the coach to a seat; her legs were bad and she was not a very good traveller.  Eventually, as the last coach pulled in, we commandeered a front seat for her and transferred another passenger to the coach in which she should have travelled.  After that Kathleen was all sunshine and good humoured for the rest of the journey.

 

Our spirits rose.  Now that the arrangements appeared to be satisfactory, we assumed that nothing much could go awry.

 

Thing began to go wrong almost as soon as we arrived.  Someone was sent to ensure that the little room was ready; the bed was made and everything clean and tidy before Kathleen was escorted to it.  The helper returned with a worried frown.  The room was not as it appeared on the plan.  It was, apparently, a small child’s room, just an annexe off the main adjoining chalet, with a communicating door.  The bed was a small single one and the space left between the articles of furniture barely enough to turn round.  Something had to be done quickly.  We scooted round to investigate the position.

 

It was a matter of seconds to turn the key in the communicating door and another half-minute to move the small wardrobe to cover it.  This made the little room distinctly more possible.  There was now quite a sizable space at the end of the bed and gave the impression of roominess.  We glanced around as we shut the door and hoped optimistically for the best.  The toilet block, on the plan just across a narrow footpath was, in reality, the other side of a road designed to allow two cars to pass one another.  However, there was nothing we could do to rectify that so we resigned ourselves to hope for some unexpected tolerance.  As a final precaution, Kathleen was asked once again if she would like to accept a bed in one of the luxury rooms – “on my own?” demanded Kathleen – and since this could not be arranged, she doggedly refused to accept the offer.

 

She was shown to her chalet by the least sensitive of our helpers.  Apparently the shortcomings of the accommodation were recognised as soon as the  door was opened but her escort refused to be intimidated.  She bounced into the room, pulled down the bedclothes to show beautiful clean sheets; opened the drawers of the chest and the doors of the wardrobe.  She placed Kathleen’s case on the chair and prepared to unpack it.  Kathleen became militant.  Shambling into the room, she pushed aside her cheerful helper.  “I’ll unpack it myself”, she announced and was left to do it without further comment.

 

Kathleen retired early that night.  She was not entertained by the entertainers, charmed by the singers, tempted by the licensed bar or interested in the excited chatter of her companions.  She was determined to be ‘put out’.  Just as dusk obscured the trees on the skyline through the big windows, she heaved herself from her seat and made for the door.  A watching student followed her and, taking her arm, assisted her to climb the three steps to the foyer.  She was beguiled by a torrent of pleasantries to her chalet door.  She was show into her room, her key was left on the chest of drawers, her light was switched on, the bed was inspected to ensure that it was ready for her and with a bright “goodnight”, the young helper closed the door gently.  All this time Kathleen remained morose and silent.

 

Without that sullen face glaring at us each time we looked around the big ballroom, we were able to relax among our jubilant throng.   Soon after 11p.m. a tired helper on her way to her own chalet, noticed that the light in Kathleen’s room was off and,  listening at the closed door hear nothing.

 

The next morning we looked for a lessening of the gloom but to our consternation, the black cloud was there, if anything intensified.  Surely, we thought, a good night’s sleep should have dispelled some of the discontent but Kathleen sat stolid and grim between two companions.  She rattled her spoon significantly in her saucer and guiltily I recalled what I had promised her.  I reached her chair within seconds and, taking the cup from her, took it to the serving table.  With a cup full of boiling water, I mixed her meat extract for her, collecting a breakfast for her at the same time.  Neither of us spoke.  Kathleen did not acknowledge the service in any way and I dare not comment in case I should precipitate a rumpus in the crowded dining-room.

 

Towards the end of the meal the storm broke.  Someone must have made the usual polite conversational query about whether she had had a good night.  Kathleen’s voice was raised, shrill and penetrating.  “Filthy, dirty room”, she shrieked.  “I’m going to phone my husband directly after breakfast and get him to come and fetch me home”.  The tirade continued but after the first astonished  minute, everyone lost interest and withdrew their attention.  Kathleen’s shrill protestations subsided and she resumed the silent antagonism.

 

Quickly we followed her to the small chalet and peered inside.  Everything seemed as it had been the evening before.  The tiled floor was clean and the bedside mat unsullied.  The furniture, white and spotless.  We looked at Kathleen astonished.  She pushed past us and pointed to the middle of the open bed.  “Feel that”, she commanded and, gingerly, we ran a searching palm over the smooth sheet.  Dismayed, we recognised a distinctly damp patch.  Flinging back the bottom sheet and the blanket underneath, we gazed in horror at a dark stain on the mattress just at about the level of Kathleen’s waist.

 

Furious at the discovery, we initiated frantic activity.  Our helpers scuttled off to their respective areas of responsibility with instructions to scrutinise every bed.  All the bed clothes were to be pulled down and every mattress felt  and inspected both sides.  A full report with numbers of chalets and locality of beds would be required – quickly.  Two of us went off to interview the manager.  In our anger, we flayed him with a torrent of indignation.  All our frustration, our disgust, our misery was poured over him in a flood of hot criticism.  His apology, when he could squeeze in a word, was abject and pathetic.  The beds were made up by casual labour, he explained, mostly by students at home for the holidays, and glad of half-a-day’s work each week.  Strict instructions…  but we were not interest in his troubles.  We were weary of having to wallow in our own.  The manager was recovering his composure.  He would have all the beds inspected right away, he promised.  Grimly he had his reply; he need not bother.  We were doing it ourselves.  He would get a list of beds which needed their mattresses changed within an hour.

 

There was just nothing else to report.  The only bed in the whole Camp which had been missed for proper attention was that allocated to Kathleen.

 

A fresh new mattress was produced and Kathleen’s bed remade with all clean bedclothes.  Kathleen refused to be placated.  As a last resort, an appeal was made to another member of staff who had, till then, not been involved in any of these unhappy incidents.  We still had spare beds, some of them in the newest and smartest of the chalets, but all of then in twin-bedded rooms.  Would it be possible with a completely fresh approach, a fresh personality to persuade Kathleen to accept a compromise?  It was worth a try.  Half-an-hour later, the appointed diplomat was seen with Kathleen in tow and a packed case, making her way to the new chalets.  I gave a little cry of excitement and began to hurry towards them  I was waved back with a frantic gesture of a disengaged hand and watched in delight as the two entered the door and shut it behind them.  Twenty minutes later, watching from a vantage point, I saw my diplomat leave the chalet, a smug smile on her face.  She approached me and linking her arm in mine, led me out of sight of the curtained window.  “Is she O.K?”, I enquired, anxiously.  She was, apparently.  But at the cost of complete annihilation of our reputation for satisfaction.  “I had to pretend that it was my idea”, confessed my companion, “and that you had to be bullied into letting her move”.  I opened my mouth.  The libel was too blatant to tolerate.  “ I know, I know, I heard you trying to persuade her to move, but the only way I could get her to accept it was to pretend I hadn’t.

 

The rest of the week passed uneasily.  For months after our return I had reports of my inefficiency, my ingratitude, my unkindness and callousness, repeated to me.  We returned all Kathleen’s holiday money; we gave her an expensive peace offering but the unjustified criticism continued unabated until all available listeners were heartily sick of hearing it.

 

Now, years afterwards, the only feasible explanation seems to be a bout of acute homesickness which had to be disguised by some logical reason for unhappiness.  It is seldom we get any criticism, too little most of the time, but when it does occur, there  is nothing reasonable about it.  Like the Government, we have to accept the transgressions of everyone.