Bragging Rights

“6 double gin and tonics, 3 large whiskeys, 3 vodkas with coke and a pack of cards please, all with ice and a slice.” “What would 52 soldiers of the Devil want with ice, Olav?” I replied and got a blank look.

“Basil, why don’t you join us for a drink and a game of three card brag?” I responded with a cruel comment “Haven’t you lost enough today already?” Olav had lost his wallet in Swanage earlier that day. It contained cash, credit cards, his ID and more importantly to me the hotel door security code and welcome card. It was beyond me to see him both cheerful and about to gamble when he had no money and lost his identity.

Olav was one of three Norwegian guests staying as part of a group of 12 from around Europe. Corporate guests staying at the Elizabethan manor were no rarity but on this occasion these guys and one girl were the only guests, so I didn’t object but declined to join them.

The group formed an ominous circle outside on the patio by the carp pond, which was now surrounded by sharks of the card playing variety. The new anti-smoking laws weren’t popular with these guys because they were forced outside so as not to be disturbed during their game.

Gambling on licensed premises is prohibited unless a special license is gained. But in the depths of Dorset and with no other residents I would turn a blind eye, as Gunnar and Olav told me that the stakes would be low and as they all worked for the same corporation knew the score.

The plumes of cigarette smoke above the table and orders of more drinks became more and more regular; along with the pleadings from the group for the Innkeeper join them. Despite having seen notes bearing the name of my Queen piled high on the table meaning the stakes had clearly increased dramatically, I took out a bottle of gin, whiskey and vodka, some mixers and took my seat at the table with Sybil’s petty cash tin. I was intent on playing it low and slow so as not to risk the wrath of the trouble and strife in the morning. In fact I could almost feel her anger before losing my first hand with a good pair of Jacks.

Winning hands steeple from three cards with no pairs but the highest card counts, to a pair, a flush where the three cards are the same suit, a run where the cards are different suits, a running flush and the best hand a prial, when all three cards are the same number, Aces being tops.
I was never stupid enough to be more than £100 down at anytime but rarely found myself in front. I was now one of the chain smokers and my bravado increased as my personal bottle of Rioja emptied. The group had agreed that we would deal the last hand at 1am sharp, I just prayed my non-PC decision to play wouldn’t mean the emptying of the PC-tin. The problem was the Ante or opening stake had risen to £10 and the group were now betting in bundles and some were going ‘blind’ too. Not looking at their cards meant a big risk, but those that had peaked were forced to bet double. I saw the wisdom in looking but paid the price a couple of times. The other important thing to remember is this, if you have looked at you cards, you cannot ‘see’ or call a ‘blind man’. So you have to continue or fold your cards.

The sodium floodlights illuminated the courtyard and our game just sufficiently to continue but candles from the restaurant were added to improve visibility and the atmosphere, as we headed towards the curfew. I replenished the spirits from the bar and re-took my seat at a table I was starting to wish I had ignored, with another bottle of Rioja. The cards were not falling for me, and when I thought they were ‘a blind man’ took my money with luck.
As the bewitching hour approached I reckoned my lot was about now about £80 lighter than when I ‘stole’ Sybil’s pot and I had also smoked a months supply of cigarettes.

Despite this I charged the glasses and we prepared for the final hand. There were five players left including me, 3 Norwegians Olav, Gunnar and Magnus and a Catalonian called Marti. It appeared at first glance that most of the players had similar pots to play in the curtain closer.

It was my turn to deal, so nervously I dealt three cards to each player. Griping pains of fear now struck me, as I knew money was little object to these rich men on expense accounts. I had seen the way they bet, sometimes laying down £100 before looking at their cards. Then they might bluff a few hundred more and see off the Innkeeper who showed his face of fear before folding his hand.

True to form the Norwegians all opened the betting with a £20 ‘blind’ bet. Marti followed, but I couldn’t risk have my marital rights suspended by Sybil or indeed my tools dismembered had I lost the contents of the hotel float. So I peeled back my cards one by one, the first card was a two, followed by another. So, I had a low pair, not something I would ‘go to town’ with and bet my lot. Trying not to let my face tell a story I started peeling back the last card, it was another two. That was a great hand, three of a kind, a prial, not something we had seen before that night, nor I had ever been dealt with in my life. While it was the lowest prial, I knew I could bet and bet big.

As the only ‘open’ player at the table my stake was £80, double my opponents. Round after round we continued at this rate before Gunnar raised to £50 blind, I continued, but now at £100 a round.

Suddenly I started to sweat, the realisation had dawned that as the hotel proprietor this was not a hand I should win. I had no license to gamble, these guests would lose more heavily because it was the last hand and worse I dealt it! I was clearly looking uncomfortable when the normally quiet and polite Spaniard asked me if things were getting a bit too hot for me. This was my first opportunity to ask my fellow gamblers to fold. They laughed, and laughed loud at me. They saw my feeble attempt to force the issue as a bluff. Marti immediately raised the stakes to £100 blind and my heart sank as I emptied the last notes form Sybil’s tin to respond. A moment enjoyed by everyone but me.

After removing a wad of cash from the hotel safe, my wallet and the days cashing up folder as I was now determined, scared, and a little panicked because I was expecting to win despite worrying of the consequences. I made one last effort to get the guys to look at their cards by saying I had done my best to warn them they were likely to lose and that they must suffer the losses and not bleat afterwards. This had only minimal effect, the Norwegians and my tormentor Marti looked at their cards. Magnus folded having seen nothing not to smile about. A few more rounds of betting took the stake to £200 a go, before I made my move. Raising my bet to £500 brought silence to those in our den of iniquity. Not because of my bet, but because a member of the local constabulary was standing behind my left shoulder, unseen by me. He had silently watched my raising stake placed in a pile of notes running into thousands.

His opening words were “Is Olav Gunnerson among this group?” Olav stood looking almost as frightened as me. The copper then said “I have your wallet Sir, it was handed into the station an hour ago, so I thought I would drop it off on my way home.” Followed by, “Can I have a word please Mr Hageman?" Being drunk, at first I wondered how he knew my name, but as I sobered up quickly I realised that it is displayed above the front door as all licensees names are.

I left the table and approached the rotund constable. He made it clear to me that I was skating on thin ice by allowing my property to be used for the purpose of illicit gambling. I protested that the game had started with a few coppers per hand and had gotten out of control, pleading that this would be the last hand and it would never happen again. The policemen said he’d contact me in the morning to discuss the situation and as he left told those seated at the table in no doubt that this hand must be the last.

As he disappeared from sight the gambling stopped. My huge raise in the stake and the sight of the local Bobby had deflated the atmosphere and the egos of my opponents. All of them seemed happy to call me and see what my fussing was all about.

It was a close run thing; Olav had a running flush, Gunnar a flush and Marti a pair of kings. The reason they had been betting so much was that each of them had hands that would win most games we had played that night. To get dealt hands like these on the final deal was astonishing. That thought bounced into my mind like a basketball fired from a canon into a squash court. Would they think I had rigged the deck before dealing?

I turned over my cards one by one to the stunned silence. To my relief I was congratulated by all of them and nobody cast a dodgy eye, drew a gun or pointed finger at the jubilant but green coloured innkeeper. I chose to count my winnings after the group had filed off to bed talking in whispers as they went.

I repaid the petty cash tin and Sybil’s takings folder for the day and refilled the safe and my wallet; the amount I stuffed into my trousers was a little over £3500. I separated about £400 from this to give to Sybil to add more to her shoe mountain in the hope that adding to her Imelda Marcos sized collection might get me off the hook for risking everything. She has never had any idea how much I won that night (unless she reads this).

A sleepless night followed for Basil, as I felt sure the losers would round on me, if they didn’t Sybil would, and then there was the policeman to deal with.
Olav and Gunnar came to breakfast first. They shook my hand and said nothing about the game when staff came close enough to hear about the shenanigans of the night before. When I said I was concerned about sore losers getting even, they laughed and said that had the copper not turned up they would have bet much more. Both said they wouldn’t have warned other players about my decent hand and that that was mad but they were the glad ones! Marti confirmed this view when he arrived full of smiles but with an empty wallet.

Sybil seemed full of it and was trawling the Internet for a load of cobblers fare before the group checked-out. That just left the fat constable.

To this day, his flat feet have never come back through the manor house door, but the fear of him doing so has prevented me trying to repeat the feat.

The Sleepwalker (part two)

“There is a man in our bed! Please come and help us!” The phone by my bed had rung at 0400, Sybil was less than amused to be woken again. I had transferred the phones to the cottage because the member of staff who let me down the night before had borne the brunt of the sleepwalker’s antics and Sybil’s mood and had left my employ.

The couple that called me were in room 10. I knew this because their name and room number were displayed on my phone when I answered the distress call. When I reached the room there was a ‘welcome’ committee. The couple in room 10 were outside it talking to the psychiatrist from next door. “He’s in there!” said the woman who had more men in her bed than she wanted, and who was now visibly shaking. “What happened?” was the only sensible question I could muster whilst noticing the psychiatrist eying my Playboy outfit. I wondered whether he knew I was ‘commando’ again for only the second time in my hotel career.

“We were in bed, fast asleep when I felt the urge to move over having been told to do so by a strange voice, half asleep I did just that. It was only when my husband got up for the toilet that he noticed there were two people occupying the space he’d just left. He turned the light on and we found a naked man lying in our bed fast asleep.”

I entered the room to find ‘Steve’ in the centre of someone else’s bed curled up in their duvet snoring peacefully. Now, what to do? The audience was growing outside when I emerged to pacify the former occupants of room 10. I explained the story of the night before, unnecessary because the psychiatrist had already. I woke ‘Steve’s’ partner and together we got him into her bed.

The lady from room 10 who had unwittingly had a Menage et trois but failed to appreciate her luck, admired ‘Steve’s’ derriere on his short walk ‘home’. The crowd dispersed and I got home to Sybil with a proper story that would definitely raise her eye patch of curiosity.

At breakfast the next day I struggled to make it in time for service. Just as I reached the restaurant door I saw ‘Steve’ addressing the room. He was apologising to them all and explained that he hadn’t brought his medication that sometimes helped prevent nocturnal forays into the unknown. He made a special effort to appease the woman whose bed he’d shared and apologised if he had done anything inappropriate and for the shock. Blushing she replied “Having seen you walking back to your room afterwards, I only wish you had been inappropriate, I think we kicked you out too soon and I am so glad now that I forgot to lock the bedroom door last night!” To the roars of laughter from the other guests, the red face of one and to the relief of thine host.

The big Tipper and his Spare Pillow

Room 5 is a bedroom in the original part of the building which dates back to 1590. It is not the biggest, but is finished with a beautiful antique Duchess dressing table and an old solid walnut headboard.

Discretion in this trade is a given, although it’s often a chore when you have to go beyond the call of duty to hide the shenanigans of some guests. Day-lets are commonplace at most hotels that allow them, this is when the room is required ‘during the working day’, let’s say 11am until 3pm at which time the ‘couple’ check out having paid cash and back to the monotony of a less secret lives. When such clandestine goings on are afoot it is often easy to trace the culprits by reading the name on the empty box of ‘stay pecker hard pills’ in the waist bin next to condom wrappers. Cialis and Viagra induced playtime doesn’t come cheap but these folk need to maximise every minute together.

A regular guest before we took over and one who always frequented Room 5, visited with a different ‘wife’ each time. He always requested, during the booking process that we exercise the greatest discretion. He invariably asked for me before he booked, so that he’d be sure to get the message across: it would be awful if you said something like “Good to see you again, sir!” or “Goodness me, madam, you look younger every time I see you!” when you greeted them on arrival.

His lady friends always came in a few minutes after he did and seemed to know the direction to his room. I often wondered at first whether they knew him but I would later discover that they were paid help, or ‘spare pillows’ as they are known in London – ladies of the night who take up the space in a double bed for reward.
It is very hard when things are busy to be sure you convey the situation to all staff and hope to God that no one f**ks up. Regular guests like him whose tips are rolls of cash, are good for all the staff, I thought at first, but not for long.

It seemed as if we had played his game a dozen times before, but I was not expecting the frantic call from said gentleman. This time he was asking for my personal help, with the utmost urgency. He explained that his wife was about to enter the hotel through the front door and insisting she “Be stalled there” for as long as it took to get his ‘partner’ (the hurriedly dressed hooker) out of the room unnoticed.

I thought as quickly as I could before recommending the use of a fire escape close to his room. I ran upstairs and escorted the paid help down the fire escape stairs. This was made more difficult because she hadn’t finished becoming ‘decent’ but Basil had no time to gawp at her size H boobs. I reached the relative safety of the ground floor at just the time his wife was being brought up the ornate main staircase (as slowly as possible) by the duty receptionist.

It worked like clockwork as the receptionist pointed out objects of interest en route. The only person that seemed to suffer was me, heart racing, beads of sweat on my brow, but it would be worth it for the inevitably large tip that he’d leave to be shared by all the staff. I helped the now sultry sex worker out to the A351 amidst protests about the way she had been handled and the fact that she remained unpaid.

"Not my worry love!" I said somewhat unsympathetically.

“Sorry if I manhandled you but it was impossible to keep all your bits covered and get you out in a hurry!” All I had to do know was explain to Sybil how I now had a cheap aroma of au de prostitute on me.

At check-out the next morning, the bill was paid, and not much was said, none of the usual pleasantries. As it appeared his wife wasn’t able to pin anything on him, all was well. Unusually on this occasion he decided not to pay by cash or leave a tip. He either didn’t think the years he’d taken off me were worthy of a gratuitous tip, or wasn’t usually generous when he was with his wife.

I was not impressed, but as he left to pack the car, Barb came down with a lipstick that had been left in his room (but not the colour his wife was wearing); so I took it from my housekeeper and rushed out to the car, fuming to myself at the lack of reward for all my efforts and having decided, finally, to end the ‘love affairs’ the customer had here regularly. I thought of saying “The young lady who left yesterday afternoon left this in the room” but instead bottled it up and I settled for “Would you like a hand loading the car? And please come again!”

I did manage to discreetly palm him the lipstick when shaking hands along with a knowing glare and a comment that he never came back. This was not a disappointment, as I have not had to play his game again since. Hidden behind my obsequious smile, there often lie guests’ secrets, secrets that people give willingly without a second thought about how well I can be entrusted with them.

Ok if you don’t misbehave or find Basil having a bad one.