THIRTY
‘Good morning,’ Archie said curtly, avoiding eye contact with Beryl, who was woman’ing the reception counter that, by all things holy and revered in Bumblin’tons, should have been manned. ‘I will have my usual table for breakfast, see it is set up for me, woman,’ Archie directed.
‘You will have whatever table we have ready,’ Beryl replied, taking no prisoners.
‘I beg your pardon, madam?’
‘My pardon is granted,’ Beryl replied, smartly gripping the edge of the reception counter like she was ready to pick it up and launch it at Archie, who was stunned and making no move to any table.
‘Oi, mush, you want breakfast, then get yer arse into gear or you’ll miss it. We pack up at half nine.’
It is fair to say Archie looked as though he had been kicked up his posh backside by a beautifu
