A Twist in the Tale

Arthur was determined that Mark was not going to end up working on the shop floor of a car factory for the rest of his life. He put in hours of overtime to earn enough money to ensure that the boy could have extra tuition in math, general science and English. He felt well-rewarded when the boy passed his eleven-plus and won a place at King Henry VIII Grammar School, and that pride did not fetter when Mark went on to pass five O-levels and two years later added two A-levels.

Arthur tried not to show his disappointment when, on Mark’s eighteenth birthday, the boy informed him that he did not want to go to university.

“What kind of career are you hoping to take up then, lad?” Arthur inquired.

“I’ve filled in an application form to join you on the shop floor just as soon as I leave school.”

“But why would you—”

“Why not? Most of my friends who’re leaving this term have already been accepted by Triumph, and they can’t wait to get started.”

“You must be out of your mind.”

“Come off it, Dad. The pay’s good and you’ve shown that there’s always plenty of extra money to be picked up with overtime. And I don’t mind hard work.”

“Do you imagine I spent all those years making sure you got a first-class education just to let you end up like me, putting wheels on cars for the rest of your life?” Arthur shouted.

“That’s not the whole job and you know it, Dad.”

“You go there over my dead body,” said his father. “I don’t care what your friends end up doing, I only care about you. You could be a solicitor, an accountant, an army officer, even a schoolmaster. Why should you want to end up at a car factory?”

“It’s better paid than schoolmastering for a start,” said Mark. “My French master once told me that he wasn’t as well off as you.”

“That’s not the point, lad—”

“The point is, Dad, I can’t be expected to spend the rest of my life doing a job I don’t enjoy just to satisfy one of your fantasies.”

“But I’m not going to allow you to waste the rest of your life,” said Arthur, getting up from the breakfast table. “The first thing I’m going to do when I get in to work this morning is see that your application is turned down.”

“That isn’t fair, Dad. I have the right to—”

But his father had already left the room, and did not utter another word to the boy before leaving for the factory.

For over a week father and son didn’t speak to each other. It was Mark’s mother who was left to come up with the compromise. Mark could apply for any job that met with his father’s approval and as long as he completed a year at that job he could, if he still wanted to, reapply to work at the factory. His father for his part would not then put any obstacle in his son’s way.

Arthur nodded. Mark also reluctantly agreed to the compromise.

“But only if you complete the full year,” Arthur warned him solemnly.

During those last days of the summer holiday Arthur came up with several suggestions for Mark to consider, but the boy showed no enthusiasm for any of them. Mark’s mother became quite anxious that her son would end up with no job at all until, while helping her slice potatoes for dinner one night, Mark confided to his mother that he thought hotel management seemed the least unattractive proposition he had considered so far.

“At least you’d have a roof over your head and be regularly fed,” his mother said.

“Bet they don’t cook as well as you, Mum,” said Mark as he placed the sliced potatoes on the top of the Lancashire hot-pot. “Still, it’s only a year.”

During the next month Mark attended several interviews at hotels around the country but they all sensed his lack of enthusiasm. But when his father discovered that his old company sergeant was head porter at the Savoy, Arthur started to pull a few strings.

“If the boy’s any good,” Arthur’s old comrade-in-arms assured him over a pint, “he could end up as a head porter, even a hotel manager.” Arthur seemed well satisfied, even though Mark was still assuring his friends that he would be joining them a year to the day.

On September 1, 1959, Arthur and Mark Hapgood traveled together by bus to Coventry station. Arthur shook hands with the boy and promised him, “Your mother and I will make sure it’s a special Christmas this year when they give you your first leave. And don’t worry, you’ll be in good hands with ‘Sarge.’ He’ll teach you a thing or two. Just remember to keep your nose clean.”

Mark said nothing and gave his father a thin smile as he boarded the train. “You’ll never regret it…” were the last words Mark heard him say as the train pulled out of the station.

* * *

Mark regretted it from the moment he set foot in the hotel.

As a junior porter his day started at six in the morning and ended at six in the evening. He was entitled to a fifteen-minute midmorning break, a forty-five-minute lunch break and another fifteen-minute break around midafternoon. After the first month had passed he could not recall when he had been granted all three breaks on the same day, and he quickly learned that there was no one to whom he could protest. His duties consisted of carrying guests’ cases up to their rooms, then lugging them back down again the moment they wanted to leave. With an average of three hundred people staying in the hotel each night the process was endless. The pay turned out to be half what his friends were getting back home, and as he had to hand over all his tips to Sergeant Crann the head porter, however much overtime Mark put in, he never saw an extra penny. On the only occasion he dared to mention it to the head porter he was met with the words, “Your time will come, lad.”