Tramp Royale (43 page)

I wanted to see this Utopia, get to understand it. We had talked seriously of the possibility of renting a housekeeping flat in Auckland or Wellington and remaining for two or three months. I could pay for the stay by gathering material and doing a novel with a New Zealand background while I was on the spot and could check my background facts. Ticky could keep house and resume her scientific study of sub-tropical plants, interrupted when we had moved from California to the high Rockies. The plan seemed particularly attractive to her since it seemed possible that we would have to wait about that long to be sure of steamship passage back to the States, she being frantically opposed to flying the Pacific.

So we looked around eagerly, thinking this might be our temporary home.

The first impression was not too rosy, I had to admit. Where Brisbane reminded me of 1910, this looked more like a movie set for 1890. Still, I conceded, no city looks well when the weather is bad-the cyclone was still playing hopscotch around us-and very few cities are attractive near the wharfs.

But I was a little surprised when the taxi stopped almost at once without leaving the unattractive neighborhood. Nor did the Waverly Hotel seem very cheerful; it looked like the sort of beat-up job a drummer stays in when he finds it necessary to be very, very careful about his expense account. But a decent bed and a hot bath was all I asked; we got the bags in and I registered. There were many other passengers from the
Monowai
checking in at the same time; it was likely that this was a comfortable inn despite the unattractive exterior.

I learned, without much surprise, that private baths were not available. "That will be seventy-one shillings per day, including breakfast and dinner."

"I think we would prefer just bed and breakfast, please. We will probably be eating out most of the time."

"We don't do it that way. You are charged for dinner whether you eat it or not. Do I understand you are staying more than one night?"

"Probably." Up to the time I walked into the lobby I would have said, "Certainly," but I was beginning to have doubts. I had not yet seen our room but the lobby itself was grim.

"In that case it will be six shillings less after the first day."

"Eh?"

"Linen charge, you know."

I did not know, but I let it ride. Ticky had been sitting on our luggage, as there were few chairs in the lobby, all occupied. An elderly porter helped us up to our room and I helped him with the bags, as he hardly seemed fit for it. Our room was long and narrow, with two narrow iron bedsteads placed end to end on the left wall, an old wooden bureau and a wash stand (real marble!) on the righthand wall. There was a single window at the far end, a clothes closet near the door- no coat hangers, however. There was a single dropcord in the middle of the room and a light over the wash basin. There were no bedside tables nor bedlamps, but there was a wicker chair and a kitchen chair. The floor was covered with wall-to-wall carpeting which seemed to have been laid when the building was built; its pattern had vanished under successive geological layers of dirt.

I paid off the porter, dismissed him, and turned back. Ticky was standing and touching, with a gloved finger, the dirty, faded bedspread over one of the cots. She looked up and said meditatively, "I don't think Mr. Duncan Hines would stay here."

"It reminds me of that trailer camp we got stuck in once. You remember? Mud and no plumbing?"

"I've been trying to forget it for years-but I wish we were back there right now. At least our trailer was clean. Honey, I don't think I can take this."

"I don't intend that you should. Come on."

"Huh?"

"This is a fairly big city; there must be a hotel room in it somewhere better than this pig sty. Do you have that little guide they gave us aboard ship?"

She dug it out of her purse and we consulted it. Hotels in New Zealand are graded by the government from "five stars," the highest, on down. To my shocked surprise the Waverly had a rating of four stars, just under the best, but there were two five-star hotels, the Grand and the Trans-Tasman. I telephoned the Grand at once and asked for a double room and bath, and was told that they had no rooms of any sort. How about tomorrow, then? Anyone checking out? Sorry, everything booked.

I had some trouble getting through to the Trans-Tasman Hotel but the guide showed it to be nearby. "Let's go there. Sometimes you can accomplish things on the spot which you can't by phone. You know-reservations not picked up, or a probable check-out that we might wait for."

We could not find a taxi, so we walked; it was not far. As we approached the number I said, "I don't see anything around here that looks like a hotel. Let me see that street guide again."

We were on the right street and the numbers indicated that the hotel should be almost on top of us. And so it was-there was a sign, THE TRANS-TASMAN BAR. It was a jerry-built frame structure which I would never have suspected of being a hotel, much less a "five star" hotel, but beyond the doors to the saloon was an inconspicuous second entrance which possibly might lead into a lobby.

We walked slowly past it, glancing inside, then walked back. Both of us were reluctant to go inside. "What do you think?" I asked doubtfully.

"It looks even worse than the Waverly. A joint like that would not have private baths. It is a terrible firetrap, too. Look at it-it ought to be condemned."

"Well . . . we're here; I suppose I should inquire."

Ticky put a hand on my arm. "Don't. I don't want to move into there. Bad as the Waverly is, this looks worse to me."

"Well, what should we do?"

"What can we do, you mean. Let's put up with the Waverly, just for this one night. And right now let's go to Thomas Cook and see if they can route us out of here tomorrow."

We had planned on a sightseeing swing around North and South Islands, but with a few days in Auckland first to get our bearings and check on steamship possibilities and launder clothes. I reminded Ticky of that.

"Never mind those things," she said earnestly. "I just want to get out of that home for unfortunate fleas. Maybe Wellington will be better."

So we walked to Thomas Cook & Son. On the way I recalled something. "You remember that chap we had a letter to? Sir Ernest Something-or-other?"

"Yes. What about him?"

"Wasn't he supposed to own a string of hotels?"

"I believe so. Or was it breweries?"

"Both, I think." I studied the matter, frowning. Up to this time we had never used a personal connection to get us favors which would not otherwise have been coming to us. We had had many a fine favor done for us, but we had asked for nothing, certainly not on the basis of being a friend of a friend. We intended to look Sir Ernest up, surely . . . but we had not intended to put the bite on him for special favors.

But this was an emergency; I had to get Ticky out of that squalid, dirty room. "When we get back to the Waverly I want to look up his address and give him a ring. If he is a hotel owner, he is sure to have at least one decent room in reserve to take care of legacies like us. I'm going to cry on his shoulder and get that room."

"Mmm . . . maybe. You know how we feel when people look us up at home during the tourist season. Let's try Thomas Cook's first."

The office of the Thomas Cook agency was on Queen Street, the main street of Auckland, just down the way from the Waverly. There we unloaded our troubles on Mr. D. M. Gunning, who was competent, cheerful, and as helpful as circumstances permitted. "It will be difficult, probably impossible, to set up a tour for you starting tomorrow morning. Have you tried any other hotels? We do have a couple of good ones."

I told him that the Grand had turned us down and recounted our impression of the Trans-Tasman. "I can see why you would think so," he answered. "But it actually is quite a bit better hotel than the Waverly. While it does not look like much outside, they have spent a lot of money fixing it up inside. Let me try them for you."

"Okay, if you say so."

But the Trans-Tasman was filled up, too. We dropped the matter, since it could not be helped, and worked out with Mr. Gunning a tour which was to start with a flight to the far end of South Island, then bring us back by easy stages to Auckland via bus, train, and ferry across the channel, and would cause us to see every city and every major tourist attraction throughout New Zealand. It looked like a most attractive trip and we cheered up at the prospect of getting out of the Waverly and on the road.

"I'm going to work very hard on this," he assured us, "to get you started tomorrow, if possible. But I can't promise anything; there are too many hotel reservations and too many travel bookings involved in it to be sure. I'll set up the flight to Dunedin and your lodging there first, then we will see."

Ticky told him earnestly that if he could move us to Dunedin the next day, we would take a chance on the rest of it. He nodded. "Give me a ring at six o'clock, will you? I'm going to stay late and work on it."

We thanked him and left with a list of steamship agencies; the first two had nothing for us, but by the time we were through with them the others were closed. We spent an hour simply walking up and down Queen Street, then reluctantly returned to the Waverly.

I remembered to look up the address of the man who was supposed to own hotels. Or was it breweries? It turned out to be both: the Hancock Hotels and the Hancock Breweries. I was just looking up his telephone number when the phone rang.

It was Mr. Gunning of Thomas Cook & Son. "I'm terribly sorry but I can't get you away tomorrow. This cyclone is kicking things up south of here and all flights are canceled."

"Oh. Well, how about Sunday?"

"The airline does not operate on Sunday. I'll try to get you away early Monday."

"Well . . . thanks for trying."

We were downstairs and waiting outside the dining room before I recalled that I had intended to phone the boss of the Hancock Hotels. Oh, well, it was too late to do anything about it today and it would probably be best to call at his office anyway.

We quickly found out why guests were required to take, or at least to pay for, their dinners; no one having freedom of choice would have eaten there. We were soon to learn, too, that the compulsory boarding system used by all New Zealand hotels also resulted in independent restaurants being extremely scarce; a guest who was disgusted with hotel fodder found it extremely difficult to eat anywhere else even though willing to pay twice.

We started to walk into the dining room but were stopped by the manager-hostess-if "hostess" is the word. "You will have to wait a few minutes," she said bleakly. Since I could see empty tables I could not understand why, but wait we did. There were no chairs. Presently, although no one had come out, she signaled for us to come in and we were seated at a table for four. We had arrived at the beginning of the meal hour; the table had not been used by others.

The other two seats were not occupied. Another couple had arrived at the door right behind us, but had not been permitted to enter when we did. But after we had been at the table about ten minutes, they were let in and were seated at the same table with us.

I began to see the system by which the hostess worked and later observation confirmed it in detail. The dining room was open exactly one hour for each meal; this means that you must finish your meal before the sixty minutes has passed; it does
not
mean that you will be fed if you arrive at the door before the doors are closed. At the end of sixty minutes they stop serving and clear off the tables-and woe betide any guest who is still trying to finish his dinner. There were as many places at the tables in that dining room as there were sleeping accommodations in the hotel, but the "hostess" would not permit them to enter and sit down as they arrived. Instead she waited until she had a waitress free, which was why we and the other couple had had to stand in the corridor until she saw fit to let us come in and sit down.

We now experienced for the first time the delights of New Zealand cookery. The country is bulging with good food and it exports great quantities of the best. It should have been, like Argentina, a gourmet's paradise.

Australian cooking is not very good; hotel food in New Zealand is just barely short of inedible. Entrees are such things as boiled mutton, boiled bacon, and, if you are lucky, boiled beef. Clear soups are merely rain water; cream soups are sour paperhanger's paste. They have some means of vulcanizing potatoes. If by chance there is steak on the menu, you will find that they have cut it along the grain, cooked it grey, and the cut is one we would grind into hamburger. The difference between "lamb" and "mutton" appears to be that lamb is slaughtered whereas mutton apparently dies of old age. But they do not cook mutton with the wool left on. This is a canard, they sell the wool separately. But I have had many a piece of bacon served to me with the rind still on it and pig bristles, black and stiff, still sticking out of the rind. Under these circumstances it hardly matters that the bacon is only half cooked, cold, greasy, and undrained; you would not wish to eat it anyway.

Instead of a hot dinner roll there is a little square of stale, dry bread resting on the tines of your forks. No butter, of course. Toast is served cold in a toast rack and is much like building tile. For a sweet, or dessert, you will be offered stewed fruit, acidly sour, to which no sugar has been added.

This first night, following my custom of trying things which I did not recognize, I passed up the fruit and ordered "steamed sponge." So far as I could tell the thing they brought me was just that: steamed cellulose sponge. I tried a bite of it; it had no flavor and a coarse, resistant texture. I was toying with it with my spoon, wondering what to do with it, when the waitress leaned over my shoulder. "It helps a bit to soak it in milk," she advised.

But the milk was gone and she returned shortly from the kitchen to report that there was no more. I tipped her for her good will.

I might as well get this unsavory subject over with and not return to it. The food at the Waverly was typical of the food all through the country, consistently and amazingly bad-sloppily cooked, usually dirty, and often cold. Fly screens seemed to be unheard of and no attempt was made to check flies; cold buffet dishes such as salads and cold cuts were allowed to sit out on the sideboard for as much as an hour before meals, getting warm and stale, while flies wandered over them unmolested. Service varied from indifferent to rude. Once at the Waverly I asked the waitress to hand me a menu from a table at her elbow which was unoccupied, inasmuch as the menu at our table was in use (one menu in that case for ten people), but she refused to give it to me. I asked why not?-and she became quite angry about it.