World Travel Guide Online

Fire Fire

“Yeeeeee! Woop woop!”

Whitelys

The French kid tore through the hotel reception screaming at the top of his lungs. Seconds later, three mates followed in his wake performing a painfully remarkable imitation. I fought back a scream of frustration and resisted the urge to cry. The Kensington Hotel was in chaos at the moment. One of the frequent school groups was visiting and there were 68 French kids staying in the hotel as a result, along with four teachers who apparently believed that hotel receptionists were babysitters. Now it was just me in the receptionist role, as Hedia had left Kensington Hotel two days ago. She claimed it was to take up full time language tutoring, but knowing her dislike of children, it seemed dreadfully coincidental she had left one day before 68 children came to stay.

When Hedia moved out, I was able to move into her room in the hotel. I had still been living in the Porchester across the street. The room you couldn’t even swing a cat in had been good to me however. In the past two months, James, Mike, Glen and I had continued to build a friendship based on geographical proximity and a celebratory attitude to life. I continued my ‘casual love affair’ with London town. I went sightseeing occasionally but I had seen most of the tourist sites by now. So I concentrated on living in London. I went on very long walks through different areas of the city, sat for hours at a time reading in Hyde Park, and went to the local pubs with my friends. I also spent a great deal of time sitting in my room with Mike, watching Perry Mason reruns. It sounds boring, it sounds lazy, but at that particular time it was all I wanted to do. I had complete and utter freedom.

However, while I watched daytime television by choice, Mike did it by necessity. Mike had come to London on his big OE with little to no money. Recently, in a moment of madness, he had spent his fortnightly pay packet on an air ticket to Stockholm. He was off to visit a Swedish girl he had met during his first week in London (and admittedly, live off her for a while). So with no money until next payday, he began a baguette and hot potato eating diet, purchased diligently each morning from Harts Grocer on the corner of Queensway. Mike courted disaster yet again when he knocked his toothbrush into the toilet…yet again. I returned to the room one afternoon to find him leaning over the sink, on the verge of tears as he scrutinised the toothbrush, telling me that he couldn’t afford a new one. I couldn’t take it any longer so I marched back out, down to Harts and bought him a new toothbrush for one pound.

But the time had come for me to move out of the Porchester and into the Kensington Hotel; and finally make it a live-in job in the true sense of the word. The move was made with little fanfare. This time, there were no massive parties or all-weekend bashes to celebrate the occasion with my room mates. By coincidence, James moved out the day before me to travel in Western Europe and Mike flew to Stockholm two days later.

In a severe lack of foresight I never got a photo, nor email addresses of Mike and James. People come and go in the backpacker world, promises of eternal friendship are all too often easily forgotten when you get home. Sometimes I have found it easier to say the goodbyes, thank your lucky stars for meeting such a great person and move on. And write about them in your journal in an attempt to immortalise them. I never saw Mike or James again. I later heard that Mike returned quickly from Sweden after an unsuccessful attempt to rekindle the first week holiday romance. His money problems continued and he later got fired from his bar job for stealing money from the till. He returned home to Australia soon after that.

My new room in the Kensington was smallish, housing a bunk bed, wardrobe, sink, bar fridge and one of the famous Dr Who shower cubicles. I had a kitchen immediately downstairs and a toilet outside my door. I even had a black and white television (I was amused to hear that you were required to purchase licenses for colour televisions in England, hence the cheaper alternative of supplying me with a black and white one). But I felt like a king. I could finally unpack all my gear completely, hang up my clothes and enjoy my very own space after spending too long in close proximity to three other people.

With Hedia gone, Louise gave me the task of recruiting the next receptionist, as I would be the one training and working closely with them. She explained that a female employee would live in the staff flat over at the Porchester (which housed the three female Canadian receptionists at Porchester), but a male employee would share my room. I was enjoying my new room too much to share it so I already had a clear employee profile in mind. We posted an ad on the reception wall and waited for enquiries. But in the meantime the hotel was nearly full, so Cornelia, Louise and I had to work extra hours to cover the vacant position.

It didn’t help that a high proportion of the guests were intent on smashing the peace and tranquillity of the hotel. The four French kids screeched their way back into reception and began to repeatedly press the buttons on the Coke machine. As I watched them and glared at the oblivious teachers sitting nearby, working out how I could get the kids to disappear without using violent means (I had no ideas as of yet), two female backpackers shuffled through the front door. I was happy to be helping some more ‘normal’ (in my opinion) guests, so I had a bit of a chat with them. Kate and Amber explained that they had just returned from travelling through Europe and were bone weary after eight weeks of solid travel. I felt an affinity with them so I decided to use my limited reception privileges, giving them a twin room but charging only student dorm rates.

Later that day Kate came down to thank me for the room and in doing so enquired about the advertised reception job. She was an attractive, friendly person with an infectious laugh and relaxed persona. As an added bonus, she could speak fluent French, helpful for yelling at disobedient French kids I mused. I was sure she’d do fine in the job, so I told her that if she wanted it, it was hers. She did and started work the next day. Reception position filled. The staff flat was getting renovated, so Kate temporarily moved into a spare room next door to me. Kate came from Australia and had been in England for almost a year; working in Cambridge and travelling through Europe. We had a lot in common and seemed to find the same weird things funny, so we quickly became friends.

The next couple of days were spent training Kate and she quickly picked up the job. The work pressures eased, but the hotel remained a very busy place. One night, I had a particularly bad evening shift. Several guests had made some petty, pathetic complaints. It seemed that guests saw me as a complaints officer, not a backpacker experiencing an enjoyable working holiday, so they raised any problems they could find, from the steepness of the stairs to the size of the breakfast bread rolls. The French kids had spent an evening running through the corridors and pressing their in-room intercom button constantly until eventually in a fit of rage; I unplugged the entire intercom system. Thank God they were leaving tomorrow. Finally, Osei (the night porter) came in at 11:00pm for his night shift. I was starting the next day at 7am so after a quick hello, I returned to my room, had a quick bite to eat and went to bed.

Kensington Gardens

I was fast asleep in my room, secure in the knowledge that the hotel could cope for another eight hours without my waking presence when a keen ringing invaded my dreams. It was the fire alarm. And it was loud. I tried to incorporate it into my dreams but it was a lost cause. It was as loud as alarms are supposed to be, which is to say very, very loud. I looked at my watch and groaned – 3:30am. A moment later, there was a pounding on my door. I leapt out of bed and opened my door to find a very worried looking Kate exclaiming, “What do we do?”

As we hurried out to reception, I told her that it was OK, Cornelia and Louise also lived in the hotel and Osei was a very experienced receptionist. They would handle the situation. Just before we reached the door to reception I placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and gave her a wise, confident, almost big brotherly smile. “Don’t worry Kate, none of the guests probably bothered to even get out of bed. This will all be over in 30 seconds.” How wrong I was.

We opened the doors on to a scene of tension, confusion and uncertainty. A herd of spooked cattle were milling around in circles. Well, actually it was over 100 guests sidling around in the small reception area. Some were quietly whispering to each other, some simply stood there silently, looking scared, and a little girl was crying. Some wore warm coats in good preparation for an evacuation – it was a very cold night, some were wearing gaudy pyjamas and two girls were wrapped in thin bed sheets. One of the many alarm bells was on the wall behind the reception desk, so in here the sound was even louder and completely debilitated your thoughts. I surveyed the crowd and quickly noted that one girl was actually only wearing a towel (and then immediately felt guilty for noticing such a thing). The mob looked like they were about to collectively panic. I thought to myself, thank God the night receptionist Osei is so experienced and that both the managers live here. However when I strode through the crowd, and cleared a path to the reception desk, I quickly realised that Cornelia and Louise were not here. How could they both be out at 3:30 in the morning?

I walked behind the reception desk with Kate behind me. The 100 guests stared at us. I felt performance pressure as I stared back and attempted to put on a soothing, panic-less face for them. But an inane grin appeared instead. Osei was hunched over at the desk trying to use the phone. I continued to smile sweetly and reassuringly at the guests as I whispered sidelong to him. “Try to get in touch with the Porchester manager, and where the hell are Cornelia and Louise?” Then, putting on an air of cool authority and confidence, I strode to the alarm switch box on the wall to turn the excruciating alarm off.

The fire alarm system in the Kensington was quite a simple one. The switch box had a big white arrow painted on it, pointing to a big lever that turned the alarm off. A simple concept, I was told on my first day – to stop incessant, mind-blowing noise, pull the lever. So I pulled it, imagining that I was going to be a hero, and all with such little effort.

But nothing happened. Oh shit. The alarm rang on, completely oblivious.

“I am not Osei.”

Shit, shit, shit, it wouldn’t turn off; I began feverishly pulling the lever up and down.

“Excuse me, but I am not Osei.”

As frustration welled up inside me I resorted to pounding my fists against the switch box over and over again. The guests continued to stare at me, uncertain whether to remain motionless or commence their mass panic.

I felt a hand on my shoulder “Excuse me sir, I am not Osei.”

I finally heard the voice that I had been oblivious to and its curious message registered with me. I slowly turned and faced Osei. He looked back at me. The crowd remained silent and stared back and forth between us. I peered closely at the man before me, wondering why he was saying he wasn’t Osei. My brain finally kicked into gear and informed me that while the person before me looked very similar to Osei, it wasn’t in fact Osei.

Broad Walk, Kensington Gardens

I didn’t know what else to say, I was a little stressed as it was, so with an exasperated yelp I screamed, “What do you mean you’re not Osei? Who the fuck are you?”

“I am his brother, Boateng.”

One hundred pairs of eyes turned to watch my reaction to this new and interesting information. My brain informed me that this gave a plausible explanation for the remarkable resemblance to Osei, but my panic was still leading the charge. “Well, where the fuck is Osei then?” My brain informed me that my voice had just come out sounding shrill, panicky and schoolgirl-like.

Boateng looked happy that he could finally be of so much assistance, and became eager in his reply. “I started work here tonight, this is my first shift and Osei has been training me. The night was slow so he went home to sleep.” A confused look came over Boateng’s face, “I don’t think Osei knew there would be a fire drill tonight.”

As the crowd gasped at this new information, I did a mental stocktake and realised that with Osei asleep on the other side of London, and Cornelia and Louise probably getting drunk somewhere, I was now the most senior staff member in the hotel. There were three staff members – a guy on his very first shift and looking like he wanted to never do a second, a girl who had completed three shifts and me, the two month wonder. Mind you, this all happened with the possibility of a fire raging above us and an extremely loud alarm that continued to make its presence known in an intrusive fashion.

As my stupid brain fleetingly romanticised that I could perhaps consider myself Mr Chief Fire Warden from now on, and that it would be good if I was wearing one of those red hardhats, an American guest, realising the focus of attention seemed to be all on me, came up and said, “Look, should we be all leaving the building or something, is there an actual fire or not, buddy?” My brain snapped out of it’s romance. A worthy question – was there a fire?

Meanwhile, the resourceful and now much calmer Kate had managed to phone through to the manager at Porchester, who was on her way with a key to turn off the alarm. I remembered what Louise had once told me about the procedure that we should follow when the fire alarm went off. Because the hotel’s fire alarm system was old and temperamental, it commonly went off. The procedure went as follows – after turning the alarm off at the switch above the big white arrow (yeah right!), you were meant to physically check the hotel premises for flames or smoke. If there was, you went back downstairs, hit the alarm switch again for it to resume its ringing, called the fire brigade and basically told people to get the hell out of there.

I realised as the senior most staff member (or Chief Fire Warden) of the hotel, this responsibility now fell to me. Any baby saving tonight would have to fall on me. I stood on a stool, and announced to everyone to calmly remain in reception while I checked for fire. I was unsuccessful in preventing the whimper from escaping my lips. As I headed up the stairs, Kate called out for me to be careful. My brain lost its superior smugness and tentatively informed me that there seriously was the possibility of discovering a fire, and my stomach gave a lurch in response.

The Kensington Hotel is an old fashioned building with fire doors at the end of each corridor. As I carefully checked each floor, I couldn’t help but let a few thoughts enter my mind. I have seen the movie Backdraft and as I opened each door, I expected the whoosh of flames flying out as I was blown to kingdom come. I angrily muttered to myself that yes, I was only on minimum wage and yes, at 3:30am I wouldn’t be getting paid any overtime. Even if I did, I would have received about 99p to risk my life for the hotel.

All in all the damsels in distress and baby saving scenarios were not to surface that night, except in my dreams. I checked each floor quickly, but nothing but silence and cold, smokeless corridors met me. It was a false alarm. I thought I heard some whispering on the top floor behind the walls. I walked down the corridor and carefully listened. At first there was silence but then I clearly heard a giggle, then a voice whisper a single sentence. It sounded French and went something like “shhhh… ilva tontondray”. I had to get down to reception to give the all clear, so I let it drop from my mind.

I returned to the reception area as the Porchester manager arrived. I gave her the thumbs up and she turned her key in the switch box, rendering the alarm dead. Then, standing on the stool, she briskly apologised to everyone for the inconvenience of the night and told them to go back to bed. I watched the guests as they filed out of the reception area and up the stairs. Some people looked annoyed by the whole thing and a lot looked like they were sleepwalking, but I was pleased to note that the majority looked a little excited by the night’s adventures. I liked to think that my exasperation at meeting Boateng for the first time added to the spice of the night.

After meeting Boateng properly (he looked like he needed a holiday) and thanking the Porchester manager, Kate and I returned to my room for a well deserved hot chocolate. The stress and shock quickly gave way to excited chatter over our little adventure. We soon convinced ourselves that we had saved the hotel from ruin, not to mention the whole street and possibly the whole neighbourhood. Remember, the fire of London in 1461 started quite small!

It hit 5am and it was time to get back to sleep. But my brain was nagging me about something. As Kate walked back to her room next door, I had a sudden revelation. I called out to her.

Peter Pan statue, Hyde Park

“Hey Kate, you can speak fluent French, can’t you?”

She turned back. “Well I’m not fluent, but I can speak it fairly well.”
“Do the words ‘ilva totondray’ mean anything to you?”

She looked confused for a moment as she mouthed out the words. “Do you mean il-va-ten-ten-dre?” she asked, sounding the syllables out individually.

“Yes I do.”
“Yep, it means something like ‘he will hear you’.” She bade goodnight and returned to her room.

A few moments later, the penny dropped. The French kids. The bloody French kids. Not one of the 68 French kids had been in reception during the fire alarm. Those little buggers had either accidentally or deliberately set off the alarm on the top floor, ran back to their rooms and pretended to sleep. And when I walked down their corridor, listening carefully, one of them had whispered to his giggling mates, “shush, he will hear you.”

Thank God they were leaving the next day, my brain informed me as I fell into my two remaining hours of sleep.