Hotel du Barry

‘In victory, you deserve Champagne. In defeat, you need it.'

Napoleon Bonaparte

Some abandoned babies are dumped on charity hospital doorsteps. Others are found in dreary department stores or on grubby railway station platforms. But the infant known as the ‘Hotel du Barry Baby' was found pegged to a clothesline. Not just any clothesline either, for this one was situated in the laundry courtyard of the magnificent pile known as the Hotel du Barry. A hotel so awe-inspiring and adept in the art of pampering that it featured regularly in the secret reveries of London's poorest citizens.

Pegged firmly and securely, the baby was swaying in the morning breeze. The flapping wet sheets shielded her from the early morning glare and probably gave her a sense of containment and security. Indeed, her cheerful demeanour suggested she was enjoying herself.

Enquiring minds are probably asking: exactly how does one humanely hang a baby on a clothesline? Easy. Pay attention, Madam, lest you be desirous of abandoning your own bawling brat one fine day. You must first acquire an enormous pair of lady's pantaloons. They should be the sort of knickers that women of a certain age and a certain size might furtively purchase in one of the better emporiums. Preferably in quality cotton with just a hint of creamy lace; large, commodious and soft to the touch. The sort
of undergarment favoured by your grandmother or your elderly maiden aunt. It should be noted that sexual disappointment is often the precursor to shapeless beige foundation garments.

Getting back to technique. You simply slip the naked baby into the voluminous undergarment and tie the excess fabric into two knots, one at each side. The infant's legs must dangle free while the accommodating gusset keeps the baby upright. An excess of large nappy pins makes the parcel secure. Ideally the waistband should fit snugly under the baby's armpits yet still permit a degree of freedom. For the swaddling of babies is right up there with feminine foot binding. Cruel and unnecessary. The undergarment is then tied firmly, by the knotted fabric, to the clothesline and wooden clothes pegs attached to keep the cradle safe and anchored.

Enough. For who the hell wants to read about orphans, when instead we could be indulging in story time
?
Besides, Charles Dickens cornered the market on plucky orphans when Oliver Twist politely stated, ‘Please, sir, I want some more.'

Don't we all, my dears.

The chambermaid who'd first noticed the abandoned babe had been hiding among the washing in the Hotel du Barry courtyard and languidly smoking a cigarette. Mary Maguire had retreated to the clotheslines for some privacy in which to service the head bellhop, a disturbingly handsome lad with black curls and lazy eyes. The cigarette came into its own after she'd satisfied Sean Kelly's sexual appetites by ‘Licking him all over. Like a cat.'

At seventeen Sean was only about a year older than Mary but she could tell that he'd been around. Already he seemed as wise in the ways of the world as Mary was. Having been deprived of her childhood, she was significantly more mature than other sixteen-year-old girls.

As Mary confided to the pantry maid that night, ‘Sean's a slippery little bastard but he never lies to me. He's real popular with them rich bitches in the premier suites but he likes me to take care of his private needs. So to speak. His sexy shenanigans with them girls earn him a lot of loot but let's face it, he makes every penny of it on his ruddy knees. And he ain't mean when it comes to paying me for sexual favours. Truth is, I'd fuck him for free anyways.'

Ah yes. The tireless wheels of commerce grinding ever onwards in the early part of the twentieth century.

In an establishment the size of the Hotel du Barry it would have been easy to find a vacant bed but as Sean once informed Mary, ‘All week I labour on quality linen sheets, so for a change I like to get my rocks off with you in the broom closet, up against the alley wall, under the stairs or out in the laundry yard. It gets rid of the expensive pong of those debutantes. It doesn't mean I don't respect you, Mary. After days and nights of muff diving, it's the only way I can get the smell of Mitsouko perfume out from under my nostrils. I can taste it.'

Mary had no reason to doubt him. The whole hotel reeked of the stuff. Sometimes there was a veritable fug of stale Mitsouko clogging up the hydraulic lifts and permeating the corridors. Personal hygiene was not a priority for many of the hotel's filthy new rich, so they compensated with lashings of costly perfumes. It had been the same in Elizabethan England and Louis XIV's court of Versailles.

Back to the clothesline. The next person on the scene was Mrs Bertha Brown, the head housekeeper. She ran the hotel laundry like a crack regiment and was there to check the laundry maids were carrying out their designated duties. Mrs Brown's years of toil during the Great War had not been wasted. She pointedly ignored
the sight of Sean hastily covering his member and paid no attention to Mary's state of undress. For Mrs Brown only had eyes for the baby. She crooned, ‘Oh, my lord. What do we have here, eh? Mary, make yourself decent. Sean, put that thing away. I'm surprised it's not worn out. Go fetch our Mr Blade. Quickly now!'

But Mr Jim Blade had already arrived. He had the ability to manifest soundlessly and his burly form cast a big shadow. The sight of an abandoned baby suspended in a pair of lady's bloomers caused his eyes to glisten with anticipation. Being a true professional, he ignored the tantalising sight of Mary's erect pink nipples. Jim whipped out his hotel detective's notebook, licked a pencil and wrote:

Outcast baby. Alive and well. Two or three months old. 7.02 am, fourteenth of June 1919. Pegged to the Hotel du Barry clothesline. Situated in the Hotel du Barry courtyard. Infant is–

‘Stop that, Jim.' Mrs Brown was brisk. ‘Just help me unpeg this little angel. Meantime Sean can make himself useful and fetch Doc Ahearn. For God's sake, everybody, get a move on. And let's make damn sure none of the managers hear about this.'

Later Mrs Brown loved to tell everyone that the moment she touched the baby it stopped crying and smiled at her with complete trust. ‘It was love at first sight. The darling little mite. How anyone could abandon such a dear little thing is beyond me. And those eyes! I've never seen any child, before or since, in possession of such beauty. There was no way I was ever going to let those officious bastards drag her off to the orphanage.'

Nobody doubted Bertha Brown's story for a moment. Even if the baby had been a devil child, Bertha would have found her adorable. One unpopular psychiatric theory states that the reason babies smile at complete strangers is because they are born with innate survival instincts. Babies smile at us because they are conniving. They want to optimise their chances of not being eaten alive by predators. While we think they're smiling and chortling with
delight, they're actually grimacing desperately in the hope we'll be distracted by their charm. For babies know instinctively that if they endear themselves, we might spare them.

The baby was not only spared but mollycoddled and indulged. She was quickly whisked into the cosy warmth of the maids' kitchen, where Doc Ahearn carefully examined her all over and announced to the little group, ‘It's a girl. Probably only about six or eight weeks old. In peak condition, no dehydration or signs of physical abuse. She's recently been bathed. I'm hazarding a guess that she's been well mothered up until now. Naturally, I'll have to turn her over to the authorities.'

Mrs Brown stamped her foot. ‘Over my dead body. Remember that battered child we found five years ago in the laundry chute? You told us he'd been
interfered with
. He was never claimed. Disappeared into that orphanage. And we didn't hear a thing about him until they dragged his body out of the river. I've never forgiven myself.'

‘The only clue the constabulary will have to go on is the baby's gold bracelet,' Jim stated with great authority. ‘An extremely pricey bauble, by the looks of it. The baby could have been dumped down here by any of those debutantes. Perhaps a society trollop trying to protect her family's name.'

Sean looked extremely uncomfortable. He didn't use prophylactics as often as he should.

Doc Ahearn shook his head. ‘Bertha, we can't just hide the child and hope for the best. She's not a stray pup.'

‘I'm not daft, Doc. But I think we should at least keep her while Jim investigates the situation. And only if her mother fails to come forward should we take her to the police.'

Mary, who'd been unusually silent all this time, put her tuppence worth in. ‘I'm with you, Mrs Brown. Them orphanages is packed to the rafters with war babies. It's a shameful disgrace and I should know. Nobody gave a damn about us. This one might have to sell
herself on the street when she's older. Cor, she's a real sweetie. So sweet, you could just eat her up with a spoon, eh?' They all gawped at Mary. She was not known for her maternal tendencies. Already the interloper had subtly altered their world.

Doc Ahearn pretended to think it over but they all knew it was a sham. Even Sean took a turn of holding the baby. Later he admitted to Mary, ‘I was checking the kid out. Was terrified we might share a family resemblance. I was sweating. It's just never occurred to me I might be bringing unwanted kids into the world. You must think I'm a real knob.'

Sean got over it pretty quickly and it was business as usual that night. It was common knowledge that he just couldn't keep his cock out of the till. And was secretly feathering his nest with a view to making an honest woman of Mary Maguire. As if.

The Hotel du Barry Baby was born into an extraordinary era. The war had finally ground to a halt the year before and the moneyed classes were in full party mode. Human misery in the ranks of the lower classes was still the soup of the day. And there was no joy for the thousands of dead unknown soldiers or their living, shell-shocked buddies. Many of the returning heroes found themselves unemployed and undervalued.

Jobs at the Hotel du Barry were highly sought after and its employees were fiercely proud of their hotel. Having opened for business in 1907, it was an opera of opulent yet intimate pomposity: crystal chandeliers, ornate gilding, curved staircases, French classic ironwork, sweeping brocade curtains, massive marble columns and as much gilt and bronze as could possibly be crammed among the panelled mirrors, palms, statues and frescoes.

The hotel stood proudly on one of London's most prestigious streets and dominated several blocks overlooking the Thames. At
night it was floodlit and fiery; a flamboyant mishmash of Italianate and Venetian architecture, with a few quirky Renaissance and classical Greek elements added on. As a wedding cake, it was an architectural masterpiece of reckless proportions. Its nine floors soared effortlessly towards the ranks of sooty chimneys. Massive green copper gargoyles leered down from the pavilion roof at the pedestrians gazing upwards. The hotel's imperiousness made all the other buildings on the street cringe back down on their haunches. Its massive ground-floor blocks were Norwegian granite and rivalled Stonehenge for solidity of structure. The exterior was built of Portland stone and put other hotels with their peeling stucco to shame. Some may never recover.

At night the staff boarders, mostly the unwed or the very young, slept under the eaves in attic bedrooms.
Closer to God than thee
. During the day, most of the staff inhabited a vast subterranean world. The hotel was originally built on a double basement. In the upper basement were banqueting halls, vaults, private dining rooms, wine cellars and grill rooms, along with a boiler house, fan room, kitchens, lavatories, workshops, pumps and tanks. Below that was the lower ground basement, which housed the main kitchen as well as a series of dining rooms for staff groups: valets, waiters, clerical staff, porters, couriers and workmen.

Below stairs the class system was alive and well, and no workman ever had the audacity to set foot in the valets' dining room. Most of the storerooms were located on this lower level and there were separate rooms for china, silver, plate and glass. The chefs let it be known around London that they had two entire rooms for hors d'oeuvres as well as separate cold stores for meat and game. The valets' self-esteem was boosted by having access to the hotel proprietor's personal stash of imported wines and champagnes.
The contents were rumoured to be worth thousands of pounds. The proprietor's personal valet, Sebastian, kept the key to the cellar around his neck. On a black velvet ribbon.

So strict were the class divisions that it was easy for the abandoned baby to disappear into the underground labyrinth and escape public notice. She lacked for nothing in her new home. Admittedly her nappies were only big napkins, but they were woven from the finest of Irish linens and graced with the Hotel du Barry crest; two leering gargoyles chewing on a shin bone. The scrolled Latin inscription,
Mors vincit Omnia
, was supposed to mean
We live to serve.
But loosely translated it actually meant
Death always wins
. Clearly the deceased founder of the hotel, the right Honourable Maurice du Barry, had a devious sense of humour. He knew that his clientele had more money than sophistication and were incapable of deciphering the hotel's French menu, let alone an obscure Latin inscription.

The baby's bassinette was an enormous, egg-shaped, silver soup tureen in Louis XVI style. It stood defiantly on four spindly, ornate legs and had been supplied by Christofle & Cie of Paris. Like the other two hundred and ninety-nine thousand pieces of silver-plate it was engraved with the hotel crest. Mrs Brown had artfully fitted out the bassinette with a couple of stolen mink wraps and the baby seemed to find it very much to her liking. It also gave her an early taste for luxury goods and at a very tender age she acquired a natural predisposition towards the finer things in life. The child's first rattle was comprised of three engraved silver teaspoons bound with pink satin ribbon. Small wonder she later had problems balancing her cheque book.