We scrubbed in silence, four teenagers bent over pie-shaped halos that refused to blend in. Cream carved pale scars into the grease of decades, lighter patches that made the rest of the wall look darker. Every wipe made it worse. The cloths turned gray. None of us looked at each other.
The night before, bread rolls had flown. Arcs of flour-dusted bread, soft thuds against shoulders and walls. Crumbs clung to our clothes. We picked up the rolls, brushed them off, and set them back on the plates. Napkins folded into the shapes Mrs. Simpson insisted on, lined sharp as soldiers. I still fold them that way. Laughter too loud in the empty ballroom, the kind that dared someone to catch us. Flour hung in the air, sticking to sweat, catching the light.
The Shoulder of Mutton could seat six hundred. More, at a pinch — six hundred and fifty, though by then you were tripping over each other. Long tables pressed close, chairs squeezed so tight knees touched. Rooms opening into other rooms. Each louder than the next. Voices colliding until no one knew where one gathering ended and another began. Smoke clung to curtains. The few carpeted areas carried the smell of beer too deep to lift.
Friday and Saturday nights were the busiest. Weddings with confetti still stuck to shoes. Works “dos” ending in slurred speeches, fisticuffs in the car park, and usually someone crying in the toilets. Plates clattered, waiters darted like minnows, arms strained with carrying up to eight stacked dinner plates, piled high with mixed grills.
Other weeknights were quieter. Not calm. Pharmaceutical reps doling out freebies to hard-drinking doctors, pushing their latest wonder drugs under the clatter of cutlery. Doctors leaning too far back in chairs, ties loosened, glasses fogged with drink. Reps grinning, briefcases stuffed with pens and pads, voices oily with promises.
There had been a fire once. One restaurant burned to the ground. Rumors said insurance — figures seen piling car batteries against the flames. Maybe not. After the fire, the Derby Room rose. Upstairs, the Phoenix Suite. Menus thick as card. Wine lists stretching beyond Blue Nun. The Phoenix smelled different: new varnish, polished brass, a sweetness that didn’t belong. Carpets springy where the old ones lay flat.
Downstairs in the Main Ballroom, we’d occasionally have boxing rings raised where tables should be. Gloves thudding. Crowds pressed close. Bands later, bass rattling glasses on the bar. Walls trembling long after the noise stopped. Ribs shook with the bass, floorboards gave, even when you stood still.
Tupton Hall’s Sixth Form made our own claim. Do’s stitched together with under-age drinking and blaring discos. Not the school, but groups of students cobbling fictitious organizations — “The Tupton Photographic Society” was a favorite — just enough to convince The Shoulder they weren’t renting to teenagers in flared trousers and black ties from school. We’d rent corporation buses for the drunk run home. Windows fogged. Breath thick. Brut aftershave cut with beer. Songs sung loud and off-key, faces pressed to glass.
Sunday lunch was always busy, but only the anointed worked it. Afterwards, the staff sat down together for a big roast in the Derby Room. In the north, dinner was midday. Tea later. Supper after that. Plates passed hand to hand. Gravy thick. Yorkshire pudding collapsing under its own weight. Meat carved with a flourish, potatoes piled until they slid. The clatter of knives and forks gave way to a lull — the weight of roast beef settling into bellies, the room fogged with steam. Jokes duller. Plates pushed aside. Silence heavier than the meat itself.
And there were nights we dreaded.
The chicken processing factory most of all.
The dread started early. When Hoppo read the bookings, the name landed like a weight. In the cloakroom, ties pulled tighter, faces tense before we even left the kitchen. Someone muttered, “chicken lot tonight,” and no one answered.
It began with whistles. Crude jokes. Shouts of “send us one of them waiters.” Laughter rolling like a dare. Then hands. Tugging shirts. Fingers at waists. A palm. A belt yanked. Younger girls pushed forward by the older women, shrieking as they clawed, laughter high and sharp. Plates wobbled. Soup rings widening on white cloth.
We were sixteen, seventeen. Black trousers. White shirts. Black ties. Uniforms not that different from school. And they laughed at that too, tearing it down with every grab. We never thought to ask the female staff what they had to put up with.
There were about fifty of us, mainly from the same twoor three schools, with a few kids drafted in from the catering college. Then the permanent staff — a handful of veterans, fed up with babysitting us. Their eyes followed us, not kindly, when rolls flew or plates wobbled. “Useless lot,” one muttered, not bothering to lower her voice.
We’d run like ants through the maze: plates wobbling, gravy jugs spilling, dishes too hot to touch. Shoes squeaked. Sweat ran down backs. Orders shouted, colliding. Soup sloshed over bowls. A trifle dropped once, quivered on the carpet. Everyone looked away. Someone singed by a dish straight from the pass. A boy walked out mid-shift. Never came back. The rest of us kept moving.
Mrs. Simpson counted every minute. Hoppo shaved hours wherever he could. “You’re not on the clock until the doors open,” he barked, sweeping a hand as though we were loiterers instead of staff. Sixty pence an hour. Never enough.
After our shifts ended, we drank beer, chalked cues, plotted. The carpet in the bar smelled of stale beer, the lights always too dim. That was when the idea came: late-night snacks. Burgers. Scampi. Chicken in a basket. Hoppo frowned at the cost of extra kitchen staff. That was our trick — we’d do both. Cook and serve.
For a while it worked. A trickle of orders. The hiss of oil, batter clinging to our hair, grease soaking into shirts. Fingers burned on fryer handles. Smell of fried food following us home. When it slowed, we tidied. Cheese boards scraped, trifles spooned down before the dishwasher hissed and steamed. A spoon clinking against glass long after it was empty.
Then the strainer became a bat. A slice of apple pie raised in pitcher’s stance. The first thwack split the pastry, sharp as a starter pistol. Cream flew, laughter cracked — sharper, higher than it should have been. Pies arced like comets across the kitchen, walls spattered, beams dripping, trays emptied. Pedal down. No brakes.
And then the quiet. Crumbs underfoot. Brushes squeaking against tile. Pie-shaped halos refusing to blend in. The smell of apple turning sour in the grease, meat and roast clinging underneath. Each cloth worked faster, harder. None of us spoke.
The next night, Hoppo killed the experiment with a shrug.
I still fold napkins the way they taught me. I still hear the thwack of pastry against steel, sharper than laughter, heavier than silence. The stain wouldn’t lift.