THE FLOOR with waitress service was always crowded between four and seven o’clock and Esther often had to stand in a queue on the staircase that led up from the ground floor. There was never long to wait. Under the signpost that ordered ‘This Side Up’ the queue obediently ascended on the right side of the rail that divided the staircase like a crush barrier, alert to advance briskly or even enter, if the commissionaire on the landing above them so willed it. People came out through the swing-doors from the tea-room, replete, buttoning their coats, letting loose with their egress a wafer of Puccini and the smell of teapots. Esther shifted two steps upwards, leaning comfortably against the burnished rail. She was in no hurry. Thursdays were her evenings out.
Once within, passed with the speed of a conveyor belt from commissionaire to head waiter, head waiter to the destined, vacant place, warm still from its last occupant, she took off her gloves, undid her coat.Madame Butterfly’s selections had just come to an end and the soft clamour of crockery and voices filled the huge, hideous hall. Women’s voices mostly, for women predominated, middle-aged women with parcels and the sated look of hunters. Here and there a child sat aghast before a towering orange torch of squash, bemused by the luxurious carpet, th
