Turn-Down Service
When Miss Fenella Devenish checks into a country inn with swan-towel expectations and impeccable standards, she’s not prepared to encounter a chambermaid whose idea of turndown service resembles a laundry accident. But after a frank discussion involving chocolates, apron strings, and a well-handled shoehorn, standards are restored in style. Turn-Down Service is a tale of poise, presentation, and the curiously instructive charm of a properly folded towel.
There was a quiet perfection about The Brindlecombe Arms. The hydrangeas beside the entrance bloomed in a manner that exuded class. Dappled afternoon light filtered through antique lace curtains. And somewhere, from speakers carefully hidden among the cornices, the strains of harp music completed the regal ambience.
Miss Fenella Devenish arrived shortly after three, precisely on time. She was the sort of woman who travelled with her own pillow mist and noticed when a doily had been rotated ninety degrees off-centre. Her reservation was for a junior suite—the “Elysium Suite.” The poetic reference to Greek mythology had appealed to her, although she privately suspected the motif of heavenly tranquillity would not extend beyond the door plaque. Still, it would do.
After check-in, her luggage was taken upstairs by a perfunctory porter, who actually appeared to be chewing gum. Trying to suppress her misgivings, she took what she hoped would be a restorative walk around the ornamental gardens. The paths were unswept, but she grudgingly awarded a 7 out of 10 for the miniature hedges and border planting.
She returned just before dinner to discover what was, ostensibly, the evening turndown service. After her experiences so far, she was prepared for minor imperfections, but it was a catastrophe.
The bedspread had been peeled back with all the delicacy of a bulldog unwrapping a picnic hamper. The turn-down chocolates—individually wrapped, mercifully—were placed on opposite sides of the bed. One of the pillowcases was slightly rumpled. Worst of all, the towels, which were presumably intended to depict swans, now resembled weary ducks.
Before she could lift the phone to reception, there was a knock at the door—and in came the source of the offence.
Turn-Down for What?
Caitlin, a young chambermaid with the insouciance of someone paid by the hour, froze mid-step.
“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t think anyone was in.”
Miss Devenish did not speak. She simply surveyed the room with the slow, deliberate turn of the head one usually reserves for viewing crime scenes or failed soufflés.
“I hadn’t quite got finished with your turndown, but whatever, I can be done in a couple of minutes,” Caitlin said, reaching for the corner of the bed with what might have been enthusiasm.
“Not finished?” Miss Devenish said sharply. “I would say you’ve already done enough damage, young lady! You clearly have no concept of a proper turndown service.”
Caitlin gave a short laugh, misreading the situation entirely. “It’s been a long shift. Most guests are halfway through their G&Ts by now—I figured you’d be down in the restaurant.”
“And that’s precisely where I would prefer to be. But I was just checking that your work met a passable standard of presentation. Alas, I fear it does not.”
Caitlin raised an eyebrow. “You know, for someone here to relax, you seem pretty wound up. Take a chill pill! I think I know how to turn down a bed, so I don't know what exactly you were expecting.”
It proved to be a dangerous misstep.
Miss Devenish tilted her head slowly to the side, as though weighing an object of uncertain provenance.
“Miss Caitlin,” she said, with an imperious stare to read her name badge. “I believe it may be time for a... practical reminder. I’ll explain my expectations precisely.”
Corrective Measures
From a hook beside the wardrobe, Miss Devenish collected a long-handled wooden shoehorn—elegant, curved, and polished to a low gleam.
She seated herself in the room’s slipper chair, smoothed the drape of her tweed skirt, and regarded Caitlin steadily.
“I understand you are new to service,” she said. “And perhaps unaware that standards must begin with presentation.”
She gestured with the shoehorn. “Your socks are not aligned. Your apron is fastened off-centre. And can you possibly explain to me why your left shoe is untied?”
Caitlin opened her mouth. Then closed it.
“If your appearance reflects the standard of your turndown, I think it would be helpful for me to explain one or two basic expectations.”
Miss Devenish tapped her lap. “Over my knee, if you please.”
“You must be joking,” Caitlin said—though without much conviction.
“Does it look as though I joke about bed linen?”
Caitlin hesitated, then—with a roll of the eyes that barely concealed her blushes, or her curiosity—bent across Miss Devenish’s lap, her snug uniform skirt riding up just enough to expose a narrow border of immodestly patterned stocking-tops. Miss Devenish, ever the perfectionist, noted that these too were not straight.
“Be grateful that I’m taking the time to explain these things in a direct fashion, instead of discussing them with your supervisor,” Miss Devenish told her, adjusting her position with quiet precision and raising the shoehorn above her shoulder.
“This,” she said, “is for the crooked socks.”
Thock.
“This—for the improper apron.”
Whap.
“And this—”
Slap. Smack. Thwack.
“—is for the chocolate placement.”
“Ow!” Caitlin gasped, not entirely convincingly, precipitating a flurry of slightly firmer swats.
“Next time, I expect pristine bed linen.”
Thwack.
“Yes ma’am.”
“And towels properly presented.”
Thock.
The slender shoehorn was beginning to take its toll and Caitlin was sorely hoping the lecture was almost over.
“Yes ma’am.”
“And these,” said Miss Devenish, “are for the general air of insolence.”
She delivered a crescendo with ceremonial flair.
Caitlin twisted, glancing over her shoulder. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t in the employee handbook.”
Miss Devenish’s brow arched. “And I’m quite certain guests are not meant to be supervising standards. Yet here we are.”
“Well, I was supposed to be turning down the bed,” Caitlin muttered. “Not getting turned down myself.”
“Shh,” said Miss Devenish, landing a memorable final swat. The echo of it hung in the room like punctuation. “This is a premium establishment.”
Pressed Into Service
When Caitlin stood, she adjusted her apron and began remaking the bed with a noticeable uptick in diligence. Corners were squared, pillows fluffed, and the chocolates relocated with surgical precision.
Miss Devenish observed in silence, arms folded.
Eventually Caitlin glanced back. “So... how’d I do?”
Miss Devenish considered. “Much improved. Crisp lines. Acceptable chocolate symmetry. Bedspread alignment could still use refinement.”
Caitlin smirked. “Would you maybe... check my work tomorrow? Like a formal inspection?”
“You’re requesting critique?”
“I want to get it right. The Fenella Devenish seal of approval and all that.”
Miss Devenish allowed herself a faint smile. “Very well. But I inspect thoroughly.”
“I’ll try my very best, ma’am.”
She’d expected a lecture, maybe a complaint—not a lesson in precision, discipline, and the curious thrill of being corrected. Her stride was lighter, though whether from moral uplift or from the gentle heat that followed her downstairs, she couldn’t quite say.
With Compliments Returned
Returning from breakfast the next morning, Miss Fenella Devenish found the Elysium Suite a thing of calm, perfect beauty—far more in keeping with its mythological namesake. The towel folds were symmetrical. The bed was pristine. A single card rested on the pillow:
“With compliments—and compliments returned.”
A knock. Caitlin entered with breakfast tea, hair neat, apron straight, socks aligned to military precision.
“You’ll see I’ve returned the shoehorn to its hook, ma’am. Fully cleaned and polished.”
With a nod, Miss Devenish accepted the tea, took a sip, and gestured toward the towel folds.
“Let’s begin. Your towel folding has improved, but the duvet cover and pillowcases could still be neatened. See to it at once, please.”
Caitlin rolled up her sleeves.
“Yes ma’am. I can lay down the fresh bed linen—and you can lay down the law.”