PRIVATE LIVES

A night’s stay in one of London’s private clubs has Alexander McCall Smith pondering the unspoken rules that all guests should abide by

Alexander McCall Smith ponders the unspoken rules of overnight stays

Some years ago I happened to be spending a few days in London and was staying, as I usually do, in one of the clubs in which I have reciprocal privileges. It saves one the expense of staying in an overpriced hotel while at the same time giving you the feeling that you are staying in a private house.

There are useful public rooms in which you will find current magazines and newspapers and there is often congenial company. You’ll never get a conversation in a hotel – in a club you often will, although in some of them are particular rules relating to conversation that one should be aware of in advance. In the club in which I was staying on that occasion, there used to be signs on the breakfast table saying ‘Conversation not preferred’. That, I thought, was a wonderful way of putting it.

This club, which is one of the friendliest of the London clubs, has comparatively recently done up its bedrooms. At that time, though, there were still several bedrooms that had not been redecorated, and these, comfortable though they were, would not unreasonably be described as a bit shabby.

I found myself staying in one of these shabby rooms. It was a large room, looking out over a typical London roofscape that included the back of an embassy bristling with radio masts. The room itself was furnished in a way typical of club bedrooms, with a writing table, a kettle for making tea, a basin, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers. I noticed, though, that the wardrobe had a blanket draped over it, as a dust-sheet may be hung over the furniture of an unoccupied house.

I settled in, but I felt there was something odd about my accommodation. A bedroom that is rented out by the night often has a rather soulless feel to it. It may be occupied every night, but it is home to nobody – and that shows. This felt different. This room was occupied.

My suspicions were confirmed when I opened the bedside drawer. There were various pills and nail clippers – the sort of things we keep in our bedside drawers at home. I opened the chest of drawers. There were socks, vests and pants. A cursory examination of the wardrobe told the same story: this was somebody’s room.

Now one of the endearing features of clubland is that some clubs have their permanent residents. These are people who choose to live in the club because it suits them. They eat their meals there. Their whole life is based in the club. The Travellers’ Club in London for many years had Monsignor Gilbey living in it, a scion of the claret and gin family and a prominent Roman Catholic cleric. In Edinburgh, the New Club was home for many years to a well-kent and much-loved Edinburgh solicitor, Ivor Guild.

In this London club in which I was staying I had been put in the room of one of the permanent residents who just happened to be away at the time. I assume that this was with his knowledge. It was a rather disconcerting feeling, though, to be living, even if very briefly, among his things.

My examination of the two drawers was cursory, and I closed them immediately. I did not feel any temptation to examine the life of one whose hospitality, in a sense, I was enjoying. It seemed to me that there was an implicit bargain here: I was admitted to the room on the understanding that I would not touch anything that did not belong to me.

And yet I found myself reflecting on the unspoken moral contours of this sort of situation. If you are a guest in somebody’s house, you are admitted to your hosts’ private space. If you go into their bathroom you will see their shampoo, their post-electric shave gel, their dressing gown on the back of the door. You may notice these things, but you should take no notice of them. They are private objects.

Their bookshelves are another matter. Books on an open shelf are presented for the public gaze, in much the same way as are paintings on a wall. It is understood that the visitor may look at them, and it is further understood that the visitor may draw conclusions as to the interests of the owner of the books. If you are reading anything you would not like to be thought to be reading, then the onus is on you to shelve those books in a place where they cannot be seen.

And what of postcards you may find on your hosts’ hall table? The whole point about a postcard is that it may be read by anybody who picks it up. Letters, which should not be read by others, have their envelope to protect them from prying eyes. And yet it seems wrong to pick up somebody else’s postcard and brazenly read it.

A final thought on that club bedroom: in retrospect I am pleased that I was trusted not to poke about in the drawers and wardrobe.

In a world where trust is diminished, it’s rather nice to think there are still those who make the assumption they can trust strangers.

“A bedroom that is rented out by the night often has a rather soulless feel to it