What the Butler Saw
With American guns in the Scottish Borders
I’m back in the UK at the moment and reflecting on my transatlantic intrigue with all things American.
It’s certainly a linguistic thing, but it’s also a response to the open, friendly, positive, can-do attitude bred into every American, even those that deny it.
Everywhere I’ve been I’ve worked with Americans.
In Kosovo my colleagues and friends were Albanian and American.
When I left the airport in Afghanistan it was American soldiers who offered me a lift, accompanied by Billy Joel on the radio.
On the top of Mount Athos in Greece – where you would think they would be few and far between – I found shelter with American monks.
The pattern began with a student visa to the USA in ’91 and has continued ever since…
In the winters of 1996-99, I worked as a Butler at Burncastle Lodge in the Scottish Borders and the Castle of the Duke and Duchess of Northumberland at Alnwick (where scenes from Harry Potter were filmed).
We would serve family, friends and dignitaries at the castle, whereas our guests at the shooting lodge were invariably American ‘Guns’.
As far as I went the extra mile to serve them, they reciprocated with warmth and generosity.
“This is a fine place you’ve got here Marc,” said one, as I carried his suitcases through the front door of the lodge.
A small statement you might think, but it typifies the American attitude – an Englishman would rarely compliment the Butler on the surroundings.
The open respect I experienced reminds me of George W Bush’s ability to remember the names and details of all his staff, down to the elevator operator.
Or, when President Kennedy introduced himself to the janitor at NASA, “Hi, I'm Jack Kennedy, what are you doing?” The response was, “I'm helping put a man on the moon, Mr President.”
Respect like that helps build confidence and trust.
My mentor, Household Controller, Mr. Patrick Garner, was a gentleman down to the “T” too.
Trained at Buckingham Palace, he never betrayed a confidence and always held the door open for myself and others.
So, it was no surprise that Patrick opened the door to my job in the borders.
Did I want to run a shooting lodge in the Scottish Borders, he asked ?
Daunted, I said “Yes!”
Once inside the Lodge, our American guests would make themselves at home by the fire, accompanied by Martin Hayes.
The ticker-tape patter of stocks and shares prices on TV would compete with the 4pm lit of Scottish Fiddle, Camomile tea, Lapsang Souchong, cucumber sandwiches, crumbly shortbread and a steaming china tea pot of Lady Grey.
Many were high-flying CEOs for banks, Ford, Monsanto, Law companies, and drug industries.
Not one of them had corporate horns or fangs (as some of my activist friends thought).
All were courteous and kind, with, as you will see, the odd forgivable slip.
One particular shooting party would come back each year and we built a great rapport.
One Halloween they switched the lights out and hid under the table to scare the staff… in their pyjamas.
(Let me repeat - CEO’s hiding under the table in their peejays!)
We returned the prank by putting costumes on the stuffed animals, (forgive me, Your Grace, if you’re reading, but I know you have a wicked sense of humour too).
For one memorable golden wedding anniversary, we hired a Scottish Piper and drove to Edinburgh for Cuban cigars to go with the Single Malt Scotch.
It was a hoot. An American gentleman is generally never more content than with cigars and Scotch.
The job taught me an 'awful' lot about the fine things in life, like full bodied clarets, smokey-oakey-aged whiskies, pungent cheeses, kedgeree, venison, quail and courtesy.
One morning I came downstairs and was greeted by an extremely well-mannered Southern Belle in the kitchen: “Marc, can you tell me who was sleeping on top of me last night?”
I raised an eyebrow, and we both burst into laughter.
(She meant who was sleeping in the room above!)
Stories like this stick; like the two billionaires discussing the seating arrangements on their private jets:
“How do you prefer your seats Bob, theatre style or down the sides?”
They would do that corporate thing of having Jack call John, to speak to Jill’s people about Joshua.
The tips were great too.
One day I had seven hundred dollars slapped in my hands for three days of work:
“Thank you, Marc, everyone has chipped in…except him,” said the main man, pointing at a red-faced guest.
“You son of a bitch!” he retorted.
I quickly exited the dining room and left them to it.
The English guests were warm and funny too, but there was something stopping me from being myself the way I could with Americans – my imposter syndrome based on coming from different worlds, and classes.
Despite this both the Americans and Brits taught me a vital life-long lesson: never judge a person by their wealth, or indeed lack of it, we’re all human after all.
I still dream about my Butler days but couldn’t see myself marrying the job the way my boss did.
Patrick died in Syon House London, sorting out a cupboard.
He lived for service, died for service, and wouldn’t have it any other way.
In tribute to him, the Duchess said he was one of the family.
It was the same with the American guests.
Some of them wanted to take me home.
When the taxi tyres crunched up the gravel to take them to the airport we hugged and waved them off, as family.
This is fantastic Marc, we are all brothers, even when we don’t know it! Great post