Читать книгу Sex, Lies & Crazy People - John Hickman - Страница 10

Dad’s pipe had gone dead. He reloaded it and struck a match. “Due to our labour force being potentially untrustworthy I’ve developed a process. We’ll allocate two trestles, a board, three drop sheets a brush, and only enough paint to apply one coat per room. I reason, the worst anyone can do is nick our brush.”

Gramps and I put Dad’s plan into operation.

“If their work is satisfactory,” Dad instructed, “we’ll offer them another job. A second coat or gloss. Otherwise we’ll show them the door.”

Some who left, I’m sure they’d been sniffing the paint, not putting it on the walls.

Dad became edgy. “As we’ve attracted the biggest collection of thieves, villains and no hopers outside of prison walls, please make sure anything worthwhile is locked away or nailed down.”

“Considering you’ve leased a full hotel of brand new Regency style furniture in

matching Kingston Mahogany, that’s not a bad idea,” Gramps observed.

“Not to mention the new colour television sets, chairs, tables, linen, crockery, cutlery and glassware for the restaurant,” I added.

Gramps handled the fiddly bits and he was welcome to them.

Pandy took some interest in the proceedings, in between being glued to the goggle-box and playing outside when the weather permitted, she selected a victim and followed him around like a puppy. Today was Dad’s turn, she likened him to Jed Clampett from the

Beverly Hillbillies, swapping a goat for someone to paint the barn.

During the renovations we discovered a mystery door on the second floor.

We tried every key, from every drawer, and even a few only Beau knew about.

“Aren’t you excited about the locked room?” I asked Beau.

“Overwhelmed, young sir,” he replied.

But nothing worked.

“There is no key to open that damn door,” I snapped.

“I’ll bust it open,” Gramps offered, “I can always fit a new lock.”

“No. Hold up,” Dad said. “I think I’ve got it sussed. It’s a door that isn’t.”

Dad paced the hall and the room next door. “I believe it’s a second door into the same larger bedroom next door.” He led us inside. “Look inside the adjacent room it’s covered over to look like the wall but from the hallway it’s simply another door.”

Gramps ran his rule to double check. “Well, I’ll be buggered. We’ve a genuine room number Thirteen.”

Dad began absentmindedly beating his pockets for his lost pipe until he found it. “Every hotel needs a room thirteen. It’s good luck. But because this one goes nowhere we can’t rent it out.”

That week Dad signed a contract with Telecom to install a modern switchboard with

extensions in every room. The technician in charge offered to help. “It’s probably best that you all learn how to operate it.”

Some did better than others. Gramps held the receiver about a foot from his ear as if it was a venomous snake. Gran held it upside down. Pandy took to it like a fish to water.

I was slower. Dad made copious notes for later.

When we admired our new Cavalier Restaurant we agreed it was one of our greatest achievements.

“It’s a shame to cover up these brand new Formica tables,” I said.

“They’ll look even better covered with table cloths as stiff as a nun’s wimple,” Dad

replied. “And the bucket-style chairs in matching blue leather make the area look larger than before.”

Light from the new crystal chandeliers reflected off the polished glassware. New

Regency style stainless steel cutlery sparkled at every setting.

On the wall opposite the main entrance from reception we hung a large print of the Laughing Cavalier in an ornate gold frame without non-reflective glass. “It will look more like an oil painting covered with a fresh coat of varnish,” Gramps announced. And it did

after he’d finished it.

Starched, white napkins monogrammed with HH, accompanied white crockery with gold and black rims and an unobtrusive HH emblem.

We wanted two separate swinging doors leading from the servery. One IN. One OUT. Standard restaurant practice. No collisions.

Because the area lacked sufficient width for two doors apart we compromised. Only one door but with a port-hole sized window set eye high to an average man.

Throughout the public areas popular features of yesteryear were highlighted in subtle pastel shades. The delicate filigree of the cornices that surrounded the high ceilings

accentuated the ornate, fat-clad cherubs and angels with harps. On the days when Gramps painted them, he used an artist’s brush and needed a steady hand. Discreet wall lights

illuminated sunlit clouds in alcoves. Melon-breasted Greek styled ladies in transparent gowns appeared startled to find themselves there. Subdued light elsewhere helped create a sense of melodrama while expensive fabrics on chairs evoked a higher style of

sophistication.

The welcome feel of deep pile fitted carpets added further to Dad’s exclusive club atmosphere. Heavy baroque style furniture, together with a tasteful touch of modern glass and stainless steel, uplifted by artfully twisted chrome and silver, with discreet gold leaf throughout, set off the reception and the lounges.

The bedrooms enticed occupation with their Mahogany suites, close-fitted carpets,

colour television sets, telephones, and electric razor points.

“It evokes the feel of an English gentleman’s club,” Dad beamed. “My intention is to be upmarket. We’ll talk where possible in guineas, without frightening the urban sophisticates away with too high prices.”

“Bon appétit,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to be an upper-class twit.”

At the front, a red neon sign flickered mercilessly; Colour TV sets in all rooms.

But Dad wasn’t satisfied. “To attract trade we need more lights.”

He wanted a bloody Christmas tree.

Electricians fitted external floodlights to beam onto the exterior with such intensity at night even the dowdy paint looked bright.

“We’re competing with Gatwick Airport,” Beau said. “Wow! You’ll see us from

London, hell, even the Moon.”

Now for the daytime attraction; Dad had blue and white striped awnings erected over our entrance steps and above the adjacent bay windows. He stood back to admire his

handiwork.

“Passing trade will find us now night or day.”

Inside the redecorated and refurbished hotel, which retained its Victorian splendour, pleased everyone’s senses.

“Outside remains a work in progress for after we’ve made our first million pounds,” Dad smiled. Then he became serious. “Our new polished vestibule front doors, the ones with the imported inlaid decorative glass, are hardly ever swinging inwards.”

“Other than the postman dropping mail twice daily, and once on Saturday mornings, you’re right, Dad. No-one else ventures in.”

Dad looked worried. “What more can I do?”