Читать книгу Sex, Lies & Crazy People - John Hickman - Страница 18

I awoke to the dulcet tones of Dad’s voice outside my room. “Beau! Where the fuck is the hot water?” Carefully opening the door I glimpsed him descending towards the basement.

I could almost see the black thunderous clouds gathering above his head.

“We have plenty of cold water,” he wailed, “but who the fuck can run a hotel without hot water?”

Gramps and I were assigned to monitor Beau’s hot water problems to buy Dad time as his liquor licence application needed urgent attention.

“While we were a private hotel, as in unlicensed, the Council couldn’t give a toss,” Dad raved. “Now I’m applying for a simple licence to serve a few drinks to residents I’ve become the object of their undivided attention.”

Lucky me. As Catering Manager I became the focus of a picky, ex-military, Borough Health man when the Borough Health Department came sniffing around.

He set out to develop an in-depth interest in our old-fashioned catering facilities.

Gramps took an instant dislike to him. “It’s his small, crooked features. Looks like they’ve been stuck on in a hurry. Like Picasso! His stutter tops him off.”

Borough Health man had absolutely no sense of humour. He held a large note-pad crooked in his left arm, pencil poised in right hand. That annoyed Dad, which he voiced.

After that he visited so often Gramps assigned him his own car park space.

At each visit he became more insistent on improvements to our food preparation areas.

“A complete makeover is imminent,” I warned Dad. “Now he wants ceramic floor tiles laid throughout!”

Dad wanted to cover the floor boards with A grade linoleum, but Borough Health man wouldn’t have it. Dad tried his best to convince him. When that failed his intake of

Valium increased with each visit.

Gramps had a go at Dad. “You’ve botched it up, Son. By not blowing enough smoke up his arse. You should know their main goal in life is to be unhelpful. Should you prove them wrong it leaves their edges shabby. If you’re not careful he’ll end up gnawing away at you like he’s got a rat’s tooth.”

Dad sighed. “You’re right. I should have known a bureaucrat spurned is like a beast

unchained.”

“That, or maybe he’s high on red ink,” Gramps winked at me.

“You’d better watch out,” Gran warned Dad, “you’re going ahead as if you’ve

already got the blessed licence. If you’re not careful you’ll be arrested and carted away.”

On his next visit, it was raining hard. Borough Health man was in a foul mood. He’d left his umbrella at home and his reserved car space was at the far end of our car park nearest the church.

He was soaked when he announced. “Your dumb waiter is on my growing list of

improvements for stage two!”

“Saving up for another rainy day is he?” Gramps frowned.

“The bastard won’t rest until he breaks me financially,” Dad groaned.

According to Borough Health man the dumb waiter’s shelves were to be tiled and edged by layers of premium stainless steel. Buffed to excellence and trimmed with industrial rubber edges then mitred and glued to professional perfection.

“What he needs is my foot so far up his arse, he’ll taste it tomorrow,” Dad moaned.

“If you do what he wants, won’t the dumb waiter be too heavy?” Gran asked.

“Heavy all right. It’d fuck Hercules,” Gramps raged, as he took a long, last drag on his cigarette.

“Watch your language,” Gran warned, “anyway be charitable. Maybe his underwear’s too tight.”

“More likely something’s crawled up his arse and died, Girl.”

After further deep thought and another cup of tea Dad had an idea. “What if we move our kitchen?”

“Where to?” Gran looked stunned.

“The servery next to our restaurant.”

“Why?”

“It’s smaller, Mother. Less floor and wall areas to tile. Nowhere near as expensive to satisfy picky Borough Health man. And an added advantage we’ll not need to use the dumb waiter.”

“Dumb waiter?” Gran queried looking at me. “I didn’t know we employed them.”

“No, Mother. I’m referring to our hand pulley lift.”

Dad was on a high. He asked Chef Peter’s opinion.

“Aye, right enough. Could be a blessing as keeping food hot from kitchen to gob;

shorter soddin’ distance tis better for sure.”

In double quick time, our new smaller kitchen was ready.

Chef Peter grinned broadly. “It’s not big enough to break wind.”

Between stutters, Borough Health man hid his disappointment well.

“He looks like he’s recovering from a stroke and learning mobility again,” Gramps said, “but your kitchen is now closer to diners. A lot closer.”

“We’ll need to impose strict new guidelines. No raised voices and definitely no bad

language,” Dad announced.

A case of don’t do as I do, but do as I say.

Chef Peter was amused. “A smallish soddin’ handicap in a commercial kitchen that’s for sure. Nowt able to use a jazz of oaths. Aye, canna we not take time to cleanse

ourselves?”

And we did.

The following week Dad’s application for a residential liquor licence was approved.

“At fucking last,” he beamed. “A bloody miracle.”

“Now we can serve rocket fuel legally to residents,” Gramps said, “surely a

celebratory drink is called for.”

“Cheers,” I said. “High tides all round!”