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Chapter 3

Dad’s Simple Plan

I returned to the present as Gran, Gramps, and my sister Pamela joined us at the breakfast table. Mum had nicknamed my sibling Pandy when she was about a year old because her jerky movements resembled a puppet called Andy Pandy in a children’s show on television.

I could sense her pain this being the thirtieth morning in a row that Mum hadn’t been alive to see.

Dad’s smile resembled a reptile about to devour its dinner when he said, “The key to success, family, is to attract more cashed-up old farts. And to do that, I’ve decided we’ll tart the place up—cheap.”

Gramps grinned. “It could do with a bit of a clean-up.”

“My guaranteed formula for success is to offer permanent residents a deal they can’t

refuse,” Dad paused, to take a light puff on his pipe, “with just a little bit extra for only £3 more a week.”

Gran looked concerned. “What little bit extra?”

“A room resplendent with fresh white paint of course, Mother. Better quality of

furniture, a telephone and a colour TV in each room.”

Gran looked overwhelmed. “I don’t see anything wrong with black and white telly?

We watched that Russian cosmonaut on ours. He looked all right in black and white.”

“Aleksei Leonov, Mother. He was the first man to walk in space but everything does look more spectacular in colour.”

Gran sniffed. “Black and white’s all right, it’s early colour that’s faded, that’s all.”

Gramps chewed his lip. “Trouble is colour sets are new and expensive, Son.”

“I’ve crunched the numbers, Dad, and it’s doable if I lease them.”

Gramps fidgeted. “Well, if you’re sure. They’ll be a novelty, I suppose.”

Dad puffed again, more deeply on his pipe. “And a little extra food wise. You have to admit those sub-standard meals of theirs hardly commemorate their day.”

Gran wore a pained expression. “Do you mean better meals?”

“Yes, Mother. What they get now is lukewarm slops from tins.”

Gramps appeared impervious to Gran’s concerns. “Yesterday’s lukewarm muck was a diluted tinned soup, reheated, Girl, with not even a sprig of parsley dog-paddling in it to cheer it up. As for their mains, their meat looks like rat-turds. And their beans look more like soggy green twigs.”

“Yes, that’s all good and well,” Gran cautioned, “but soft-textured dishes suit us old folk, especially without our teeth.”

“Yuk,” said Pandy, her innocent round eyes shining like alien moons, and then as she saw the hurt on Dad’s face, she muttered, “I mean, even I could do that.”

Momentarily, we went quiet, each privy to their own thoughts. The discussion about food reminded me how Gran always overcooked hers, whereas when Mum was alive she’d prepared meals more al dente.

Dad picked up the pace. “You’ll provide their home cooked meals, Mother.”

Gran lapsed into a pained silence.

“Don’t fret, Mother. Nothing fancy is required. Surely there’s nothing wrong with that?”

Gran went into meltdown.

Dad changed tactics and moved on. “All rooms have hand basins with hot and cold

running water. We’ll convert a few to include en suite bathrooms. Then we can charge extra for those discerning guests who are cashed up and want toilet suites.” He positively beamed. “What about that?”

“Toilet sweets. What do they taste like?” Gramps deadpanned.

Dad ignored him. He resumed, “According to John’s research accommodation rates for permanent residents bottoms out at £6 a week and rises up to £12. A smaller private hotel nearby is full at £10 with a wait list.”

Gramps wrinkled his nose. “Some call it their death list.”

“I’ve decided our niche will be £9 a week. The middle is a good place to be.” Dad’s eyes were hungry as he looked for my support. I nodded my head like Noddy in Toyland.

“From your lips to God’s ear,” Gramps chortled.

I noticed a sparkle in the depths of his pale blue eyes. It was almost a mischievous type of exuberance, that I’d not seen before.

Dad gave an approving smile as befitted the leader of our pack. It was a Moses and burning bush moment for me.

Gran remained quiet.

Gramps slapped me enthusiastically on the shoulder. “Your Dad’s plan seems

faultless.”

“Sounds all right to me. If push comes to shove, even I can follow a plan.”

Gran threw her hands up in a helpless gesture, like someone who knows they’ve

become a bore. “Oh well, all we can do is get up in the morning to do our best. I suppose. Nothing much else matters now. Not with Alice gone.”