Читать книгу Sex, Lies & Crazy People - John Hickman - Страница 7

We’d inherited an old man with the hotel lease. His official title was Kitchen Porter and

because of his age the landlords had requested Dad keep him on.

“He reminds me of Mr Potato Head,” Pandy giggled.

“He’s a shuffling little basement dweller with wayward eyebrows,” Dad smiled.

“Age wise he looks like he’s about ready to celebrate his centenary birthday.”

“Even with the assistance of his sturdy walking cane he’s slower moving than a

glacier,” I commented. “Rarely does he venture from his basement haven to our brightening improvements upstairs.”

“And when he does, have you noticed? He’s got pieces of toilet paper adorning his shaving mishaps,” Gramps added.

Dad smiled. “He conducts his ablutions in a bucket rather than use a bathroom, but aside from his alarming lack of personal hygiene, I suspect he’s been down there since the days of Beau Nash.”

“Who’s Beau Nash?” Gramps asked.

I knew this one, I piped in. “About two hundred years ago, when Tunbridge Wells had its Georgian period of elegance, Beau Nash was a famous dandy who organised their social scene.”

Gramps shared my light, then between puffs I continued. “It was a time when

gentlemen were responsible for their own rules of social behaviour.”

Gramps grinned. “Regrettably, none of the grandeur of yesteryear has rubbed off on our small basement dweller. But as a nickname, I suppose Beau Nash fits him well; especially as inside his room looks like the bottom of a whore’s handbag.”

“I wonder if he’s found Amelia Earhart down there, yet?” Gran asked, with a rare smile.

Pandy laughed. She was laid on the floor doing her homework. She called out, “He’s where flies go to die, you can see their feet dangling down his nose.” She then rolled on the floor and continued laughing at herself.

Dad smiled at Pandy. “Be benevolent family, he doesn’t eat much, gets paid sweet

fuck-all, and in return for his board he stokes the coal-fired boiler for the hot water system.”

“When he remembers,” Gramps reminded us with a shiver. “There are a few too many times when hot water is not available.”

“I agree. Often I leave the tap on in the vain hope that hot water will eventually appear. Too often it doesn’t.”

“Oh, and he says he’ll peel potatoes when asked,” Dad added.

“Provided we give him about a week’s notice,” Gran sighed, “but fresh potatoes should never be peeled, only scraped because they taste better.”

“That’s not going to happen, Gran,” I cut in.

“Why not?”

“Because scraping takes too long. Like it or lump it, you with a fifty pound bag of spuds in your lap, paring knife in hand, isn’t our best solution.”

Silence.

“Beau Nash is amazing,” Pandy announced, almost as if she’d sensed a change of

subject was called for. “He reads tea cups.”

“Him reading tea leaves? How come, if he’s clairvoyant, he doesn’t know when he’s about to let our boiler go out?” Gran sneered.

We came to learn that Beau had a penchant for repeating tired, old jokes. Later that evening he gave Gramps some advice.

“When you reach my age, governor, never ever walk past a urinal, never waste an

erection, and never, ever trust a fart. And if you do get an opportunity,” he winked, “if you know what I mean. Don’t pass it by.”

“Aren’t you afraid of having sex at your age?”

There was a long pause.

“If she dies, she dies,” Beau replied, before lumbering away.