Читать книгу Sex, Lies & Crazy People - John Hickman - Страница 8

Gramps lit a cigarette. “Most of your permanent resident guests have departed, Son.”

Gran nodded. “There’s only one couple prepared to tolerate all the noisy disruptions, and only then for drastically decreased rent.”

“Oh well, family, maybe it’s a blessing in disguise,” Dad said. But he sounded as

tentative as a tightrope walker in a stiff breeze.

“How come?” Gramps asked.

“Now we can push ahead without concerning ourselves with the comfort of guests.”

Gran was thoughtful. “Why not have a grand debut of your new bedroom especially for them? That is if they’re still here, they get first pick.”

“Good idea, Girl. When word gets around about the bright new rooms and modern

facilities they’ll all want to come back.”

Dad inserted his empty pipe into his tobacco pouch and began to fill the bowl. “That’s a splendid idea you two, and agreed, what better way to spread the word.”

Gran and Gramps beamed with pride.

Within a week our feature bedroom was ready boasting clean white paint, brighter light bulbs, pristine carpet, a colour television set and the best of furniture.

On cue our remaining couple appeared, his wife holding his left arm. Old school, I thought. He keeps her on his left to maintain his sword arm free.

He was a tall, hollow-cheeked man with narrow, wizened hands and tidy, slicked-down hair. He wore a charcoal grey chalk stripe suit that had seen better days with a colourful clip on bow tie. He looked as gaunt and melancholy as a scarecrow.

His wife was a frumpy, bespectacled woman wearing a faded pleated skirt and woollen twin-set. They entered our refurbished bedroom, hesitant, faltering and unsure.

He took a long, hard look around the room.

We stood back positively beaming with pride at our efforts.

After a short pause, he cleared his throat and announced. “No! We don’t like it!”

Absolute silence.

Were they demented! What wasn’t there to like?

We must have looked as dumb as potted plants.

Hollow-cheeked man explained. “It’s too white.”

Too white? How can white be too white? Bastards!

“Too bright,” added his wife, through half closed eyes.

Too bright? It’s clean is what it is, with a decent size electric light bulb! Bitch!

“We don’t like the brightness.” She raised an arm as if to shield her eyes, “Dazzling, white paint hurts our eyes.”

My god they actually preferred gloomy as in multiple shades of brown.

“And you can take that blasted thing away,” hollow-cheeked man pointed at the brand new colour television set in pride of place. “We don’t like that thing.”

With their faces pinched as if a sewer pipe had burst under their noses they left to return to their dismal brown room.

Dad struck a match to ignite his pipe. He was visibly shaken.

“They don’t like colour television,” I added, “neither BBC nor ITV. Incredible.”

“And they’ve not the slightest inclination to change,” Dad groaned. “Whatever

happened to Welcome to Television.”

Tears filled Pandy’s eyes, her lower lip trembled. “How could anyone not like TV? Daddy, surely everyone loves television.”

Gran rallied. “They obviously don’t follow Ena Sharples on Coronation Street, that’s all I’ll say.”

“More likely they don’t want to pay £9 a week, Girl.”

Gran was thoughtful. “You’re probably right you know. £6 or less is what they expect to pay. It’s not really that they prefer the old styles.”

We were deflated.

Gran exhaled heavily and then said to no one in particular. “Well, that was fun.”

We Gotta Get Out Of This Place by the group the Animals was playing softly in the background on the wireless.

“Oh well. Time for a cuppa,” Gran suggested. “Most of the world’s problems can be solved over a cup of tea.”

Dad puffed more deeply on his pipe. He looked irritated. “It appears we’ve snatched

defeat from the jaws of victory.”

Gramps crushed out his unfiltered cigarette stub in the ashtray, along with his three

other stubs already there. They resembled bullets waiting to be loaded into a gun. He lit his fifth cigarette.

We sat in silence sipping our tea. Distracted Gramps had put enough sugar into his to make his spoon stand up.

The Animals were followed by Ken Dodd on the wireless singing Tears.

Dad poured himself a stiff Scotch. Worry reflected in his face.

“What are you doing, Son?” Gramps asked.

“I’m having a whisky, Father.”

“Why are you drinking at this hour?”

“Because I’m annoyed with myself. I didn’t think I’d missed anything. I was so sure that the gamble of clean rooms and a better standard of living for just a little extra money each week would win them over.”

Gramps was unsympathetic. “Pour me one. I’m annoyed with you too. Maybe because back when I went to school that’s not just a little extra.”

Dad’s monumental blunder had culminated into an unmitigated disaster with the ink barely dry on his lease.

The day drifted on as days do when bad news needs to be digested. Gran and Gramps set about preparing our evening meal. Pandy played, and I spent time with her but I felt like a lost lamb in an abattoir.

It was late afternoon when Dad called us together his table covered in pages of

calculations. His eyes glistened with excitement, as much as with alcohol.

“Plan B, family. I’ve crunched the figures, joined the dots again, and have come up with an alternative. We’ll fill this place by competing with the Castle Hotel next door.”