Читать книгу Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions - Timothy Lea - Страница 51

‘You done what?’

‘I’ve bought a hotel, Timmo. Very nice article. Down on the south coast. Hoverton, do you know it?’

‘Mum took me there for the day once when I was a nipper. Haven’t Funfrall got a place near there?’

‘Yeah, just outside the town.’

‘Sid, what I don’t understand is why you’re buying it. I thought Old Man Slat was going to give you some mazuma.’

‘Well, he has really. The price is dirt cheap when you think what I’m getting. It’s one of these big old Regency places. Funfrall are selling off a lot of their stuff as part of a rationalisation programme. Mind you, it’s still costing me a bomb. That’s why I sold El Nido.’

‘And Rosie and the kid are going to live there with you?’

‘Not to start with. I want to get the place sorted out first.’

‘Sounds fantastic, Sid. What kind of shape is it in?’

Sid begins to look uncomfortable. ‘Quite good, I think. I haven’t seen it yet.’

‘Haven’t seen it?’

‘Well, you know what Sir Giles is like. He came up with the idea so fast; and he was so enthusiastic, I thought it would sound rude if I started humming and haing.’

‘You didn’t worry about humming and haing when he suggested that you got your head shot off in the Hot House at Kew. I bet he came up with that idea pretty fast, too.’

‘I’ve seen some photographs,’ says Sid pathetically. ‘It looks very nice.’ He pulls open a bedside drawer and thrusts a couple of crumpled prints into my hand.

‘Blimey, that bird is wearing a crinoline, isn’t she? I didn’t know they had invented cameras in those days. Haven’t you got anything a bit more recent?’

The photographs Sid has given me are khaki coloured and have horse-drawn bathing cabins in the foreground. Sometimes I think that Sid has more luck than judgement.

‘Anything that is bricks and mortar is worth its weight in gold these days,’ says Sid sulkily. ‘I’ve got the freehold, you know.’

‘What does that mean?’

Sid is relieved to find that he can assert himself again. ‘It means, you prick, that I own it. I am not renting it.’

‘Well, good luck, Sid. I’m certain you’ll do very well. Not exactly your line, though, is it?’

‘No really new opportunity is ever likely to be, is it?’

‘True, Sid. What am I going to do at Funfrall, now that you’re gone?’

Sid takes a sip at his Robinson’s Lemon Barley Water and gives me his ‘I don’t really know what it means but I am trying to appear inscrutable’ look.

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ he says. In the old days, I would have thrown myself full length and kissed the end of his pyjama cord saying: ‘Oh, Sid am I deceiving myself when I think that you might actually be offering me the chance of employment in your new passport to easy riches–?’ the last few words being drowned in grateful sobs. Now I am older and wiser.

‘What did you have in mind?’ I say coolly.

Sidney selects a grape and, attempting to peel it nonchalantly, manages to crush it between finger and thumb so that the gunge runs down the front of his pyjamas. With typical Lea restraint I pretend that I have not noticed this distasteful incident.

‘I was thinking,’ says Sid, scraping the remains of the grape off his chest with a dirty teaspoon, ‘that you might be able to do yourself a bit of good by coming in with me.’

He leans back against the bed like a satisfied dog owner who has just given his pet a new brand of worm powder.

‘I remember you saying something like that to me before,’ I say. ‘On a couple of occasions. First time I ended up losing the bird I was thinking of getting spliced to and the second–well, I’m not exactly loaded down with gelt, am I?’

‘Money isn’t everything, Timmo,’ says my crafty old brother-in-law. ‘You got some wonderful experience on both occasions–wonderful experiences too. You mustn’t try and rush at things. You can’t get rich overnight, you know.’

‘You haven’t done too bad, Sid.’

‘I’ve had the rub of the green, mate. I’d be the first to admit it. But hard graft has played its part.’

‘Well graft, anyway.’

‘I’ll pretend I don’t understand you. Look, Timmo, I respect you; you’ve got talent, I need you. Let me put it like that. I’ve got a feeling the Cromby–’

‘The what?!’

‘The Cromby–that’s the name of the hotel–could be a real bonanza.’

‘Not with a name like that, it can’t.’

‘I agree. How about the Hoverton Country Club?’

‘I thought it was on the sea front?’

‘Yeah, well it is, but the public gardens are just round the corner.’

‘Come off it, Sid. That isn’t going to fool anybody twice.’

‘How about the Ritz-Carlton?’

‘No, Sid.’

‘The Hoverton Hilton?’

‘Sid!’

‘The Noggett?’

‘Do me a favour. I prefer the Cromby to that.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s not really important. We can worry about the name later. What I want to find out is whether you’re interested or not.’

‘I thought I had a wonderful future mapped out for me with Funfrall?’

‘You did as long as I was there. I’d have seen you alright, Timmo. Like I always try to do. But I have to take the broader view. I weighed everything up and I reckoned that this was the right time to make a move. With a hotel we can concentrate on the right section of the holiday trade–the bleeders with money. You could get old before your time running round those chalets all day.’

‘You’re right there, Sid.’

‘Of course I’m right. Look, I tell you what, Timmo. If you help me make a go of this place, I’ll put you in as manager when we buy another one. How about that? That’s handsome, isn’t it?’

‘Very handsome, Sid. Alright, I’m on.’

‘Good thinking, Timmo, you won’t regret it.’

‘I’ll remember you saying that, Sid.’

‘You do that, you do that. Well, I suppose I’d better try and get a little rest now. Tell Mum I fancy a spot of that chicken broth, will you?’

‘She’s standing on her head in the front room.’

‘Oh, well, Rosie then.’

‘Was it serious, Sid?’

‘What? Oh, my injury you mean? No, Timmo, none of my moving parts. Nothing that Rosie has missed yet. I reckon a spot of sea air is just what I need to convalesce.’ The way he winks at me makes me think that Sid is becoming more like his old self again.

I pad downstairs to find Dad standing in the hall. As he sees me, his face splits into a broad scowl.

‘You back then, are you?’ he grunts.

‘Right in one, Dad. Nothing wrong with your eyes.’

‘Don’t take the micky out of me, sonny Jim. How long are you staying for? This place isn’t a bleeding hotel, you know.’

‘I would never have noticed if it hadn’t been for the length of time it took me to get room service. Come off it Dad, this is my home, you know. I’m entitled to a few days in the bosom of my family.’

‘Don’t talk dirty. Your mother’s in the next room.’

‘Still standing on her head, is she? You want to watch it. If all the blood runs out of her feet she’ll have to walk on her knees.’

‘Bleeding Sidney as well. I thought we’d got rid of you lot when the window cleaning business broke up.’

‘Well, you never know your luck do you? I’m surprised to hear you say that about Sidney after that smashing holiday he organised for you.’

‘Smashing holiday? I don’t call that no smashing holiday. I’ve only just got my stomach straight again.’

‘That must have been very difficult, Dad.’

‘Don’t take the piss. You always did have too much lip. All that wog food. Dirty bastards they are. I had enough of that during the war. Nearly killed me.’

‘Well, Mum enjoyed it, Dad.’

‘Don’t talk to me about that, neither. It turned your mother crackers. It was the sun done that. Melted her brain. Bloody Yogi.’

‘Yoga, Dad.’

‘I don’t care what it is. It’s not right. Woman of her age. Disgusting.’

‘Everyody needs an interest in life, Dad.’

‘She’s got me. I’m her interest in life.’

‘Maybe she’s meditating about you now, Dad.’

‘I want my supper, not bleeding meditation.’

That reminds me that Sid wants his chicken broth so I push into the kitchen where Rosie is helping little Jason to feed himself. The sight of all those little tins of vomit being smeared round his cakehole is so disgusting that it even surpasses the horror of Mum’s scarlet mush when she staggers through the door. She looks like a hollowed-out turnip with a two-hundred watt bulb inside it.

All in all, I am more than relieved when a few days later, I find myself sitting in the passenger seat of Sidney’s Rover 2000 as we purr along the seafront of Hoverton. As ardent fans will know, I am no stranger to seaside resorts, but definitely not used to speeding about in expensive motor cars. The fact that Sid has been allowed to hang on to his company car really impresses me. We must be on to something good this time.

It is only when we have sped along the sea front for about two miles that I begin to have second thoughts.

‘We haven’t passed it, have we?’ says Sid anxiously.

‘Looks as if somebody else has.’ Sid follows my gaze and his jaw drops faster than a pair of lead knickers.

‘Blimey. I see what you mean. Looks more like the Zomby than the Cromby.’

Most of the buildings along the front have been tarted up and painted fashionable shades of pink, lemon and blue but the Cromby is peeling like an eight-hour suntan and looks as if it was last painted in order to camouflage it during Zeppelin raids. Even the glass sign is cracked.

‘Nice going, Sid,’ I say. ‘You struck a shrewd bargain there. He didn’t throw in London Bridge as well, did he? If he did you were done because we’ve sold it to the Yanks.’

‘Shut up!’

‘I like the situation, too. I didn’t know they had bomb sites down here. Maybe it’s part of a slum clearance scheme.’

‘I said “shut up”. I’m thinking.’

‘Thinking about how long it will take us to get back to London, I hope. If you rang up Sir Giles from the News of the People offices he might give you your money back.’

‘Don’t be so blooming hasty. It’s right on the beach.’

‘On the shingle, Sid. Looks like they get a lot of oil tankers around here, too. And what’s that big culvert coming out in the middle of the beach? Niffs a bit, doesn’t it?’

‘Oh, belt up, you’re always moaning. You never take a chance, that’s your trouble. If it wasn’t for me you’d be working on a bloody building site.’

‘If I nicked a few bricks we might be able to do something with this place.’

‘Very funny. You’re a right little ray of sunshine, aren’t you? Come on, let’s take a look at it. We’ve got nothing to lose.’

‘Don’t talk too soon. Do they know you’re coming?’

‘No, I thought it would be favourite to turn up as if we were ordinary guests. That way we’ll get the real feel of the place.’

‘Good thinking, Sid. Trouble is I reckon I’ve got the feeling of the place without even going through the doors.’

Sid does not say anything but puts his foot down so hard that I am practically on the back seat as we skid to a halt outside the hotel. Sid waits for a moment, presumably to see if anybody comes out to greet us, and then opens the door of the car.

‘Right. That’s one thing you’re going to be able to do something about,’ he says.

‘Whadyermean, Sid? You reckon me for a blooming commissionaire or something?’

‘We’ve all got to play a part,’ he says. ‘No skiving about at the beginning.’

Marvellous, isn’t it? And I thought I was going to start moving up a few rungs. We go through the swing doors and I practically have to hang on to Sid’s coat tails it is so dark. Like the Chamber of Horrors only with less character.

‘Very restrained, isn’t it?’ I say.

‘Shut up.’

The reception area is deserted and I will swear there are cobwebs on the register. Pinned above the desk is a poster stating the films that are on at the Roxie. I remember passing the Roxie on the way to the hotel. It is now a Bingo Hall.

‘Perhaps we could take a leaf out of Sir Giles’s book and run holidays for those in love with the past,’ I say. ‘How about starting off with the Norman invasion?’

‘One of the first things I’m going to miss about you is your marvellous sense of humour,’ says Sid. ‘Now get some service around here before I do my nut.’

I have bashed the bell about three times and am wondering whether the grey stuff on top of the elk’s head is dust or dandruff, when an oldish bird with a black dress and matching cardigan comes up some stairs beside the reception. She has thin wispy hair and a twisted jaw that looks as if it has been left out in the rain and got warped. Round her neck is a gold chain to which are attached a pair of specs.

‘I’m not deaf,’ she says irritably. ‘I’m not deaf.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘We would like to book a room.’

‘You what?’

‘We would like to book a room!’ The tone of Sid’s voice betrays the fact that the Cromby is appearing less of a gold mine than it did a few hours previously. The old bag shuts her book.

‘I’ve told you once,’ she says. ‘I’m not deaf. There’s no need to shout like that.’

Sidney makes a big effort and controls himself. ‘Is it possible for my friend and myself to book a double room–with single beds?’

‘What? You’ll have to speak up. You’re whispering. What is it you want?’

‘I’d like an axe,’ grits Sid.

‘What do you want an axe for? Have you come to chop wood? You should have gone round the back.’

‘Give me strength,’ says Sid, turning away.

‘What does he want strength for?’ says the elderly nut. ‘Has he come to chop wood or not? I can’t stand temperament. Especially about a little thing like that. Young people today have no staying power.’

‘We would like to book a room.’

‘You what?’

‘Forget it,’ says Sid. ‘I can’t understand why I ever thought it was a good idea in the first place. Let’s have a bash at the pier and go home.’

‘You want some rooms,’ says the old bag. ‘Why didn’t you say so before?’

‘It never occurred to me to ask,’ I say, revealing once again my aptitude for the lowest form of humour.

‘We would like our room with two single beds,’ says Sid, pronouncing each word like one of those birds on Parlez-vous francais?.

‘Oh?’ Madam looks us up and down and it suddenly occurs to me that she thinks we are a couple of poofters. The very idea!

‘He’s my brother,’ says Sid.

‘Oh, well I suppose that’s alright.’ She does not sound very convinced. ‘Do you want a bathroom?’

‘No thanks,’ says Sid. ‘The sight of him naked might inflame my fevered imagination to the point where the floodgates burst and I be carried away in a maelstrom of primitive lust.’

‘Just a basin, then?’

‘That should prove very adequate. What time is supper?’

‘Dinner,’ she stresses the word, ‘is from six forty-five to seven thirty.’

‘Very continental,’ I observe to Sid. ‘Gives you all of fifteen minutes to get the sand out of your plimsoles.’

‘We find that most of our guests like to be finished in time for Coronation Street.’

‘I can imagine,’ says Sid. ‘The solid chomp of gnashers battling against the clock–’

‘The best seats in the telly lounge filling up from seven fifteen onwards.’

‘The latecomers wiping the blancmange from their tuxedos as they struggle for the last two chairs.’

‘It’s not like that at all,’ says the Lady in Black coldly as she settles her specs on the end of her nose. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to sign the register.’

‘What about our cases?’ Sid indicates the door.

‘I’m afraid Mr Martin is recovering from a hernia operation.’ She raises her eyes towards the ceiling on the word ‘hernia’ as if averting them from a blue photograph.

‘He’s the hall porter, I suppose?’

‘That is correct.’

‘And may I inquire what your name is?’

‘Miss Primstone.’

‘I should have guessed. Well, if we get our cases perhaps you can show us where our room is.’

I wish Sid had not said that because the minute the words have passed his lips, a much better guide appears, patting her jet black curls into place.

‘Sorry I’m late, Miss Primstone,’ says the newcomer, not sounding at all sorry. ‘But we lost a couple of balls in the long grass and I stayed behind to look for them.’ I can see a piece of straw sticking out of her hair so I have no reason to disbelieve her. She has big tits and big eyes which roll all over Sid and me while she is talking. I decide that I have fallen desperately in love with her body.

‘You should have left them there,’ snaps Miss P. ‘Five o’clock is when you’re supposed to come on duty.’

‘Yes, Miss Primstone.’ Miss P. turns to select a key and the bird sticks her tongue out at her and winks at us.

‘We must have a game some time,’ says Sid. ‘Golf, is it?’

‘No, tennis. Are you any good?’

‘I’m a bit rusty at the moment. Haven’t played seriously for years.’

I have never heard such a load of balls. If you gave Sid a tennis racket he would think it was for straining chips.

‘Oh, that’s alright. I’m only just starting.’

‘I’m Sidney Noggett, and this is my brother-in-law Timothy Lea.’

‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Sandra.’

‘Hello, Sandra.’

This bird is definitely one of those who carries an invisible banner which has ‘I like sex’ written all over it. She moves as if she is very conscious of her body and she keeps licking her lips and patting her hair. I find that highly strung birds of that type really lap up the sack work. My thoughts are interrupted by Sidney coming the senior partner.

‘Get the cases in, Timmy, will you?’ he says, sliding out his cigarette case and resting his elbow nonchalantly on the counter.

‘Yas sah, Massa Noggett,’ I say in my best Brixton accent. ‘To hear is to obey.’

When I come in again, Sandra is behind the counter and Miss Primstone is drawing her cardigan around herself protectively. ‘We’re having a little trouble with the heating,’ she says. ‘You may find it takes a few moments for the hot water to come through.’

In practice, it takes three days but that is not the first thought that occurs to me when we are shown to our room. It looks like the inside of a mahogany packing case, and it is only possible to stand upright just inside the door.

‘People must have been a lot smaller when this place was built,’ I say.

‘We have never had any complaints.’

‘Probably because people bash their heads on the ceiling and get their mouths jammed shut,’ murmurs Sid.

‘If you don’t like the room, I am certain there are other hotels in Hoverton which would be capable of providing accommodation.’

It is amazing how the old bag can hear when you don’t want her to. I reckon I am going to like the place a lot more when she has left.

‘No offence intended,’ says Sid. ‘Just my little joke.’

Miss Primstone gives Sid a look that suggests she does not like jokes in any size and goes out, slamming the door behind her.

‘What did you say you were going to call this place? The Ritz-Carlton? It’s more like the blitzed Carlton.’

I sit down on one of the beds and the springs make a disastrous creaking sound like someone biting through thirty wafers in one go.

‘Is that a damp patch on the wall or haircream?’

I don’t get a chance to answer because the door suddenly opens and the second bit of good news that day bundles over the threshold. She is small and blonde and wearing a little black dress and a cap like an upturned tennis visor.

‘Oh, sorry ever so,’ she says in a squeaky cockney voice. ‘I just popped in to turn down the beds.’

She looks as if she has never turned down beds in her life and I can see Sidney’s mind travelling down the same well-worn route as my own.

‘Be my guest,’ he purrs. ‘Have you worked here long?’

‘It seems like a long time,’ says the girl, ‘but I suppose it’s only been about five weeks.’

‘Business good?’

‘Not very. There’s one or two old people who live here all the time. Retired, you know. Then there’s the commercials and the other old people who come here because they can’t afford anything better.’

‘No young people?’

‘Young people? You must be joking, dear. There’s the odd bit of stolen lust, I suppose, but most young people wouldn’t touch this place with a barge pole. You and your–your friend are the youngest we’ve got at the moment.’

‘He’s my brother-in-law.’

The maid looks relieved. ‘Oh good. We get a few of those as well, you know.’

‘You live on the premises?’

‘What do you want to know for?’ There is more hope than irritation in her voice.

‘Oh, I just thought if I wanted a sleeping pill or something, you might be able to help me.’

‘Cheeky devil!’ She puts her hand to her mouth and giggles.

‘I hope your bed doesn’t creak like this one?’ I throw in.

‘Oh, you are awful!’

‘I wasn’t suggesting anything.’

‘Not half, you weren’t.’

‘We both have a bit of trouble sleeping, don’t we, Timmy?’

‘You know what I reckon might be good for that, Sidney?’

‘No, Timmo?’

‘Ooh! I’m not going to listen to another word. Wait ’til I tell my friend Audrey about you two.’

‘Does she work here, too?’

‘She shares a room with me.’

‘Oh!’

‘Now don’t you start getting any ideas. It may be our evening off but we don’t go flaunting ourselves with just anybody, you know.’

‘I didn’t know you knew anybody we know.’

‘What?’

‘It doesn’t matter. What does Audrey look like? Is she pretty like you?’

‘Flattery will get you anywhere–within reason.’

‘Why don’t we all go out and have a little drink later? I’d suggest supper but we’ve got a bloke who may be joining us here about seven-fifteen, so we’ll be eating in.’

‘Shall I see if I can find someone for him?’

‘No, no, that won’t be necessary. We’re doing a bit of business with him, that’s all. I’m not even certain he’s going to show up.’

I am bloody certain he is not going to show up. Sid can be a cunning bastard sometimes especially when it is a question of keeping his wallet shut. I have known oncers to crumble with age when they eventually emerge into the light.

‘I hope you’re going to like Audrey,’ I say when we have sent our little squeaking friend on her way.

‘What do you mean? I’m having that one. June, or whatever her name was.’

‘Sidney, really. It was obvious that the girl was insane about me. She couldn’t keep her eyes off me.’

‘Don’t be daft. She felt sorry for you, that’s all. She was humouring you. She prefers the older, more sophisticated type. I can tell. You latch on to her mate and cross your fingers that she doesn’t fancy me as well.’

It occurs to me that this is not like the Sidney Noggett who was warning me off the frippet when I was applying for a job as a Holiday Host, and I find it impossible not to comment on this fact.

‘You’re changing your tune a bit, aren’t you, Sid? You didn’t used to approve of fraternising with the staff. And what about Rosie?’

‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ says Sid, tapping one of his mince pies. ‘What the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t worry about.’ You are dead right there, I think to myself, wondering how much Sid’s vanity will allow him to imagine of what was going on between Rosie and Ricci Volare–precious little, I should think. ‘It was different when I was at Funfrall anyway. I had more of a position to keep up. I feel I’ve shed a few of my cares. Know what I mean?’

‘Yes, Sid.’

‘After all, I am supposed to be convalescing down here. It’s in Rosie’s interest if I can check that the equipment is up to scratch.’

‘Very thoughtful of you, Sid.’

‘I thought you’d see it that way. And don’t get any ideas about putting the screws on me with Rosie, will you? You do and your prospects go straight up the creek. And I don’t just mean your job ones, either.’

Sid is no doubt remembering how I applied pressure when I discovered him having a flutter in the tool shed with the bird I was about to offer a wedding ring for the same services. Still, that was a couple of years ago, before moral values had been completely eroded, and when there was no prospect of a hotel management to seal my outraged lips. I assure Sid that I have a complete understanding of his meaning, and we go down to the cocktail lounge for a quick snifter before supper.

The bloke behind the bar has receding hair flattened against his head as if by a great, greasy wind and his forehead is corrugated like a perished rubber mask. Behind bushy eyebrows lurk evil darting eyes and his teeth look like a job lot rummaged from a vet’s dustbin. Just to gaze at his mush is to wonder whether the bar sells Rennies.

‘You gave me a start, gentlemen,’ he says pushing something under the counter hurriedly. I would like to give him three miles’ start and then piss off in the opposite direction, but one must not be too unkind.

‘Large Scotch, please,’ says Sid. ‘And what are you going to have, Timmo? Half of bitter? Half of bitter, please.’

I was about to say that a large Scotch would slide down very nicely but you have to move fast when Sid is in the chair.

‘Fairly quiet, is it?’ says Sid, adding a dash of water to his Scotch. I am pleased to see that he also gets two dead flies, a mosquito and an insect I have not seen before. Whatever it is, the barman looks up at the ceiling as he retrieves it, so it seems to have been a resident.

‘Sorry about that, Sir. The boy must have forgotten to change it. You can’t get the staff now, you know. Yes, it is very quiet but this isn’t our busy time. We do a lot of business in the autumn. It’s amazing how many hotel people come here for a holiday when their own season is over.’

‘Must give them a tremendous feeling of confidence,’ says Sid, holding up his glass to the light. ‘Have you got one with a more neutral shade of lipstick on it? This is a bit overpowering for me.’

‘Sorry about that, Sir. The girl should have seen to that.’

I can see that Sid is dying to get his hands round the little jerk’s neck and tell him who is the new lord and master but he manages to control himself.

‘You are the barman, though, aren’t you?’

‘Head Barman.’

‘How many more are there?’

‘I’m the only one at the moment. We will be taking some more on, later in the summer. Students, probably.’

‘Good,’ says Sid. ‘Have you been here long?’

‘Eighteen years. Only the receptionist, Miss Primstone, has been here longer than that. Oh, and of course, the cook.’

‘Why did you say “of course”?’

‘Oh, well, Mrs Caitley is something of an institution around here. She is practically part of the hotel.’

‘I hope she is nothing like this part,’ says Sid, fishing something else out of his glass.

Before weasel-features can apportion the blame there is an ear-piercing shriek from the vestibule which makes me choke on my beer.

‘Talk of the devil,’ mutters the barman under his breath.

I am about to ask for further details when the room is filled by a large, red lady holding her clenched fists before her in the manner of someone doing one of the exercises from the Charles Atlas Course. Not that this baby looks as if anybody is going to kick sand in her face. She pushes her way to the bar and pours a generous slug of brandy into a tumbler.

‘That’s it,’ she hollers at a pitch that would make Maria Callas rush out for a throat spray. ‘I can’t go on! Either he goes or I go. I don’t mind the nig nogs. I don’t mind the equipment–though it’s rotten!’ She bangs her glass down and half its contents jump across the bar; a loss which is speedily made good–‘it’s him!’

‘It’s the head waiter she’s on about,’ whispers the barman. ‘They don’t see eye to eye.’

‘Nobody tells me how to cook,’ snarls Big Red, giving me a hint that she is not the Phantom of the Opera in drag. ‘Nobody ever has, and nobody ever will.’

While she is looking at the ceiling over the rim of her glass, a thin, effeminate man wearing a dinner jacket rushes in. He is wringing his hands as if he hopes to extract water from them.

‘Calm yourself, Mrs Caitley,’ he squeals. ‘Calm yourself. Think of the guests.’ The last sentence causes an enormous shudder to run through Mrs Caitley like an earth tremor in a raspberry jelly.

‘I would beg to inform you,’ she says icily, ‘that thinking about the guests has been my one pre-occupation throughout twenty years in the hotel business.’

‘And I can assure you, dear lady, that I have no less a desire to serve the best interests of our patrons.’

‘Don’t you “dear lady” me, you odious pipsqueak.’

As heads begin to pop round the door, Mrs Caitley picks up a bowl of mildewed peanuts that Sidney has already rejected and begins to hurl them one by one at the head waiter. She is a lousy shot as Sid is quick to find out when he cops one in the eye, but it is an impressive sight, reminding me of one of those big Russian ladies warming up for the discus.

‘Good–wholesome–English–fare,’ she pants as she empties the bowl. ‘I-will-not-cook-continental-garbage.’

‘Cor, love-a-duck,’ says Sid as we cower towards the dining room. ‘What a blooming carve-up.’

‘Are they at it again?’ says Sandra breezily as she bounces past. ‘Oh, I am sorry.’

She does something with her mouth which makes me think of juicy strawberries and I fight an immediate impulse to pull her down behind the reception desk.

‘Let’s nip out for a cup of cha and a wad,’ I say as I peer into the dining room.

‘No,’ says Sid firmly. ‘We’re going to see this through.’

The dining room is the darkest room yet and I expect to see a coffin lying on a couple of trestles in the middle of it. One reason for the gloom is probably the state of the table cloths which look like the ones that were not washed in New Wonder Sudso. The menu holders are curling at the edges and mine has a dead fly behind its acetate sleeve. The Cromby is very hot on flies.

The main thing that strikes you about the menu is that although all the dishes are printed in French, this has been crudely crossed out in Biro, and an English equivalent put beside each entry. Thus ‘Potage Creme Royale’ becomes ‘Brown Windsor Soup’ and ‘Petit poissons au style Portugaise sur pain grillé’ appears as ‘Sardines on Toast!’ In this it is not difficult to see the hand of the dreaded Mrs Caitley. You don’t have to be good at doing crosswords to know that she likes the frog-loving head waiter less than wire-wool knickers.

That creature comes across the floor at a fast mince like a ballet dancer about to launch himself into full flutter. He is patting his hair and throwing his head back and has obviously been through an ab-so-lute-ly ghast-ly experience in the cocktail lounge.

‘So sorry about that aw-ful scene,’ he squeals. ‘Now, have you decided what you’d like? The veal is a dream today. I made the sauce myself and it is quite, quite delicious–though I say it as shouldn’t.’

He gives us the kind of smile which immediately makes you look out of the window and Sid and I order the soup and mixed grill.

‘This place gives me the creeps, Sid,’ I say when Superpoof has pushed off. ‘You want to turn it into a sanatorium or get rid of everybody and start from scratch.’

‘Dodgy, Timmy. I don’t have the training for your first caper, and if I bring a quack in I’ll have to surrender some of my control. Also, there’s too much capital investment in equipment. Your second alternative appeals to me but I can’t chuck the whole bleeding lot of them out in one go. The place has got to keep functioning. It’s going to be my livelihood, remember. Yours too. No. What we’ve got to do is winkle them out one by one and replace them with reliable people. Also, we want it to be their idea that they should go. Redundancy payments would cripple me with some of these buggers. They were practically born in the broom closets.’

‘You really think about it, don’t you, Sid?’ I say admiringly. I mean, he is a shit-heap, but you have to hand it to him for applied villainy.

‘Got to, Timmo,’ says Sid smugly. ‘That’s one thing my experience with Slat taught me. You’ve got to cover all the angles.’

I consider asking if having a butcher’s at the property he was considering buying could be considered as one of the angles but decided against it. There is no point in sullying our relationship with verbal aggro at this stage.

The food, when it comes, is not as bad as I had expected. Bad, but no worse than my Mum dishes out. When you have tasted my Mum’s grub then you have tasted nothing. The only seasoning she knows about is the three after spring. Rosie gave her a cookery book one Christmas and she used it to prop up the wonky leg on the dresser. That is probably why I am so generous about Mrs Caitley’s efforts. You could float a pepper pot on the brown Windsor soup and the peas should have been served with a blow-pipe, but the mixed grill is quite tasty once you put the Worcester sauce to work on it and I have no complaint about the chips.

‘Do you fancy the Bombe Surprise?’ I say to Sid who is looking around for the drinks we ordered at the beginning of the meal.

‘I’d like to drop one on that bloody wine waiter,’ he says. ‘The service in this place is diabolical.’

By the time the bloke does come we are into the coffee and Sid tells him to piss off and bring us a couple of brandies.

‘That’s going to be one of the good things about this job. We should be able to get stuck into some very nice nosh once we get the place sorted out.’

‘Amongst other things,’ I say as I watch June and what is presumably Audrey, tripping past for our little rendezvous. ‘I’m glad you decided you wanted June.’

Sid looks up and his face when he sees Audrey is a real study. This bird is a knockout and she gives us both a long, cool look which demonstrates real interest. She has long shoulder-length black hair and a sultry expression which makes me think she probably scratches. I down my brandy so quickly that I get prickles up my nose.

‘Don’t want to keep them waiting, do we?’ I say, starting to get up.

‘Timmo. Please! I thought you were beginning to understand what it’s all about. Never appear too eager. Surely you know that?’

‘Yeah, Sid. Sorry. I just wanted to get out of this place, that’s all.’

As if overhearing me, Superpoof zooms to our side and fixes me with an engaging smile. This bloke really has it all. Head cocked on one side, hand dangling limply from the wrist.

‘Can I have your room number, please. You are together, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but we’re just good friends,’ says Sid brusquely. ‘One two seven.’

‘If you’ve bought the bleeding hotel I don’t know why we didn’t have separate rooms,’ I say, as the Nancy with the laughing eyes trips off to wield his ballpoint.

‘We should have done but I just didn’t think of it. I’m so used to being skint that I forget sometimes.’

‘I’ve noticed.’

‘Don’t be cheeky. Remember who’s the gaffer round here. Right, now let’s go and sort out those birds. You take what you can get, all right? And don’t let on who we are. Say we’re sales reps, OK?’

‘What are we flogging?’

‘Cars. That sounds as if it’s got some money in it. Now, come on.’

Three hours later we are standing outside the back door of the hotel in a fine drizzle and trying to decide on our next move. Both the girls are hopelessly pissed and my judgement is not exactly faultless. Amongst other things, we have been ten-pin bowling, in which Sid got his finger stuck in the ball and nearly said goodbye to it. I will always remember him doing this great wind-up and then following the ball for the first ten yards down the alley. For a wonderful moment I thought he was going to overtake it and be the first man to make a strike with his own body.

We have also lost a fortune in small change–all mine, of course–on the pin-table machines on the pier. Very few of them seem to be working although they have no problem in gobbling up 5p pieces.

We have also done a great deal of boozing and I now think I know the inside of every pub in Hoverton. Sid has taken me out to the kasi and we have agreed that he can have first crack in our room while I nip upstairs. The bird situation is no problem because neither of us has any preference. June does seem to fancy Sid and Audrey has only drawn the line when I tried to stroke her tits in the public bar of The Three Jolly Matelots. That was when I decided I must take the water cure. Swill down as much as you can and it dilutes the alcohol. I don’t want to fall down on the job with an acute attack of brewer’s droop.

‘Where’s your key, June? Can’t you get it out?’

This salty sally reduces both girls to parrot schisms of mirth and I am soaked to the skin before the door is eventually unlocked.

‘Bloody marvellous hotels where they lock the front door at eleven,’ moans Sid.

‘You should be grateful. Saves you a lot of embarrassment. It isn’t going to do your reputation much good if the new owner is seen testing his tonk on every skivvy in the place.’

‘You’re a silver-tongued bastard, aren’t you?’ Sid slips his arm round June’s waist and we all stand there making ‘sshhssh’ noises at each other. There is hardly a light on in the place and only the horrible smell tells me that we must be near the kitchens.

I take Audrey in my arms for a warm-up snog near the foot of the stairs and press her back against the door of what turns out to be a broom cupboard. I learn this fact when we slowly topple into a welter of vacuum cleaners and tins of floor polish. Maybe I should have had some more water. When we struggle out, Sidney and June have disappeared and all I can hear is the hall clock ticking. God knows where the night porter is; not that I particularly want to meet him in my present situation.

‘Oh, you’re fantastic,’ I murmur into Audrey’s lughole. ‘Absolutely fantastic.’ This is Lea’s standard Mark I gambit and seldom needs to be followed up with anything more imaginative before the bedsprings start playing ‘Love’s Old Sweet Melody’. All birds lap up a diet of non-stop flattery if delivered with sufficient enthusiasm because it backs up their own judgement. They feel both reassured and impressed by your good taste. I know I have said this before but you can’t repeat the golden rule too often.

‘Go on with you,’ whispers Audrey. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’

‘I wish I could,’ I murmur passionately. ‘But the words would stick in my throat.’

Diabolical, isn’t it? But Audrey grabs my hand and practically drags me up the stairs. We get up to the third landing just as Sid is gently shutting the door of our room with June inside it. He gives a little wave and a thumbs-up sign and I hear the bedsprings creaking before I get to the turn in the stairs.

‘Are you going to make me a cup of Ovaltine?’ I murmur to my sultry companion.

‘Something better than that,’ she says, squeezing my thigh. At least, I think she means to squeeze my thigh but the light on the stairs is practically non-existent.

‘Don’t scream like that!’ she hisses. ‘You’ll wake everyone up.’

‘Watch what you’re doing with your hands then,’ I howl in my anguish. ‘Otherwise we’ll be making this journey for nothing.’

By the cringe, but it is big, this hotel. Another couple of flights and I am looking for Sherpa Tensing to hand me an oxygen mask. The only thing that keeps me going is the outline of Audrey’s delicious little body before me. Funny how a few days before, I was thinking that I never wanted to see another woman. Now I can hardly wait to get inside that bedroom. I stretch out my hand and run it lightly over her tulip bulb backside. This is the life. Free bed and never bored. She pauses outside a door and presses a finger to her lips. I remove it and we dissolve into a deep kiss. She puts a hand behind my thigh and pulls me towards her savagely. She does not say much, this girl, but her heart is in the right place. The rest of her is not badly situated, either. Just to make sure, I slip my hand up underneath the back of her skirt and am browsing happily as she reaches behind her and turns the knob–the doorknob, I hasten to add, though you could be excused for asking!

I press forward and imagine us doing a slow motion shuffle towards the bed as the door swings open. This is a very beautiful thought and it is therefore doubly choking when I glance inside and see that one of the two beds in the large dog’s kennel is already occupied. Occupied is perhaps the wrong word. It has a large naked man lying in it with his tonk flopped on one side, like a boiled leek. He seems to be asleep. Audrey is apparently unaware that she has a guest because she hooks her hand into the waist band of my trousers and starts to pull me into the room.

‘Hem, hem,’ I murmur with the discretion that has made the name Lea synonymous with upper crust gentility (you wouldn’t believe I only got ‘O’ level woodwork, would you?). ‘Did you know you had company?’

That bird spins round and says a few words I have not heard since Nat and Nan were last on the rampage. ‘Filthy bastard’ is the most repeatable phrase she utters.

‘A friend of yours?’

‘We finished a long time ago. He’s taking a terrible liberty.’

‘Do you want me to throw him out?’

‘No. You’d better not. I know! We’ll go round to his room. It will serve him right. He can have a nice sleep here.’

Phew! Thank goodness for that. For a moment I could see that lovely piece of nookey slipping through my fingers.

‘Wait a minute.’ There is a piece of pink ribbon lying on the dresser and I carefully slip it under the uninvited guest’s tonk and tie a floppy bow in it. Call me a romantic if you like, but it is little gestures like that that make the world a happier place to live in.

Audrey grabs my hand and leads me along the corridor and down a small flight of stairs. I bet she could find her way there blindfold if she had to.

‘Who was that?’ I whisper to her.

‘The night porter,’ she says. ‘Petheridge.’

No wonder there was no sign of anybody when we blundered into the broom cupboard. Petheridge obviously confines his activities to the upper floors.

‘He doesn’t share, does he?’ I ask nervously.

As I have said before, I am not a great one for unveiling my nasty in the presence of others than those who have been invited to witness the experience.

‘Not on Thursdays,’ she says comfortingly and pushes the door open on a small room smelling of Boots After Shave lotion. There, to my relief, is a tiny cot, empty as the day it left the great bed maker. I do not wait to look under it for burglars but pull Audrey to me and slip my hands under her skirt as if picking a mushroom. Her tongue nearly beats mine to the draw and we fondle each other like a couple of kids with their first wad of plasticine. Normally, on such occasions, I expect to play some part in removing my partner’s clothes, but this chick is such an enthusiast that she is pulling down her tights before I have unzipped a boot. In less time than it takes to sign for a registered envelope from ERNIE she is lying back on the bed with only a small heart-shaped necklet in danger of being crushed out of shape between her boobs.

‘You look lovely,’ I tell her.

‘Shut up with all that flannel,’ she says. ‘I’m not putting up a fight.’

She is right, of course. It is just that I am so used to saying it that it has become a habit with me.

I strip down to my pink candy-striped underpants–everybody is wearing them in Clapham this year–and climb on to the bed. It is not that I am modest. Just that I don’t see why the bird should not do a little work for it. Her greedy little hand slides down over my belly and I close in on her mouth. She has the most fantastic skin. Like a slightly bruised peach. I slide one hand beneath her shoulders and send the other down to do a recce for J.T. Everything seems more than ready so with a quick nibble around the bits that give baby his elevenses, I climb aboard and we motor round the bay a couple of times. She is quite a girl, this Audrey. Very strong in the pelvis and capable of opening Tizer bottles with her belly button, I should reckon. I can see why Petheridge hangs around her bedroom. It must be better than sorting out the early calls. I am trying to control myself but with this girl thudding away underneath you it is like trying to put out a forest fire with a can of petrol. She suddenly starts groaning hoarsely and then squealing so loud that everyone in the hotel must be able to hear her. Nothing turns me on faster than a woman’s moans and in no time at all I am ebbing away between her thighs, beautifully taken out of myself.

‘I can hear your heart beating,’ she murmurs.

‘Thank God,’ I say. ‘I was worried there, for a minute.’

Maybe I am getting old or perhaps it is just that I have had a busy day. Anyway, I immediately begin to feel sleepy and climb gratefully between the sheets as Audrey looks about her wistfully.

‘I think I’ll go and see if that man is still sleeping in our room,’ she says. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

I Mumble something and close my eyes as I listen to the sea hissing against the shingle–we don’t have much sand on our part of the beach. There is a shaded lamp on the table beside the bed and this bathes the room in a soft, warm glow. Lucky Timmy. The door opens and I hear Audrey come in. I do not change my position but nuzzle deeper into the pillow and make ‘I am almost asleep, please do not disturb’ noises. I will catch up with her again in the morning, Petheridge willing.

Strange that I can hear the delicious sound of nylon being peeled away from flesh. Why should Audrey have put on her tights to go up one flight of stairs? I turn my head to take a quick butcher’s and–blimey oh Riley! There, bending forward to shed her bra is the receptionist bird Sandra. The one I took an instant fancy to. She must have an understanding with Petheridge as well. No wonder the bloke sleeps so much!

Without looking towards the bed she slips out of her panties, gives a delicious little shiver that makes her tits wobble invitingly and pulls back the sheets. It is in this far-from-unattractive pose that our eyes meet for the first time that evening.

‘Oh.’ she says. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you.’

‘Me neither.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Come inside and we’ll talk about it’

She gives a little shrug and begins to climb into the bed.

‘Oh well,’ she says. ‘Life’s so short, isn’t it?’