Confessions from a Hotel
BY TIMOTHY LEA

Contents

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Also available in the CONFESSIONS series

About the Author

Also by Timothy Lea & Rosie Dixon

Copyright

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

I don’t know how you would handle four weeks on a tramp steamer with a couple of nymphomaniacs, but I was right knackered at the end of it, I can tell you. The second mate was carried off the boat on a stretcher, and he managed to barricade himself in his cabin after the first week. By the cringe, it was a voyage and a half. Now I know what they mean when they say ‘see Naples and die’. Nat and Nan found me skulking in an empty lifeboat the night before we docked and I nearly kicked the bucket with my first glimpse of Mount Vesuvius. Talk about insatiable–I can now, because I looked it up in the dictionary–if those two birds were rabbits it would not have needed myxomatosis to kill off half the male bunny population. I am not unpartial to a bit of the other but–blimey! There is a limit. After the first couple of hours it is becoming more a penance than a penis, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, for the sake of those of you who missed my capers as a Holiday Host with Funfrall Enterprises, I had better explain what I am on about. My period of service on an island off the Costa Brava had come to an end for a number of reasons–not the least of them being that my Dad had burned down the camp. Accidentally, of course. Everything Dad does is an accident, which accounts for how I happen to be about to write this. Anyway, that is another story and I would be the last person to put anybody off their cornflakes by telling it.

My presence on the boat with Nat and Nan–my pen starts shaking uncontrollably every time I write their names–is occasioned by me being left to clear up after the blaze. Once I have sifted all the dentures out of the ashes and paid off the local labour, I am expected to make my way home on a battered tramp steamer calling at every port in the Mediterranean. I would not normally be the first person to start whining about such treatment, were it not for the presence of the deadly duo already alluded to. Also, another lively bird called Carmen who fortunately gets homesick after a couple of days and dives overboard to join a passing fishing boat. Nat and Nan have the same attitude towards sex as those small birds that eat ten times their own weight every day, only in their case, forget small birds and substitute bleeding great vultures. Not that they are unattractive, oh, dear me, no. They are beautiful girls and living tributes to the efficacy of National Health Milk and free dental care. The only trouble is that they do have this disconcerting habit of tearing the trousers off every bloke they meet. And on a few thousand square feet of tramp steamer it gets so it is not worth putting your trousers on again. Your turn is going to come up in another few minutes, buster, so lie back and enjoy it.

Luckily, I have had experience of these girls (I laugh hollowly as I write that) and for the first few days I manage to keep out of the way while the crew run amok. By the end of the first week they are running a mile. Every time the Terrible Twins come round a corner, the sleek smiles slide off their greasy faces faster than blobs of fat off a hot plate. By the end of the second week they are threatening mutiny and by the end of the third week they have twice tried to abandon ship in a lifeboat. One bloke dives overboard the minute we get into the Bay of Naples. How he finds the strength to reach shore, I will never know.

My attempts to avoid being pressed into service–a not altogether happy, but very accurate description of what takes place–founder on my natural desire for food. I am intercepted on a sneaky trip to the galley and from that moment on I am making progress towards a frayed tonk like every other male on board.

By the time we get to Liverpool I never want to see another woman as long as I live–or at least two weeks–and the crew have burned all their pin-ups. The captain has not been seen for four days. Every time anybody taps on the door of his cabin a feeble voice keeps repeating–‘Don’t let them get me. Remember the RNVR.’ The poor basket has obviously gone round the twist.

When we get to Scouseland and can actually see the Liver Building the crew fall on their knees like pilgrims getting their first eyeful of Mecca. There is hardly an Englishman amongst them but they all know that this is where the girls get off. The expression of unspeakable joy on their faces as we go down the gangplank is something I will always remember.

My own feelings are typical of those of any son of Albion returning to the land of his birth–bitter disappointment. When I was on the Isla de Amor I could not wait to feel the native sod under my feet but now as I see some of the native sods in person I wish I was back in the land of the antique plumbing. At least there was sunshine there and I could not understand the newspaper headlines. My tan has been fading since the Bay of Biscay and Mum and Dad and Scraggs Lane seem about as tempting as two weeks in a leper colony.

But that is not my immediate problem. Having seen Nat and Nan closing fast with a group of unsuspecting dockers, I have legged it off in the opposite direction and made my way swiftly to Lime Street station. This being the point of departure for The Smoke, and the bosom of my family. It is mid-morning and British Rail’s excellent inter-city service is decidedly under-patronised. I buy a copy of a book called John Adam–Samurai, which looks as if it has a few juicy moments, and settle down to a couple of hours of peace and quiet. Outside the compartment the sun is breaking through and my spirits begin to lift. Maybe dear old England is not so bad after all.

‘Ah, so there you are! Creeping off without saying goodbye. That wasn’t very kind to your little playmates, was it?’

‘Decidedly unkind, I should say. Not the sort of behaviour Uncle Giles would like, eh Sis?’

Yes, folks; it is Nat and Nan, the girls who gave up the idea of group marriage because they could not find a group large enough. I should mention that the Uncle Giles they refer to is Sir Giles Slattery, Chairman of Funfrall Enterprises, the grave concern that is employing me–and hopefully paying me some much needed moola for my heroic efforts during the last few weeks.

‘After all, we’ve been through,’ says Nat reproachfully.

‘Speak for yourself,’ I snarl. ‘Now for God’s sake leave me alone. You lay one finger on me and I’ll pull the communication cord.’

‘It won’t do any good, darling. The train isn’t moving yet. I’m very disappointed in you, Timmy. I thought we had a chance of liberating you but you’re still very uptight, aren’t you?’ That is another thing about these nutty birds. They believe that if everybody sublimated their aggressions in sexual activity there would be no more wars. That is their excuse, anyway.

‘Take your hand out of my trousers,’ I say. ‘Uptight? After what I’ve had to endure in the last four weeks? I’m slacker than a four-inch nut on a toothpick.’ Nat draws away from me reproachfully and the train jerks into motion.

‘I was hoping we were going to be able to put in a glowing report about you to Uncle Gilesy,’ she says. ‘But if you persist in continuing to be a reactionary slave to bourgeois convention…’ She shakes her head sadly.

‘What do you mean?’ I say nervously.

‘I mean, Timmykins, we may have to tell Nunky that you were very naughty on the boat. That you forced us to cohabit with the crew.’

‘Forced! Those poor bastards are paddling that boat out to sea with their bare hands in order to get away from you.’

‘They did have problems,’ says Nat sadly.

‘They did have. But they don’t any longer. When are you two birds going to wise up to the fact that everybody doesn’t want to get laid all the time?’

‘We could say he confessed to burning down the camp,’ says Nan.

‘Hey, wait a minute!’

‘That’s a good idea. Uncle Gilesy won’t like that, will he?’

‘Timmy will go to prison for arson. Poor Timmy.’

‘You do that and I’ll–’ I rack my brains for something I will do.

‘You’ll do what?’ says Nan. ‘There’s nothing you can tell Uncle Giles about us that he doesn’t know already.’

‘On the other hand, we might suggest some form of bonus as being in order. Nunky is very hot on rewarding loyal staff.’

‘And I’m just very hot,’ says Nat, beginning to pull down the blinds.

‘Just for Auld Lang Syne,’ says Nan, as she starts to undo my shirt buttons. ‘We may never see each other again.’

‘You’re dead right there,’ I say. ‘Once this bleeding thing stops, you’ll need running shoes to keep up with me.’

‘He’s beautiful when he’s mad, isn’t he?’ says Nat.

‘Beautiful. Come on, give us a little kiss.’

Outside the landscape is flashing past at about eighty miles an hour, otherwise I might try to throw myself through the window.

‘Somebody’s going to come,’ I gulp.

‘You never know your luck.’

‘I mean a ticket collector or somebody.’

‘Well, we’ve all got tickets, haven’t we? It just says don’t lean out of the window. And we’re not going to do it hanging out of the window, are we?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Nat thoughtfully. ‘It sounds rather fun. Supposing–’

‘No!’ I scream. ‘Oh my God. What am I going to do?’

‘We know you know the answer to that one,’ soothes Nan. ‘Remember how much fun it was on the beach?’

‘Yes. But there weren’t millions of people wandering about there.’

‘The train is empty, darling.’

‘We could go in one of the loos,’ says Nan, ‘but I hate stand-up quickies and it would be awfully cramping.’

I look at the pictures of some Scottish river on the wall and wish I could be there. The cool water closing over my head–

‘So, you’re going to say something good about me, are you?’ I say. I mean if there is going to be no escape, I might as well get the best deal I can.

‘I hope so, love-bunny,’ murmurs Nat into my half-nibbled ear. ‘Now, let’s see if you’re going to be a good boy.’

Her hand fondles the region of my thigh and finds what it is looking for. ‘Oh yes, I like that.’

‘Me too.’ Nan pops open the buttons of my jeans and slips her hand into the one-way system of my Y-fronts. ‘You shouldn’t wear these,’ she scolds. ‘You should let him breathe.’

‘He seems to be coming up for air now,’ says Nat with interest, as she starts yanking down my pants.

That’s the amazing thing about my John Thomas. It seems to lead an existence totally independent of the rest of me. My brain may be saying run for the hills but my J.T. never seems to hear it. Given the presence of a friendly lady it will lumber fitfully into an upright position and stand there waiting for the best to happen. At moments like this its touching eagerness to please is beyond price.

‘I’m on a bonus, then, am I?’

‘You should be doing this for love, not money,’ says Nat as she helps my jeans over my heels. ‘We really have failed with you, haven’t we?’

‘You’re blackmailing me, so you can’t talk.’

‘I don’t want to talk, angel. I want you to start probing me with your lovely instrument.’

‘You always go first,’ sniffs Nat.

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Yes you do.’

‘Alright. We’ll toss for it. Which ball have I got in my hand?’

‘The left one.’

‘You looked.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Do you mind!’ I interrupt. ‘I’m not a bloody bumper car, you know.’

‘You give a much smoother ride, don’t you Timmy?–oh look!’

She is referring to the way my J.T. leaps into the air in sympathy when one of the blinds suddenly whips up. I am more engrossed by the faces of the two old ladies who are trotting down the corridor at the time. By the cringe! There are only about half a dozen people on the train and two of them have to be passing at a moment like this. One of them turns away so fast I think her nut is going to twist off. That must be it. A quick trip to the guard and I will be spending the next four months in the chokey for indecent exposure. What a bleeding marvellous way to arrive in the old country. Sir Giles is going to be really chuffed and I can just see the welcome I will get from Mum and Dad–not that their behaviour on the Isla de Amor was anything to write to the Archbishop of Canterbury about.

‘Pull it down!’ I yelp.

‘I’m moving as fast as I can, darling.’

‘I mean the blind!’

‘Look, no panties.’

‘I did notice.’

‘Isn’t Timmy lovely, Nat?’

‘Gollumptious, Nan.’

‘He looks good enough to eat.’

‘You took the words right out of my fevered imagination.’

‘Oh no,’ I gasp as they press me down under the combined weight of their bodies.

‘For God’s sake pull down the blind.’

At last one of them reaches behind her and does as I ask and I must confess that there are worse ways to travel. With those two birds browsing over my flesh I feel like an aniseed ball that has been chucked over the wall of Battersea Dog’s Home. Two hands are better than one–and four! Well, I will let your imagination develop muscles thinking of the merry tricks we get up to in that compartment. Would you believe that one girl could hang from the rack while the other–no, it sounds too far-fetched, doesn’t it? Not the kind of thing that a couple of refined tarts who went to Cheltenham Ladies’ College would get up to. But believe me, mateys, not every bird you meet with calluses on her hand got them from digging her old man’s vegetable patch.

‘Now do it to me, Timmy. Oh, Timmy, Timmy, Timmy. That’s heaven. I’d like to have my own private chuffer train so we could do this all the time.’

Do that and I will pray for a bleeding rail strike every week, I think to myself. I don’t know how I keep pace with them, really I don’t. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I don’t really fancy them. I mean, they are fantastic birds looks-wise, but there is something so brazen about them that it can never be anything more than a straightforward up and downer. I find it very easy to poke birds when I give my old man his head and let him get on with it–as I have said, he does that most of the time anyway. It is when my mind starts to reckon a bird as well that it begins to foul up my natural impulses. It happened with a bird called Liz I used to go with when I was cleaning windows. I was on the point of marrying her when my poxy brother-in-law Sid introduced her to his nasty and put the kibosh on everything. You know, I was really stretched to get anywhere with that bird. And all because I fancied her too much. Beats anything you read in the Reader’s Digest doesn’t it? Oh well, please yourself.

Anyway, there I am putting up a fantastic fight on the floor of the 10.42 when suddenly the ticket collector lights upon the scene–as they say in the teenage romances. To be honest, I regard him as an angel of mercy because I am on the point of surrender. A man can take so much, but giving it is another matter.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he says, all taken aback and disgusted.

The two miserable old crones are craning over his shoulder photographing every inch of flesh for their memory banks.

I feel like telling the bloke that if he does not know what we are doing he would do well to consult one of the many manuals available from reputable bookshops or consider entering a monastery. Either that or find out what his old woman gets up to when she tells him she is going out to tree-felling classes.

But I don’t. Mainly because I am in a position which makes speech rather difficult.

‘We’re screwing, you prick,’ says Nan. ‘Why don’t you get back to your cell and take those two leering slag heaps with you?’

‘You want to watch your tongue, young lady,’ says the stalwart servant of British Rail sternly. I was about to say the same thing, but for a different reason.

‘Throw off your serge and live,’ says Nat whose principles go a bit deeper than Nan’s (eg more than the standard six inches). ‘Liberate yourself! Remove your serf rags! This is the only union worth joining.’

I don’t fancy this joker joining us because he is definitely not the type of person I would invite to any gang bang I was thinking of attending. That is the thing about group sex. It is not the birds I worry about. It is the other blokes. Very nasty!

But luckily I don’t have to worry. Our new friend is definitely not interested in participating.

‘I am going to have to ask you for your names and addresses,’ he says haughtily.

Blimey! Here we go. Hardly an hour in the country and I’m halfway to the nick already.

In the background the old birds are twittering away about how they knew this would happen once the socialists nationalised the railways and it is obvious they have not had such a good time since they poked an Empire Loyalist in the goolies with an umbrella at the Conservative Conference of 1952.

‘If you don’t piss off,’ says Nan, ‘I’ll go and do something unmentionable in the First Class dining car.’

I must say that they are a remarkable couple of birds because they actually get the poor sod to push off on condition that we will give him our addresses when we have got our clothes on. The old birds don’t like this at all but nothing short of instant birching would really satisfy them. I hope I don’t get quite so vicious when I am that age. Still, with a few more like Nat and Nan about I don’t reckon I stand a chance of getting past thirty.

Having a teeny-weeny criminal record for lead-nicking when I was an easily contaminated youth I am not keen to give my name and address to anyone, and have been known to fill in a false monicker on the stubs of raffle tickets. I am therefore relieved that I get my trousers on just as the chuffer pulls into Rugby. Wasting no time I zip up my credentials and grab my suitcase.

‘Well, girls,’ I say. ‘Nice knowing you. Give my regards to Sir Giles. I’ll come round and collect my bonus. Do me a favour and don’t mention Funfrall to Punchy, will you?’

‘You’re not running away?’

‘Living to fight another day. It sounds better.’

‘But Uncle Gilesy will take care of everything. We won’t drop you in it. Honestly we won’t.’

‘I know you mean well, girls, but I also know how things can go wrong. That was how I landed in the nick last time.’

‘You have a criminal record. How super!’

‘Yeah. Longer than Ravel’s Bolero. Now, I must be off.’

The thought of me being Public Enemy Number One obviously turns them on like a fire hose and I have a real job to get out of the door before the train pulls out.

‘We’ll see you, Timmy!’ they holler. ‘Remember! Screw for peace!’

I wish they had not said that because I get a few very old-fashioned glances from the rest of the people on the platform. This is bad enough but worse is to come. On the way to the buffet, I bump into the two old harpies who were having a butcher’s at our love fest. I am surprised that they can recognise my face but there is no doubt that it is firmly emblazened on their memories. They both turn the colour of pillar boxes and grab each other’s arms. Never slow to give total offence, I plunge my hand into my trouser pocket and wait for their eyes to roll across the platform.

‘Have you got a two-penny piece for two pennies?’ I say, eventually withdrawing my pandy, and watch their faces relax into apoplexy. I hop off sharpish before they start any aggro and get the next train with a cup of char and a wad inside me. By the cringe, but it is exotic fare that British Rail dish up for you these days. The bloke in front of me complains because the sultanas in his bun are dead flies. ‘Dey was fresh in today, man,’ says the loyal servant of the Raj who provides for him. I still don’t know if he is referring to the flies.

I get back to Paddington about four o’clock and then it is the last stage of my journey back to Scraggs Lane. I had considered going straight to my penthouse flat in Park Lane but decided that it would break mother’s heart if she did not see me right away. England, home and duty.

I am a bit uneasy about seeing Mum again after her behaviour with that bearded old nut in the Isla de Amor. I mean, this permissive society bit is all right for people of our age, but your own mother! Frankly, I find it disgusting. I mean, I would not set Dad up on a pederast but he is her husband. Gallivanting about in the woods with some naked geezer is not my idea of how my Mum should behave–even if she is on holiday. Of course, I blame the papers myself. All these stupid old berks read about the things young people are supposed to be doing and decide to grab themselves a slice of the action before it is too late.

Dad, I can understand. It was no surprise to find him in that woman’s hut and I was amazed it took him so long to burn the camp down. I would have thought that he would have packed a can of kerosene with his knotted handkerchief, poured it over the first building he came to and woof! The whole bleeding thing over in one quick, simple gesture. But Mum, she was a surprise. I don’t think I will ever get over that.

‘Hello, Timmie love!’

It is my sister Rosie who opens the door which is another surprise. Rosie behaved with the lack of restraint that characterises the normal English rose on holiday and her relationship with the singing wop, one Ricci Volare–and you don’t want more than one, believe me–was hardly what you might call platonic–even if you knew what it meant.

In other words, the two Lea ladies had let the side down something rotten. Like justice they had not only been done but seen to be done.

Rosie is married to my brother-in-law, Sidney Noggett, once my partner in a humble window-cleaning business, now an aspiring and perspiring business tycoon–or maybe it should be typhoon if that means a big wind–with Funfrall Enterprises who you know about.

‘Where’s Mum?’ I ask.

‘Standing on her head against the wall.’

‘She’s what?’

‘She’s taken up yoga.’

‘Oh blimey.’

‘Yes. She wants to find herself. Reveal the complete woman.’

‘I’ve just left two like that. She’s all right, is she?’ I tap my nut.

‘Oh yeah. She says some bloke on the island put her on to it.’

‘Oh my gawd. He hasn’t shown up has he?’

‘No, of course not. What is the matter with you?’

‘Nothing, nothing. It just doesn’t seem like Mum, that’s all.’

‘I think the holiday really did something for her. They say travel broadens the mind, you know.’

‘Yeah. You can say that again. I think I’m going to stay at home for a bit.’

As she talks, Rosie’s eyes begin to glaze over and I reckon she is thinking of Mr Nausea.

‘I thought it was marvellous out there. The heat, the different people you met–’

‘How’s Sid?’ I say hurriedly. I mean, I am not president of his fan club, but I do reckon you have got to stick up for your own flesh and blood. Once Clapham’s answer to Paul Newman starts getting two-timed, then what hope is there for the rest of us? Into the Common Market and–boom! boom!–hordes of blooming dagos leaving wine glass stains all over your old lady. That is not nice, is it? On the evidence of Mum and Rosie you might as well forget about birds and start carving models of the Blackpool Tower out of chicken bones. Of course, it may just have been the weather. Get your average Eyetie or Spaniard over here and his charms probably shrivel up before he has half-filled his hot water bottle.

‘He’s upstairs,’ she says. ‘Recovering.’

‘Recovering?’

From what? I ask myself. I knew he was having a big Thing with this bird on the island, but she looked a very hygienic lady to me. I mean, I cannot believe that she had–

‘You can see him in a minute.’

‘Oh God. What’s he doing here? Why isn’t he lording it back at your country house in Streatham?’

‘We’ve sold it.’

‘Sold it?’

‘Yeah, you can talk to him about that an’ all. Do you want to see Mum?’

‘Naturally.’

I follow Rosie through to the front room–which has not changed, right down to my knee marks on the fireside rug–and there is Mum. I would have had difficulty recognising tier because she is indeed standing on her head with her feet resting against the wall. Her dentures are on the carpet in front of her head like some kind of name plate.

‘Hello Ma,’ I say. ‘It’s me, Timmy. Glad to see you get your knickers from Marks and Sparks. How’s it going then?’

Quite a warm greeting from an only son, locked from his mother’s eyes through five long weeks, I am certain you will agree. I look down at the carpet for signs of tear stains beginning to appear but I am disappointed.

‘Timmy love, never interrupt me when I’m meditating. There are some fish fingers in the fridge.’

And that is all I get. Talk about the younger generation. It is the older generation I am worrying about.

‘I’d better see Sid then, I suppose. What’s the matter with him?’

‘He was shot trying to escape from a prisoner of war camp.’

‘Oh yeah, very funny.’ You have to hand it to Rosie, she is getting a whole new sense of humour. Very satirical.

‘I was shot trying to escape from a prisoner of war camp,’ says Sid when I ask him. ‘It was one of Slat’s ideas. You know he was mad keen on the Blitz and starting holiday camps in deserted tube stations with sirens and muzac by courtesy of World War II?’

‘I remember something about it.’

‘Well, that was just the beginning. When he really thought about it, he came up with Prisoner of War Camps. When you settled up for your holiday you were issued with a rank according to how much you had paid. For two hundred quid you could be C.O. It didn’t make any bloody difference to the food you got but people are crazy about status, aren’t they? Instead of Holiday Hosts you had guards and that cut down on the organisation because they didn’t organise games. They just tried to stop you escaping. Every intake was given a spade and a pair of wire clippers and there was a prize at the end of the fortnight for who got farthest.’

‘How did you get shot?’

‘To get a bit of publicity at the beginning, they got a real German prison camp guard. Well, you know what the Krauts are like. Very thorough. They like to give value for money. I was trying to whip up a bit of enthusiasm for an assault on the electrified fence and he shot me.’

‘He might have killed you!’

‘He said he was doing it for my own good. You see, the fence really was electrified. Slattery reckoned that some dodgy bugger could take advantage and get his two weeks for nothing if you didn’t deincentivise him.’

‘Didn’t what?’

‘It’s a word I learnt on one of Funfrall’s bleeding courses. You can have it. I’m not going to need it any more.’

‘Have you been invalided out?’

‘I’ve resigned with honour.’

‘Why, Sid? You were doing so well.’

‘Breathing is what I do best, Timmo, and I want to make a career of it. My next posting was going to be Kew Gardens.’

‘Kew Gardens!’

‘Yes. They wanted to get Malaysia but Eye Twang Knickers, or whatever his name is, wouldn’t play ball. You see, Timmo, when my number nearly came up they got more applications from people who wanted to be guards than prisoners. It’s understandable when you think about it, you know what I mean? Much more fun machine-gunning people and setting guard dogs on them than it is digging bleeding tunnels. Sir Giles saw that straight away. First of all, he tried to get the Japs to start another Death Railway and promised them cheap labour–but they thought it would be bad for their car exports so in the end he had to settle for the Hot House at Kew. Two bananas and a survival pack is four hundred guineas with cremation at the crematorium of your choice thrown in for nothing. Up on the cat walk with your Hirohito forage cap and a Nippon issue rifle is six hundred guineas or you can have the intermediate, “Jungle Boy” holiday, Dyak blow pipe and a plastic shrunken head for every camper you knock off. Personally, I thought it was going a bit too far. Specially when they said I was going to be umpire. I mean, get a few light ales in that lot and they’d open up on anything. So I said bugger it and handed in my armband.’

‘So you’ve jacked it in, Sid?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Going to leave you a bit short, isn’t it?’

‘Well, I thought of that, didn’t I? I told Sir Giles straight. I said “you can’t go around having your senior executives shot by blood-crazed Krauts and expect to leave a nice taste in everybody’s mouth.”’

‘Right, Sid.’

‘Especially if they are reading about it in the News of the People. I mean, it gets around.’

‘You were approached were you, Sid?’

‘Not exactly approached, Timmy. But I have a few contacts. Know what I mean?’

‘Oh yeah. So Sir Giles paid up, did he?’

‘In a manner of speaking, yes, Timmo. What he really did was to indemnify me against the enormity of the mental and physical suffering I had endured in the course of pursuing my duties in a manner calculated to further enhance the unbesmirched reputation of Funfrall Enterprises.’

‘Blimey Sid, did you say all that?’

‘No, Timmy, my solicitor did. Very good bloke he is and all. I’ll give you an introduction if you ever need one.’

Solicitors? Sidney is really beginning to motor. Another couple of weeks and he’ll be tearing crumpets with the Queen Mother.

‘So you grabbed a nice helping of moola, did you, Sid?’

‘Nosey basket, aren’t you? Yes, if you must know. I did accept a settlement. But not in cash, mind.’

‘What, then?’

‘I bought a hotel.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘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.

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