скачать книгу бесплатно
CHAPTER TWO (#uf8682f0b-f7a4-5e55-929a-1dfec116ab11)
‘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.’
