Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

‘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.