Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

‘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.