Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

Incidentally, one last word while I am on the subject of fiddles. If you order a gin and tonic or a whisky and dry ginger and it arrives with half the mixer slopped into it, send it back and tell the barman you would rather mix your own drink. Chances are that he has given you a half measure of spirit and topped up with tonic.

Although Sid has fallen for Miss Ruperts’ upper crust charms and is prepared to tolerate Mrs Caitley because of her, he has definitely got the needle with Superpoof, the head waiter, and it is fortunate that the spaghetti bolognese incident brings matters to a head–literally as it turns out.

As already reported, Mrs Caitley takes umbrage whenever Bentley tries to step into her sphere of influence and he is taking his life in his hands when he decides that it will be easier to serve the spaghetti bolognese if it is premixed in the kitchen. Mrs Caitley says no. Ladle the spaghetti out on to the plate, then add the meat sauce from a gravy boat. I would not be fussed either way, but when Superpoof waits until Mrs C. has been called to Miss Ruperts’ office and invades the kitchen it is like asking for his stamp collection.

I sense something unpleasant is going to happen when he comes staggering out of the kitchen with a great tureen of gunge in his hands. His face is pink and it is obvious that the kitchen staff have said a few nasty things to him.

I tighten my grip on my parmesan as he slaps the bowl down on a serving table and waves at one of the chefs du rang to get on with it. The dining room is pretty crowded by Cromby standards and in view of what is about to happen this is bad luck for everybody. As the chef du rang is about to start serving, the swing doors to the kitchen burst open. It might be a water buffalo but–even more terrifying–it is Mrs Caitley. The expression on her face makes me shrink back against the wall. Always a close contender with Miss Ruperts for the world’s ugliest woman title she is now threatening to break clear of the field. One glance at her mush and I feel like I am standing at the mouth of a cave with a tiger cub under my arm just as Mummy gets back from the butchers. Her eye falls on Bentley like a factory chimney collapsing and she eats up the distance between them in half a dozen giant paces.

‘Return to your province, Mrs Caitley,’ squeals Superpoof, retreating from the table.

‘Odious toad,’ hisses Mrs C. ‘To set foot in my kingdom is to declare war. How dare you interfere with my arrangements!’

These words are delivered in what I believe is called a stentorian bellow and every bod in the dining room freezes with his fork half way to his cakehole.

‘I am responsible for how the food is served,’ sniffs Bentley. ‘Return at once or I will have my staff eject you.’ If I am supposed to be one of his staff he can count me out. I would not back Joe Frazier against Mrs C. Current form proves me right as she feints to jab and then throws a left hook which explodes on the point of Bentley’s jaw.

‘Seize her,’ he howls, staggering backwards. There is a half-hearted shuffle from those more courageous than myself, but before any action can be taken Mrs C. has snatched up the tureen of pre-mixed spaghetti bolognese.

‘If this is what you want, you can have it,’ she howls. Whoosh! Everybody within twenty feet gets a helping and if they want seconds then Bentley is the man to come to. He is covered in the stuff and his eyes blink out like he is trapped in a cage of spaghetti.

You have to laugh but before I can get into my stride the swing doors to the kitchen burst open and reinforcements arrive. As I have said before Caitley’s Corps tend to be on the rough side and this lot do not look as if they are on their way to the Badminton Horse Trials. Crunch! Biff! Wallop! Before further words can be spoken they wade into the waiters and the guests have to fend for themselves. The bright ones scarper while others cower at their tables and two effeminate coves, trapped in a corner, slide under the table cloth at floor level.

There is never much love lost between waiters and kitchen staff and anybody who does not believe me should be standing in the dining room of the Cromby at this moment–preferably behind a sheet metal screen. Spaghetti bolognese–mixed and separate–is flying in all directions, usually still in a container, and the walls look like the site of an action painting contest. Tables collapse under the weight of the bodies struggling on them and shouts and screams of pain and fury fill the air. Many old scores are being settled and when I see Superpoof staggering past with a soup tureen wedged down over his lugholes, I reckon it must be game, set and match to Mrs Caitley. Surely this little lot will spell finito for both of them. What a wonderful opportunity for Sidney to start swinging his axe.

Crunch! The table in the corner goes and the two lank coves scuttle out holding hands. One of them is clasping a yellow wig to his chest like a woman clinging to her jewels as she leaves a burning house. Yes, it must be goodbye Bentley, goodbye Mrs C.

But, not a bit of it. Superpoof gets marching orders or resigns–there is some doubt as to which–but Mrs Caitley remains firmly in command of the kitchen.

‘She’s done a good job,’ says Sid when I complain. ‘We won’t get anyone better. Also, she has this special relationship with Miss Ruperts.’

‘You mean they’re a couple of old–’

‘No need for any of that, Timmo,’ says Sid reproachfully. ‘I am referring to their working relationship.’

‘Get rid of both of them. They’re useless.’

‘They know the business, Timmo.’

‘They’ve been giving you the business ever since we got here, Sid! What do you need them for? Anyone could make a better job of running this place. With all your Funfrall experience you could do it standing on your head.’

Sid looks haughty. ‘I am not trying to run a Funfrall operation. Something classier than that. I think Miss Ruperts has the contacts to help me. I’ve been discussing an idea with her.’

‘Selling up?’ I say, hopefully.

‘Don’t take the piss, Timmo. No, I was considering the possibility of catering for specialist groups. Conventions, clubs, conferences. That kind of thing. That way we could guarantee filling the hotel and making a few bob on fringe activities, dances, cocktail parties. See what I mean?’

I hate to admit it but Sid does seem to have the germ of an idea there. He interprets my silence correctly.

‘Not bad, is it? We could make quite a name for ourselves.’

‘Anything would be better than the Cromby. When are we going to change that?’

Sid looks shifty. ‘Well, Miss Ruperts has a great sentimental attachment to the name and–’

‘Oh, forget it, Sid. She’s got you completely under her thumb. When are you going to tell Rosie about it?’

Sid does not care for that remark and, before I can ask him more about his plans, we engage in a swift verbal punch-up which leads to me being banished to assist Martin the hall porter, commissionaire and octogenarian. This man is so past it he has to get the guests to help him carry the room keys up two flights of stairs and has been known to sit on their bed for five minutes to recover.

I am pacing up and down trying to keep out of the draught when a car squeals to a halt outside and three smartly-dressed middle-aged men sporting red carnations in their buttonholes leap out. One of them is carrying a large bunch of flowers. They ignore me and press forward to Miss Primstone.

‘I believe you have a suite reserved for Mr and Mrs Beecham?’ says one of them.

Miss Primstone never has any problem hearing upper class voices and checks her register.

‘Yes. The Pallgrave Suite.’

‘Excellent,’ purrs Smoothie-Chops. ‘They should be here any minute. From the registry office.’

He winks conspiratorially and Miss Primstone switches on her ‘Oh, young love’ expression.

‘We’ve got a few flowers we’d like to decorate their rooms with.’

‘Well, I don’t know. If you leave them with me–’

‘I know you’d do it quite beautifully.’ Smoothie-Chops’ smile would melt concrete. ‘But it’s the messages. We haven’t got much time. They’re going to be here any minute.’

I don’t like the way the tall gangling one is giggling through his stained teeth but Miss Primstone does not seem to notice that.

‘Oh, all right then. I shouldn’t really be doing this.’ She reaches behind her for the key.

‘You’re too kind.’

They brush past her, look for the lift like so many before them, and disappear up the stairs.

‘Second floor, turn right,’ calls Miss Primstone after them. She turns to me and shakes her head. ‘That’s the class of person we used to have all the time in the old days.’ She says the words as if she blames me for the fact that they don’t come any more.

I shrug my shoulders and walk away, because they don’t do anything for me and I don’t want to be drawn into any aggrochat. Five minutes later they rush past us again and Stained-Teeth is splitting his sides. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.

‘I think I’ll go up and have a look,’ I say, heading for the stairs.

‘You’re a fine one to be suspicious,’ sniffs Miss Primstone. I consider pushing her into one of the pigeon holes but eventually decide against it.

‘It’s a change to have a couple staying here you know are married,’ she continues.

Poor old Miss P. I am certain she is dying for a bit and will die before she gets it. I wish I was man enough to put her out of her misery. Maybe I could get Martin pissed one night. No, the stupid old sod is past it, too.

Before I can set foot on the stairs, there is a commotion in the hall and a distinguished grey-haired bloke enters, labouring under the weight of a suitcase. He is accompanied by a well-developed lady of mature charms wearing a too-tight two-piece. She has what I think is an orchid in her buttonhole and he sports another red carnation.

‘Leave it, Henry. Leave it,’ she drawls in a strong American accent. ‘The boy will handle it. What are you trying to prove? You won’t have the strength to carry me over the threshold if you go on like this.’ No prizes for guessing who they are.

The woman walks over to the reception and writes something in the dust. ‘Gee,’ she says, her eyes probing the gloom. ‘They said this was a delightful small watering place. I wouldn’t water a mule here.’

Miss Primstone pretends she does not hear and pushes forward the register.

‘Mr and Mrs Beecham?’

‘Jesus!’ exclaims Mrs B. ‘Did they see the label on your plasma bottle?’

Mr B. grinds out a grin. ‘Can’t keep anything a secret, can you?’ When you get him in the light he looks a lot older than her and the dark bags under his eyes have dark bags under them. Mrs B. may not be joking about the plasma.

‘Are you going to help my husband to carry those cases?’ she says. ‘I don’t think he’s going to be much use to me if he has to drag them over to the elevator.’

I decide that this is a bad moment to tell her we don’t have an elevator and bring the rest of the cases in. It is noticeable that she has about six spanking new leather jobs and he one battered ‘I saw Port Harcourt and lived’ type. I imagine that he must have some kind of appeal that is not immediately noticeable to the eye.

‘I wish you’d told me we were coming to this place, doll,’ says Mrs B. wearily as we toil up the stairs. ‘And I’d have told you we weren’t. Did Queen Elizabeth sleep here? Or was it your first wife?’

‘Place has changed a bit,’ pants hubby. ‘It’s very difficult to find anywhere at this time of year.’

‘It must be difficult to find a place like this, twice.’ Mrs B. looks me up and down, checking my physique. ‘Don’t go too far, boy. I may need you. I haven’t climbed so many stairs since I visited the Great Boulder Dam.’

We get to the door of the apartment and I fling it open–or rather, I try and fling it open, the hinges are a bit rusty.

‘Gee,’ says Mrs B. sarcastically. ‘What a pretty shade of brown. Who told you it was my favourite colour?’ She collects some more dust on the fingers of her white glove. ‘And, do you know, Henry. I think they’ve left everything just as it was from the time Queen Elizabeth slept here.’

She turns to me. ‘Have you got a telephone? I think I’ll try and ring the Grand.’

I am busy looking round the room to see if the three jokers have been up to anything, but nothing seems to have been tampered with. The flowers must be in the bedroom.

‘The telephone is in the bedroom, modom,’ I say and open the door.

Mrs B. peers inside. ‘The bed is more like it,’ she says, perking up. ‘Room for Henry the Eighth and all his wives, huh?’ The bed is indeed built on the grand scale and I am relieved to find it flanked by two vases of flowers.

Hubby is also relieved. ‘There we are, my dear. I knew you wouldn’t be disappointed.’

‘That remains to be seen,’ says the new Mrs B. pointedly. ‘Where did those flowers come from? I think somebody thought we were getting buried, not married.’

Now she comes to mention it, there do seem to be a lot of lilies and other funereal blooms.

‘It’s the thought that counts,’ murmurs Mr B.

‘That’s what worries me. I bet they came from your first wife.’

I am about to explain about the three gentlemen when Mr Beecham decides to sit on the bed. He tests its softness with his hand, gives it a pat, then turns and sits down. I remember the smile of premature satisfaction on his face as he sinks down–and down. The jokers have unscrewed the bedstead and the poor old geezer lands up on the floor with his legs in the air. There is the sound of a chamber pot shattering and a cloud of dust fills the room.

‘My God,’ says Mrs B springing back. ‘What did I tell you? It folds into an instant coffin.’

Before she can say any more, Mr B.’s groans alert us to the fact that he really has hurt himself and, eventually, when we have prised Dr McDonald away from his bottle of Scotch, we discover that the poor bloke has a badly slipped disc and must go to hospital. On his wedding night, too. What a tragedy!

At first Mrs B. threatens to sue everybody up to the Duke of Edinburgh but we quieten her down and explain what happened and she decides to concentrate her wrath on the three blokes concerned, one of whom, of course, turns out to be the bridegroom’s best man. They nicked the flowers from a local graveyard. Oh well, I expect it seemed a good idea at the time.

On her return from the hospital Mrs B., or Sadie as I learn she is called, tries to book in at the Grand and the Imperial but they are both full. Thwarted in her attempt to escape, she retires to her apartment and orders a bottle of Bourbon to be sent up.

‘And send the cute one,’ she says, meaning me.

When I get there she has taken her jacket off and is revealing a shapely pair of bristols lunging against a halter neck jumper.

‘Put it down there,’ she says meaning the tray. ‘Boy, I wasn’t expecting too much, but I was hoping for better than this.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ I say. ‘The bed is all right now, isn’t it?’

‘Do you think we should check it? No, don’t look so alarmed. I was only joking. Tell me, what’s a good-looking boy like you doing in a place like this?’

‘It belongs to my brother-in-law. He’s just taken it over.’

‘He should try taking it over the side of a cliff. I wouldn’t put up my last husband in a dump like this.’

I don’t have an answer for that and she pulls a packet of cigarettes out of her handbag.

‘I expect you’re asking yourself what a beautiful dame like me is doing getting hitched to Beecham when I could have my pick of any man in the world.’ She watches my adam’s apple as I swallow. ‘You’re right. I’m lonely. Nobody wants to marry people of my age. Take them out, sleep with them, sure. But I want someone to talk to in the long winter evenings. In a few years I’m going to have problems finding three clean old ladies to play bridge with. Do you know how many times I’ve been married?’

I shake my head.

‘This is the fourth. Four times. The only one I loved gave me one night of heaven and the next morning there was just a hole in the bed where he had been. I never saw him again. He took everything I had–even my clothes–I loved that bastard.’ She glugs some more Bourbon into her tumbler. ‘You don’t know what to say, do you? Have a drink, it’ll loosen your tongue.’

‘No thanks. I think I’d better be getting along.’

‘You’re a shy boy, aren’t you?’ The truth is that with her I am. Give me some innocent little scrubber who says ‘Oh, Timmy you’re smashing. I don’t half fancy you’ and I am all over her. But this bird has had four husbands–well, three and a half, anyway–and talks as if she could eat three of me for breakfast. I feel Percy slinking away with his tail between my legs, and make for the door.

‘I’ll take dinner in the apartment,’ she says grandly. ‘And you’d better bring it up.’

Just as long as you don’t, I think to myself as I go downstairs. It is Mrs Caitley’s night off and the bloke who stands in would be pushed to win a cooking contest against my Mum. I have seen him turning over an egg in his hand as if looking for the instructions.

That afternoon I have a swim and report back to the hotel about six-thirty. Sure enough, Sadie has phoned down her order and asked for it to be brought to her room by me at eight o’clock sharp.

‘I theenk mybe I shoulda handle theez one myself,’ says the new Head Waiter who is (would you believe?) Italian and obviously very hot on the frippet.

‘No, no, Senor Luigi,’ I lie. ‘I promised her old man I would see she was all right. I’d better do as she says.’

‘But I have much experience of American ladies.’

I bet you do, mate, I think to myself. Three coins in the fountain–and about forty-eight pairs of knickers.

In the end I practically have to wrench the tray away from him. I mean, I don’t reckon anything is going to happen, but if by chance it does, I want it to happen to me and not to some blooming Eyetie.

I run a moist finger along my eyebrows and tap on the door. I have a feeling that Sadie will be spread out on the bed wearing a long frilly negligee, but I am wrong. She is standing by the repaired bed and gazing down at a long frilly negligee that is lying on top of it.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ she says as I cough discreetly in the doorway. ‘Too bad he isn’t going to see it for a few days. I suppose I could wear it round to the hospital under a long coat. Whip it open and whee! They don’t have lady flashers, do they?’

I shake my head. ‘I’ve never seen one. Where are you going to eat?’

‘Oh, put it down over there. It’s not going to get cold, is it?’ She is right there because everything she has ordered is from the cold plate. A wise choice as I have already indicated. ‘Now–what’s your name?’

‘Lea–Timothy Lea.’

‘Well, Tim … I’d like you to join me in a drink. You do have a few moments, don’t you? It’s my wedding night and I want to have a good time!’ She looks away and bites her lip and for a moment I think I am going to have to whip out the handkerchief again. Blimey, but you need to be a man of many parts in this game. Guide, philosopher and fiend, as Ted Hotchkiss used to say at Melody Bay.

‘That’s very kind of you. Thanks.’

A glance at the liquid left in the bourbon bottle tells me that it has been sinking faster than the country’s gold reserves. Mrs Beecham has obviously been drinking to forget her sorrows. Not that I blame her. A wedding night with Mr B. would not be my idea of the first prize on the back of a cornflakes packet, but it is better than being on your tod.

‘He was all right, was he?’ I say conversationally.

‘Henry? Do you mean in the sack or when I saw him in hospital? Oh, sorry. You’re blushing again. Yes, he seemed OK He couldn’t move much but his stiff upper lip was still bend-proof. I suppose that’s one of the things that appealed to me about the guy when I first met him. That and his background. He’s very well connected, you know.’ She smiles. ‘I mean, family-wise. Practically an aristocrat. That’s what I need, a touch of class.’ She runs a finger lightly down my nose. ‘Have you got class?’

‘Not that kind.’

‘No, you’re more the noble savage type, aren’t you? Do you get pestered by lots of ladies?’

‘Not as far as the paying customers are concerned. Most of them have to be lifted into their bath chairs.’

‘What a shame. You want to get a job in a cruise boat–or somewhere in the south of France. That way your talents could be really exploited.’

‘I don’t have any trouble being exploited. My brother-in-law is an expert at it.’

Mrs B. looks as if she is about to say something, and then changes her mind.

‘He drives you hard, huh?’

‘Yes. He’s going to make a million before he’s finished.’

Mrs B. helps herself to another shot and, as an afterthought, tosses the remainder of the bottle into my glass.

‘Do you know what I’d like to do now?’

There is a faint flush about her throat which may have something to do with the twenty-six fluid ounces of booze inside her and her not inconsiderable tits are jostling each other to get at me. Yes, I do know what she would like to do now.

‘No,’ I say innocently.

‘I’d like to lay you,’ she says fervently. ‘I’d like to take your firm young body and give it the fruits of my years of experience.’

I should be jumping up and down and clapping my hands together but the minute she starts talking about years of experience I begin to get nervous again. What was nice about Mrs Daphne Richards was that I was in control. I was giving her the fruits of my years of experience. Too often these days, I am being used as a sort of dildo on legs. I must write to my MP about it when I get a moment.

‘Take off that ridiculous little jacket,’ says Mrs Beecham. ‘It’s too tight for you across the shoulders.’

‘Thanks for the drink,’ I say. ‘Ring when you want the tray picked up.’

Mrs B.’s eyes open wide. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you want me?’

‘It’s not that.’

‘Are you queer, or something?’

‘No, of course I’m not. I just don’t like being taken for granted, that’s all.’

‘But baby–’ She comes towards me and slides her arms round my neck.

‘Mrs Beecham. You’re drunk and you’d be better off in bed–alone.’ I don’t mean to sound so pious but once I get into my stride there is no holding me. It is as if I am getting the satisfaction I might have got in bed from being unkind to her. Vere interesting eh, Herr Doctor?

I remove her hands and turning on my heel, make for the door. Immediately, Mrs B. bursts into tears. ‘Don’t leave me,’ she sobs. ‘Not now, I couldn’t stand it. I’m sorry if I offended you. I just need to be with someone. I don’t want to be alone.’ She collapses on to a sofa and the whole upper part of her body is shaking in time with her sobs. Very impressive it is, too. The minute she starts doing that my whole attitude changes. My frustrated desire to dominate is unlumbered and a happy urge to rip her knickers off flows through my system. Any bird who starts crying when I am around stands a good chance of making an appointment with Percy. Nasty, aren’t I? Careful! I heard that.

‘Why don’t you have something to eat?’ I say not unkindly. ‘I looked out a nice piece of turkey for you.’ I extend an arm and take her hand but she does not move; just squeezes my fingers tight. I sit down beside her and tilt her head up.

‘Come on, cheer up. I’m sorry, too. I know how you must feel. I came over a bit narky, that’s all.’ I take out my handkerchief–there’s posh for you–which by some miracle is fairly clean and start dabbing at the make-up smudges under her eyes.

‘You look as if you work in a coal mine.’ It is not the funniest joke ever made, but it raises a smile.

‘Stop crying, I can’t keep up with you.’

She is beginning to relax a bit now. Still quivering, but blinking fast to stop the flow of tears. Women in such a condition give off a very back-to-nature pong which turns me on like the Blackpool Illuminations. I can feel myself wilting. No, not wilting. That is completely the wrong word. I can feel my determination to push off disappearing faster than Ted Heath’s re-election prospects. The rest of me is coming on strong.