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single occupant Monday to Friday totals four bed spaces a week. A double room accommodates two people. That’s a

      capacity for fourteen bed spaces a week. There’s a bloody big difference between the

      economics of four bed spaces compared with fourteen.”

      “So we need more weekend trade and more doubles,” I announced as if I’d discovered the secret to eternal life.

      Dad sighed. “You know, as a budding hotelier wanting to be paid you should be

      thinking more in bed spaces than room occupancy,” his voice became more aggressive. “That has an enormous impact on catering when you do actually fucking perform in that

      area!”

      I was downcast. My voice supplicant and miserable. “I’m doing my best.”

      He calmed down. “Facts are we need to fill bed spaces as opposed to only letting rooms, Son. And we need more restaurant trade.”

      I nodded.

      Our kitchen became a hive of well-organised activity. At its hub a chef who could spin a grapefruit like a potter stripping out flesh. Proportions of everything were exaggerated. Monstrous sized pots were brought into commission that had not seen the light of day since Queen Victoria was a child. In them he simmered ingredients for his Jus, a secret I soon learned sets restaurants aside from homemade food.

      I told Pandy, “Chef Peter’s about to put new flavours in our mouths. Now, I should only have to wait on table and be his prep monkey.”

      “Aye, it’ll be grand if y’learn silver service. Next door do nowt of that.”

      Tearing the arse out of his Yorkshire vowels he sounded like one of the Tetley Tea folk.

      “Okay,” I agreed. “I’ll practise on Pandy.”

      She enjoyed the game and Chef Peter was impressed with my efforts. “You’ve pulled summat of a rabbit from your hat. Aye, congratulations. Well done.”

      “A rabbit from his arse, more like,” Dad grumbled, “put a tick in your credit column, and bloody move on, for Christ’s sake.”

      I assisted Chef Peter every chance I could but that was no guarantee I would ever

      master the fine art of being a chef.

      “Aye, if mains be fish, then God help us, because nowt else can,” Chef Peter wailed, “tis a time when not cooking fish through is a soddin’ soddin’ sin, but none want summat too well done.”

      “Why Chef?” I asked.

      “Be like eating a wee wet diaper. Aye, and if veggies be consigned to soddin’

      bain-marie too early they’ll be cooked to buggery and soggy for sure. Too late and they’ll be too raw to serve. Brussels sprouts will be like Brass Monkey’s testicles.”

      After service I lit a cigarette and turned to Gramps. “Now we have a proper chef, I fail to see why I need to learn to cook at all.”

      “If you don’t master the bloody kitchen you’ll be going against your dad, and that’ll be like having the Angel of Death breathing down on you, on a daily basis.”

      “Only daily?”

      “Quality over quantity.”

      Chapter 16

      Less Square Footage

      I awoke to the dulcet tones of Dad’s voice outside my room. “Beau! Where the fuck is the hot water?” Carefully opening the door I glimpsed him descending towards the basement.

      I could almost see the black thunderous clouds gathering above his head.

      “We have plenty of cold water,” he wailed, “but who the fuck can run a hotel without hot water?”

      Gramps and I were assigned to monitor Beau’s hot water problems to buy Dad time as his liquor licence application needed urgent attention.

      “While we were a private hotel, as in unlicensed, the Council couldn’t give a toss,” Dad raved. “Now I’m applying for a simple licence to serve a few drinks to residents I’ve become the object of their undivided attention.”

      Lucky me. As Catering Manager I became the focus of a picky, ex-military, Borough Health man when the Borough Health Department came sniffing around.

      He set out to develop an in-depth interest in our old-fashioned catering facilities.

      Gramps took an instant dislike to him. “It’s his small, crooked features. Looks like they’ve been stuck on in a hurry. Like Picasso! His stutter tops him off.”

      Borough Health man had absolutely no sense of humour. He held a large note-pad crooked in his left arm, pencil poised in right hand. That annoyed Dad, which he voiced.

      After that he visited so often Gramps assigned him his own car park space.

      At each visit he became more insistent on improvements to our food preparation areas.

      “A complete makeover is imminent,” I warned Dad. “Now he wants ceramic floor tiles laid throughout!”

      Dad wanted to cover the floor boards with A grade linoleum, but Borough Health man wouldn’t have it. Dad tried his best to convince him. When that failed his intake of

      Valium increased with each visit.

      Gramps had a go at Dad. “You’ve botched it up, Son. By not blowing enough smoke up his arse. You should know their main goal in life is to be unhelpful. Should you prove them wrong it leaves their edges shabby. If you’re not careful he’ll end up gnawing away at you like he’s got a rat’s tooth.”

      Dad sighed. “You’re right. I should have known a bureaucrat spurned is like a beast

      unchained.”

      “That, or maybe he’s high on red ink,” Gramps winked at me.

      “You’d better watch out,” Gran warned Dad, “you’re going ahead as if you’ve

      already got the blessed licence. If you’re not careful you’ll be arrested and carted away.”

      On his next visit, it was raining hard. Borough Health man was in a foul mood. He’d left his umbrella at home and his reserved car space was at the far end of our car park nearest the church.

      He was soaked when he announced. “Your dumb waiter is on my growing list of

      improvements for stage two!”

      “Saving up for another rainy day is he?” Gramps frowned.

      “The bastard won’t rest until he breaks me financially,” Dad groaned.

      According to Borough Health man the dumb waiter’s shelves were to be tiled and edged by layers of premium stainless steel. Buffed to excellence and trimmed with industrial rubber edges then mitred and glued to professional perfection.

      “What he needs is my foot so far up his arse, he’ll taste it tomorrow,” Dad moaned.

      “If you do what he wants, won’t the dumb waiter be too heavy?” Gran asked.

      “Heavy all right. It’d fuck Hercules,” Gramps raged, as he took a long, last drag on his cigarette.

      “Watch your language,” Gran warned, “anyway be charitable. Maybe his underwear’s too tight.”

      “More likely something’s crawled up his arse and died, Girl.”

      After further deep thought and another cup of tea Dad had an idea. “What if we move our kitchen?”

      “Where to?” Gran looked stunned.

      “The servery next to our restaurant.”

      “Why?”

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