LITMIR.BIZ

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hollow-cheeked man with narrow, wizened hands and tidy, slicked-down hair. He wore a charcoal grey chalk stripe suit that had seen better days with a colourful clip on bow tie. He looked as gaunt and melancholy as a scarecrow.

      His wife was a frumpy, bespectacled woman wearing a faded pleated skirt and woollen twin-set. They entered our refurbished bedroom, hesitant, faltering and unsure.

      He took a long, hard look around the room.

      We stood back positively beaming with pride at our efforts.

      After a short pause, he cleared his throat and announced. “No! We don’t like it!”

      Absolute silence.

      Were they demented! What wasn’t there to like?

      We must have looked as dumb as potted plants.

      Hollow-cheeked man explained. “It’s too white.”

      Too white? How can white be too white? Bastards!

      “Too bright,” added his wife, through half closed eyes.

      Too bright? It’s clean is what it is, with a decent size electric light bulb! Bitch!

      “We don’t like the brightness.” She raised an arm as if to shield her eyes, “Dazzling, white paint hurts our eyes.”

      My god they actually preferred gloomy as in multiple shades of brown.

      “And you can take that blasted thing away,” hollow-cheeked man pointed at the brand new colour television set in pride of place. “We don’t like that thing.”

      With their faces pinched as if a sewer pipe had burst under their noses they left to return to their dismal brown room.

      Dad struck a match to ignite his pipe. He was visibly shaken.

      “They don’t like colour television,” I added, “neither BBC nor ITV. Incredible.”

      “And they’ve not the slightest inclination to change,” Dad groaned. “Whatever

      happened to Welcome to Television.”

      Tears filled Pandy’s eyes, her lower lip trembled. “How could anyone not like TV? Daddy, surely everyone loves television.”

      Gran rallied. “They obviously don’t follow Ena Sharples on Coronation Street, that’s all I’ll say.”

      “More likely they don’t want to pay £9 a week, Girl.”

      Gran was thoughtful. “You’re probably right you know. £6 or less is what they expect to pay. It’s not really that they prefer the old styles.”

      We were deflated.

      Gran exhaled heavily and then said to no one in particular. “Well, that was fun.”

      We Gotta Get Out Of This Place by the group the Animals was playing softly in the background on the wireless.

      “Oh well. Time for a cuppa,” Gran suggested. “Most of the world’s problems can be solved over a cup of tea.”

      Dad puffed more deeply on his pipe. He looked irritated. “It appears we’ve snatched

      defeat from the jaws of victory.”

      Gramps crushed out his unfiltered cigarette stub in the ashtray, along with his three

      other stubs already there. They resembled bullets waiting to be loaded into a gun. He lit his fifth cigarette.

      We sat in silence sipping our tea. Distracted Gramps had put enough sugar into his to make his spoon stand up.

      The Animals were followed by Ken Dodd on the wireless singing Tears.

      Dad poured himself a stiff Scotch. Worry reflected in his face.

      “What are you doing, Son?” Gramps asked.

      “I’m having a whisky, Father.”

      “Why are you drinking at this hour?”

      “Because I’m annoyed with myself. I didn’t think I’d missed anything. I was so sure that the gamble of clean rooms and a better standard of living for just a little extra money each week would win them over.”

      Gramps was unsympathetic. “Pour me one. I’m annoyed with you too. Maybe because back when I went to school that’s not just a little extra.”

      Dad’s monumental blunder had culminated into an unmitigated disaster with the ink barely dry on his lease.

      The day drifted on as days do when bad news needs to be digested. Gran and Gramps set about preparing our evening meal. Pandy played, and I spent time with her but I felt like a lost lamb in an abattoir.

      It was late afternoon when Dad called us together his table covered in pages of

      calculations. His eyes glistened with excitement, as much as with alcohol.

      “Plan B, family. I’ve crunched the figures, joined the dots again, and have come up with an alternative. We’ll fill this place by competing with the Castle Hotel next door.”

      Chapter 7

      Dad’s Plan B

      Dad wrung his hands together as if he were Macbeth. His cheeks were red and he blinked several times before he took a deep breath and plunged on.

      “I realise they’re a Trust House and powerful opposition. They’ve got a star rating and a licensed restaurant but I’ve got it all figured out. We’ll soon have them against the ropes.”

      “What about your guaranteed formula for success offering permanent residents a deal they can’t refuse?” Gramps sounded testy.

      Gran sighed one of her biggest sighs. “He’s changed his mind, that’s what.”

      Gramps poured himself another whisky. He muttered. “More like he’s out of his mind, you mean.”

      Dad relit his pipe, and drew deeply. “If retirees in this bastion of middle-class

      conservatism don’t appreciate a bright modern standard of living, then we’ll bloody well find others who do.”

      Dad noticed that Gran was unhappy. “Mother, do you have a problem with this?”

      “It’s not that they don’t appreciate it. They’re pensioners and simply can’t afford it.”

      “It boils down to the same thing, Mother,” Dad grimaced as he puffed more deeply on his pipe. “Irrespective of whether they can, or they can’t, they will, or they won’t. I’m now short on options.”

      “What options?” Gramps sounded curious.

      “Well, we could always leave the Harewood Hotel as it is.”

      Gramps was barely able to suppress the whine of disappointment in his voice. “A shit tip you mean.”

      Dad’s mouth drew into a straight line. “Yes, but we’d live in the better rooms

      ourselves.”

      I cut in. “I suppose we could rent the other rooms out at whatever price we can get.”

      “Will that work?” Gramps stared hard at Dad.

      “I don’t know!” Dad avoided his gaze. “But if that back fires, we get jobs.” Dad’s facial expression was bland. He looked like a boxer, on the ropes, about to be defeated.

      “We have a safe place to stay, a roof over our heads, and at a comparative low rental. We have lots of rooms to rent out and, maybe make a little money. Not much.”

      Gran snorted. “No money! That’s about a five hour drive away from being interesting. Who’d like another cuppa?”

      “All is not lost,” Dad tried to sound soothing. His eyes, normally a clear

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