Confessions from a Hotel - Timothy Lea

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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

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