Confessions from a Hotel. Timothy Lea
irritation in her voice.
‘Oh, I just thought if I wanted a sleeping pill or something, you might be able to help me.’
‘Cheeky devil!’ She puts her hand to her mouth and giggles.
‘I hope your bed doesn’t creak like this one?’ I throw in.
‘Oh, you are awful!’
‘I wasn’t suggesting anything.’
‘Not half, you weren’t.’
‘We both have a bit of trouble sleeping, don’t we, Timmy?’
‘You know what I reckon might be good for that, Sidney?’
‘No, Timmo?’
‘Ooh! I’m not going to listen to another word. Wait ’til I tell my friend Audrey about you two.’
‘Does she work here, too?’
‘She shares a room with me.’
‘Oh!’
‘Now don’t you start getting any ideas. It may be our evening off but we don’t go flaunting ourselves with just anybody, you know.’
‘I didn’t know you knew anybody we know.’
‘What?’
‘It doesn’t matter. What does Audrey look like? Is she pretty like you?’
‘Flattery will get you anywhere–within reason.’
‘Why don’t we all go out and have a little drink later? I’d suggest supper but we’ve got a bloke who may be joining us here about seven-fifteen, so we’ll be eating in.’
‘Shall I see if I can find someone for him?’
‘No, no, that won’t be necessary. We’re doing a bit of business with him, that’s all. I’m not even certain he’s going to show up.’
I am bloody certain he is not going to show up. Sid can be a cunning bastard sometimes especially when it is a question of keeping his wallet shut. I have known oncers to crumble with age when they eventually emerge into the light.
‘I hope you’re going to like Audrey,’ I say when we have sent our little squeaking friend on her way.
‘What do you mean? I’m having that one. June, or whatever her name was.’
‘Sidney, really. It was obvious that the girl was insane about me. She couldn’t keep her eyes off me.’
‘Don’t be daft. She felt sorry for you, that’s all. She was humouring you. She prefers the older, more sophisticated type. I can tell. You latch on to her mate and cross your fingers that she doesn’t fancy me as well.’
It occurs to me that this is not like the Sidney Noggett who was warning me off the frippet when I was applying for a job as a Holiday Host, and I find it impossible not to comment on this fact.
‘You’re changing your tune a bit, aren’t you, Sid? You didn’t used to approve of fraternising with the staff. And what about Rosie?’
‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ says Sid, tapping one of his mince pies. ‘What the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t worry about.’ You are dead right there, I think to myself, wondering how much Sid’s vanity will allow him to imagine of what was going on between Rosie and Ricci Volare–precious little, I should think. ‘It was different when I was at Funfrall anyway. I had more of a position to keep up. I feel I’ve shed a few of my cares. Know what I mean?’
‘Yes, Sid.’
‘After all, I am supposed to be convalescing down here. It’s in Rosie’s interest if I can check that the equipment is up to scratch.’
‘Very thoughtful of you, Sid.’
‘I thought you’d see it that way. And don’t get any ideas about putting the screws on me with Rosie, will you? You do and your prospects go straight up the creek. And I don’t just mean your job ones, either.’
Sid is no doubt remembering how I applied pressure when I discovered him having a flutter in the tool shed with the bird I was about to offer a wedding ring for the same services. Still, that was a couple of years ago, before moral values had been completely eroded, and when there was no prospect of a hotel management to seal my outraged lips. I assure Sid that I have a complete understanding of his meaning, and we go down to the cocktail lounge for a quick snifter before supper.
The bloke behind the bar has receding hair flattened against his head as if by a great, greasy wind and his forehead is corrugated like a perished rubber mask. Behind bushy eyebrows lurk evil darting eyes and his teeth look like a job lot rummaged from a vet’s dustbin. Just to gaze at his mush is to wonder whether the bar sells Rennies.
‘You gave me a start, gentlemen,’ he says pushing something under the counter hurriedly. I would like to give him three miles’ start and then piss off in the opposite direction, but one must not be too unkind.
‘Large Scotch, please,’ says Sid. ‘And what are you going to have, Timmo? Half of bitter? Half of bitter, please.’
I was about to say that a large Scotch would slide down very nicely but you have to move fast when Sid is in the chair.
‘Fairly quiet, is it?’ says Sid, adding a dash of water to his Scotch. I am pleased to see that he also gets two dead flies, a mosquito and an insect I have not seen before. Whatever it is, the barman looks up at the ceiling as he retrieves it, so it seems to have been a resident.
‘Sorry about that, Sir. The boy must have forgotten to change it. You can’t get the staff now, you know. Yes, it is very quiet but this isn’t our busy time. We do a lot of business in the autumn. It’s amazing how many hotel people come here for a holiday when their own season is over.’
‘Must give them a tremendous feeling of confidence,’ says Sid, holding up his glass to the light. ‘Have you got one with a more neutral shade of lipstick on it? This is a bit overpowering for me.’
‘Sorry about that, Sir. The girl should have seen to that.’
I can see that Sid is dying to get his hands round the little jerk’s neck and tell him who is the new lord and master but he manages to control himself.
‘You are the barman, though, aren’t you?’
‘Head Barman.’
‘How many more are there?’
‘I’m the only one at the moment. We will be taking some more on, later in the summer. Students, probably.’
‘Good,’ says Sid. ‘Have you been here long?’
‘Eighteen years. Only the receptionist, Miss Primstone, has been here longer than that. Oh, and of course, the cook.’
‘Why did you say “of course”?’
‘Oh, well, Mrs Caitley is something of an institution around here. She is practically part of the hotel.’
‘I hope she is nothing like this part,’ says Sid, fishing something else out of his glass.
Before weasel-features can apportion the blame there is an ear-piercing shriek from the vestibule which makes me choke on my beer.
‘Talk of the devil,’ mutters the barman under his breath.
I am about to ask for further details when the room is filled by a large, red lady holding her clenched fists before her in the manner of someone doing one of the exercises from the Charles Atlas Course. Not that this baby looks as if anybody is going to kick sand in her face. She pushes her way to the bar and pours a generous slug of brandy into a tumbler.
‘That’s it,’ she hollers at a pitch that would make Maria Callas rush out for a throat spray. ‘I can’t go on! Either he goes or I go. I don’t mind the nig nogs. I don’t mind the