The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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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 back then, are you?’ he grunts.
‘Right in one, Dad. Nothing wrong with your eyes.’
‘Don’t take the micky out of me, sonny Jim. How long are you staying for? This place isn’t a bleeding hotel, you know.’
‘I would never have noticed if it hadn’t been for the length of time it took me to get room service. Come off it Dad, this is my home, you know. I’m entitled to a few days in the bosom of my family.’
‘Don’t talk dirty. Your mother’s in the next room.’
‘Still standing on her head, is she? You want to watch it. If all the blood runs out of her feet she’ll have to walk on her knees.’
‘Bleeding Sidney as well. I thought we’d got rid of you lot when the window cleaning business broke up.’
‘Well, you never know your luck do you? I’m surprised to hear you say that about Sidney after that smashing holiday he organised for you.’
‘Smashing holiday? I don’t call that no smashing holiday. I’ve only just got my stomach straight again.’
‘That must have been very difficult, Dad.’
‘Don’t take the piss. You always did have too much lip. All that wog food. Dirty bastards they are. I had enough of that during the war. Nearly killed me.’
‘Well, Mum enjoyed it, Dad.’
‘Don’t talk to me about that, neither. It turned your mother crackers. It was the sun done that. Melted her brain. Bloody Yogi.’
‘Yoga, Dad.’
‘I don’t care what it is. It’s not right. Woman of her age. Disgusting.’
‘Everyody needs an interest in life, Dad.’
‘She’s got me. I’m her interest in life.’
‘Maybe she’s meditating about you now, Dad.’
‘I want my supper, not bleeding meditation.’
That reminds me that Sid wants his chicken broth so I push into the kitchen where Rosie is helping little Jason to feed himself. The sight of all those little tins of vomit being smeared round his cakehole is so disgusting that it even surpasses the horror of Mum’s scarlet mush when she staggers through the door. She looks like a hollowed-out turnip with a two-hundred watt bulb inside it.
All in all, I am more than relieved when a few days later, I find myself sitting in the passenger seat of Sidney’s Rover 2000 as we purr along the seafront of Hoverton. As ardent fans will know, I am no stranger to seaside resorts, but definitely not used to speeding about in expensive motor cars. The fact that Sid has been allowed to hang on to his company car really impresses me. We must be on to something good this time.
It is only when we have sped along the sea front for about two miles that I begin to have second thoughts.
‘We haven’t passed it, have we?’ says Sid anxiously.
‘Looks as if somebody else has.’ Sid follows my gaze and his jaw drops faster than a pair of lead knickers.
‘Blimey. I see what you mean. Looks more like the Zomby than the Cromby.’
Most of the buildings along the front have been tarted up and painted fashionable shades of pink, lemon and blue but the Cromby is peeling like an eight-hour suntan and looks as if it was last painted in order to camouflage it during Zeppelin raids. Even the glass sign is cracked.
‘Nice going, Sid,’ I say. ‘You struck a shrewd bargain there. He didn’t throw in London Bridge as well, did he? If he did you were done because we’ve sold it to the Yanks.’
‘Shut up!’
‘I like the situation, too. I didn’t know they had bomb sites down here. Maybe it’s part of a slum clearance scheme.’
‘I said “shut up”. I’m thinking.’
‘Thinking about how long it will take us to get back to London, I hope. If you rang up Sir Giles from the News of the People offices he might give you your money back.’
‘Don’t be so blooming hasty. It’s right on the beach.’
‘On the shingle, Sid. Looks like they get a lot of oil tankers around here, too. And what’s that big culvert coming out in the middle of the beach? Niffs a bit, doesn’t it?’
‘Oh, belt up, you’re always moaning. You never take a chance, that’s your trouble. If it wasn’t for me you’d be working on a bloody building site.’
‘If I nicked a few bricks we might be able to do something with this place.’
‘Very funny. You’re a right little ray of sunshine, aren’t you? Come on, let’s take a look at it. We’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘Don’t talk too soon. Do they know you’re coming?’
‘No, I thought it would be favourite to turn up as if we were ordinary guests. That way we’ll get the real feel of the place.’
‘Good thinking, Sid. Trouble is I reckon I’ve got the feeling of the place without even going through the doors.’
Sid does not say anything but puts his foot down so hard that I am practically on the back seat as we skid to a halt outside the hotel. Sid waits for a moment, presumably to see if anybody comes out to greet us, and then opens the door of the car.
‘Right. That’s one thing you’re going to be able to do something about,’ he says.
‘Whadyermean, Sid? You reckon me for a blooming commissionaire or something?’
‘We’ve all got to play a part,’ he says. ‘No skiving about at the beginning.’
Marvellous, isn’t it? And I thought I was going to start moving up a few rungs. We go through the swing doors and I practically have to hang on to Sid’s coat tails it is so dark. Like the Chamber of Horrors only with less character.
‘Very restrained, isn’t it?’ I say.
‘Shut up.’
The reception area is deserted and I will swear there are cobwebs on the register. Pinned above the desk is a poster stating the films that are on at the Roxie. I remember passing the Roxie on the way to the hotel. It is now a Bingo Hall.
‘Perhaps we could take a leaf out of Sir Giles’s book and run holidays for those in love with the past,’ I say. ‘How about starting off with the Norman invasion?’
‘One of the first things I’m going to miss about you is your marvellous sense of humour,’ says Sid. ‘Now get some service around here before I do my nut.’
I have bashed the bell about three times and am wondering whether the grey stuff on top of the elk’s head is dust or dandruff, when an oldish bird with a black dress and matching cardigan comes up some stairs beside the reception. She has thin wispy hair and a twisted jaw that looks as if it has been left out in the rain and got warped. Round her neck is a gold chain to which are attached a pair of specs.
‘I’m not deaf,’ she says irritably. ‘I’m not deaf.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘We would like to book a room.’
‘You what?’
‘We would like to book a room!’ The tone of Sid’s voice betrays the fact that the Cromby is appearing less of a gold mine than it did