Sex, Lies & Crazy People. John Hickman
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lot had happened since Mum was taken by cancer at only thirty-nine years of age. Dad had worked his way through the shock of her death until one evening after dinner he’d dropped a bombshell.
“I’ve decided to give up my job to start a new business—a hotel.”
There was a stunned silence before Gramps asked, “Is it my imagination or is the
cutlery particularly deafening here tonight?”
Dad looked to me. “A hotel business will enable me to work at home. I’ll be
able to help your sister through the loss of her mum.” He paused to relight his pipe.
The bloody thing was always going out. “I want you to find a hotel I can buy—without any money.”
There was another black hole of silence, this time less cordial.
Gran glared at Dad unable to keep protest from her voice. “What kind of crazy
person expects to buy something without money?”
“You tell him, Girl.” Gramps often called Gran, ‘Girl.’
Dad’s directive could not have been clearer if Moses himself had brought it down on a tablet from Mount Sinai. It sounded ridiculous but I knew I had to help him.
Gramps dismissed his hotel idea. “Your idea might work, Son,” he smirked, as he cast a sideways look at Gran, “but only if the stars remain in proper alignment.”
I’d always had a blind faith in Dad’s abilities that any idea of his would rise to the top.
Dad continued, “If you’re interested, Son, you could join me.”
I didn’t hesitate, “I’m in!”
Not only an opportunity to help Dad but this could be a wonderful new career for me.
Dad became conciliatory as Gran cleared our table. “Look I realise I know nothing about running hotels but it can’t be that difficult. I’ve stayed in plenty when Alice was alive.” He paused. “I’ve managed other people’s businesses successfully for years. Now with her gone,” he shrugged, “what better time for a change?”
Gramps had another sideways glance at Gran. He cleared his throat. “True, you’ve managed other people’s businesses, but you’ve been responsible to directors, boards, and owners.”
The left-hand side of Gramp’s face often quivered from his nervous tic. Some called it Tourette Syndrome. Stress and anxiety significantly increased the frequency of his condition. Gramps raised his hands in a helpless gesture while his face trembled.
“If Alice was alive she’d never have approved of you embarking on such a rash
project.”
I thought that unfair. “Had Mum been alive Dad wouldn’t need to work from home.
And I agree with him. I don’t see that running a hotel without previous experience is that big a risk.”
Gran and Gramps exchanged sullen looks.
Dad continued, “I’ll remain at my job paying the mortgage and putting food on the table while John’s assigned to scout out hotels.”
As a young man of nineteen, and without a current girlfriend to consider, my sex life was like a Ferrari. I didn’t have a Ferrari. Suddenly I felt like a kid with keys to the Magic Kingdom.
Dad’s pipe had gone dead. He stared into the bowl, frowned, and tried to relight it. “Freehold’s out unless lenders are prepared to advance the majority of the purchase price, which on commercial propositions they won’t. And banks, always laws unto themselves, will only loan less than half of their own scaled down valuations.”
My task had become more difficult.
“But, Dad, surely on any established business a lease is nearly as valuable as its
freehold.”
“My plan can only work, Son, if the hotel you find is run-down enough for me to
negotiate favourable terms.”
“Very favourable terms,” echoed Gran from the kitchen.
I’d always wanted Dad to be proud of me. Our plan before Mum died was for me to
become a barrister, like Boyd QC a popular television show that starred Michael Denison in the title role. That proved difficult enough. Now I sagged like a bent coat hanger as Dad’s words spiralled up my spine.
“Find a hotel I can buy—without any money!”
Chapter 2
Ace or Joker?
As born and bred Londoners, we tried to maintain sunny dispositions. My initial search was close to home but dense populations, racial tensions, and riots soon led to a lost elegance.
I told Dad. “London resembles the quality of newspaper left out too long in the sun.
Sought-after leafy suburbs like Kensington and Bayswater are too pricey. Brixton and
Notting Hill, although less expensive, are not places where white people want to be.”
Reluctantly Dad agreed. “You’ll have to look further afield.”
I’d found a few possibilities dotted around Kent and Sussex. Neglected country pubs with a few bedrooms to rent. Dad soon shot me down in flames. “They’re just not big enough, Son. We’d take up too many rooms ourselves.”
Drowning in the task he’d given me I paced the room trailing cigarette smoke like a steam engine. “But everything any good is too expensive, and anything affordable is too small, or somewhere you don’t like.”
After another diatribe from Dad I spotted a smaller advertisement for a private hotel in London Road, Royal Tunbridge Wells, Kent.
He reacted well. “Could be our ideal world. No riots, no gangs of white thugs and no black people.”
“The sort of place where if you wear a loud shirt you’ll be labelled a revolutionary,” Gramps added.
Situated between a church and a pub, the hotel was the biggest I’d seen. As a bonus it had its own large car park out front. An impressive four stories high it looked dowdy.
The upper floor window frames were painted a hideous red, which didn’t match the rest of the building. Overall it looked unloved and uncared for. Inside was worse, but spacious with more than thirty bedrooms.
A few elderly tenants were living out their twilight years in what could only be
described as cheap, cold comfort.
I ticked another box.
In the basement were disused staff quarters. An old fashioned kitchen sported
equipment that had been there since Queen Victoria was a girl. Cooked food moved to the ground floor dining room in an antiquated pulley operated dumb waiter. Nearby, at its heart stood another antiquity. A coal-fired boiler that creaked, groaned and rattled like a ship in its death-throws. I half expected Vincent Price to turn up any minute.
Upstairs, appalling grunge accumulated over the years disguised underfoot what once had been grand Axminster carpets. I poked at blackened sludge with the toe of my shoe, and thought, incontinence here a distinct possibility.
This was more like a Dickensian doss house than a private hotel. Its sash windows hadn’t been opened in years, which was a shame because this decrepit Victorian edifice had once been a Grand Duchess. Now it was as if she was waiting for something dramatic to happen—a match perhaps?
If the building had a pulse it was barely alive but had I achieved the impossible?
Knowing that Dad wanted a hotel run-down enough to negotiate favourable terms, then