Confessions from a Hotel. Timothy Lea
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what?’
‘Forget it,’ says Sid. ‘I can’t understand why I ever thought it was a good idea in the first place. Let’s have a bash at the pier and go home.’
‘You want some rooms,’ says the old bag. ‘Why didn’t you say so before?’
‘It never occurred to me to ask,’ I say, revealing once again my aptitude for the lowest form of humour.
‘We would like our room with two single beds,’ says Sid, pronouncing each word like one of those birds on Parlez-vous francais?.
‘Oh?’ Madam looks us up and down and it suddenly occurs to me that she thinks we are a couple of poofters. The very idea!
‘He’s my brother,’ says Sid.
‘Oh, well I suppose that’s alright.’ She does not sound very convinced. ‘Do you want a bathroom?’
‘No thanks,’ says Sid. ‘The sight of him naked might inflame my fevered imagination to the point where the floodgates burst and I be carried away in a maelstrom of primitive lust.’
‘Just a basin, then?’
‘That should prove very adequate. What time is supper?’
‘Dinner,’ she stresses the word, ‘is from six forty-five to seven thirty.’
‘Very continental,’ I observe to Sid. ‘Gives you all of fifteen minutes to get the sand out of your plimsoles.’
‘We find that most of our guests like to be finished in time for Coronation Street.’
‘I can imagine,’ says Sid. ‘The solid chomp of gnashers battling against the clock–’
‘The best seats in the telly lounge filling up from seven fifteen onwards.’
‘The latecomers wiping the blancmange from their tuxedos as they struggle for the last two chairs.’
‘It’s not like that at all,’ says the Lady in Black coldly as she settles her specs on the end of her nose. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to sign the register.’
‘What about our cases?’ Sid indicates the door.
‘I’m afraid Mr Martin is recovering from a hernia operation.’ She raises her eyes towards the ceiling on the word ‘hernia’ as if averting them from a blue photograph.
‘He’s the hall porter, I suppose?’
‘That is correct.’
‘And may I inquire what your name is?’
‘Miss Primstone.’
‘I should have guessed. Well, if we get our cases perhaps you can show us where our room is.’
I wish Sid had not said that because the minute the words have passed his lips, a much better guide appears, patting her jet black curls into place.
‘Sorry I’m late, Miss Primstone,’ says the newcomer, not sounding at all sorry. ‘But we lost a couple of balls in the long grass and I stayed behind to look for them.’ I can see a piece of straw sticking out of her hair so I have no reason to disbelieve her. She has big tits and big eyes which roll all over Sid and me while she is talking. I decide that I have fallen desperately in love with her body.
‘You should have left them there,’ snaps Miss P. ‘Five o’clock is when you’re supposed to come on duty.’
‘Yes, Miss Primstone.’ Miss P. turns to select a key and the bird sticks her tongue out at her and winks at us.
‘We must have a game some time,’ says Sid. ‘Golf, is it?’
‘No, tennis. Are you any good?’
‘I’m a bit rusty at the moment. Haven’t played seriously for years.’
I have never heard such a load of balls. If you gave Sid a tennis racket he would think it was for straining chips.
‘Oh, that’s alright. I’m only just starting.’
‘I’m Sidney Noggett, and this is my brother-in-law Timothy Lea.’
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Sandra.’
‘Hello, Sandra.’
This bird is definitely one of those who carries an invisible banner which has ‘I like sex’ written all over it. She moves as if she is very conscious of her body and she keeps licking her lips and patting her hair. I find that highly strung birds of that type really lap up the sack work. My thoughts are interrupted by Sidney coming the senior partner.
‘Get the cases in, Timmy, will you?’ he says, sliding out his cigarette case and resting his elbow nonchalantly on the counter.
‘Yas sah, Massa Noggett,’ I say in my best Brixton accent. ‘To hear is to obey.’
When I come in again, Sandra is behind the counter and Miss Primstone is drawing her cardigan around herself protectively. ‘We’re having a little trouble with the heating,’ she says. ‘You may find it takes a few moments for the hot water to come through.’
In practice, it takes three days but that is not the first thought that occurs to me when we are shown to our room. It looks like the inside of a mahogany packing case, and it is only possible to stand upright just inside the door.
‘People must have been a lot smaller when this place was built,’ I say.
‘We have never had any complaints.’
‘Probably because people bash their heads on the ceiling and get their mouths jammed shut,’ murmurs Sid.
‘If you don’t like the room, I am certain there are other hotels in Hoverton which would be capable of providing accommodation.’
It is amazing how the old bag can hear when you don’t want her to. I reckon I am going to like the place a lot more when she has left.
‘No offence intended,’ says Sid. ‘Just my little joke.’
Miss Primstone gives Sid a look that suggests she does not like jokes in any size and goes out, slamming the door behind her.
‘What did you say you were going to call this place? The Ritz-Carlton? It’s more like the blitzed Carlton.’
I sit down on one of the beds and the springs make a disastrous creaking sound like someone biting through thirty wafers in one go.
‘Is that a damp patch on the wall or haircream?’
I don’t get a chance to answer because the door suddenly opens and the second bit of good news that day bundles over the threshold. She is small and blonde and wearing a little black dress and a cap like an upturned tennis visor.
‘Oh, sorry ever so,’ she says in a squeaky cockney voice. ‘I just popped in to turn down the beds.’
She looks as if she has never turned down beds in her life and I can see Sidney’s mind travelling down the same well-worn route as my own.
‘Be my guest,’ he purrs. ‘Have you worked here long?’
‘It seems like a long time,’ says the girl, ‘but I suppose it’s only been about five weeks.’
‘Business good?’
‘Not very. There’s one or two old people who live here all the time. Retired, you know. Then there’s the commercials and the other old people who come here because they can’t afford anything better.’
‘No young people?’
‘Young people? You must be joking, dear. There’s the odd bit of stolen lust, I suppose, but most young people wouldn’t touch this place with a barge pole. You and your–your friend are the youngest we’ve got at the moment.’
‘He’s