Sex, Lies & Crazy People. John Hickman

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      Gramps was thoughtful while he rolled a cigarette. “Ah yes,” he replied, “the gift of time, but then again who wants to live until they’re a hundred?” He paused, “I know I don’t.”

      “Maybe someone who’s ninety-nine,” Gran offered from elbow deep in her washing up sink, “then again, they’d be no peer pressure.”

      Justin our new part-time silky smooth waiter had a serious after hours binge-drinking problem, which we thought best to ignore. Skinny, mousy-haired and in his early twenties he had a face like a parson. Busy polishing the same glass over and over, he eventually held it up to the light to examine his handiwork.

      “You know,” he mused, “watching a century-old Buddhist monk wrap his left leg over his right shoulder prompts my thought—if I’m ever that old—will I get a leg over?”

      Smiling at Justin’s joke Gramps continued, “Maybe we should have told those three old biddies right from the start the only bitching tolerated in our hotel is our own.”

      “Aye, true. But aren’t ye supposed to pride yourselves on highest standards of

      hospitality,” Chef Peter said.

      “According to Dad, Chef, there are no guests who are arseholes. If a guest has a thorny moment, it’s only because they have special needs. But I’ll grant you we’ve stretched it with this trio.”

      “Their whalebone-stiffened attire with the decorative lace isn’t the only inflexible thing about them,” added Justin. “Dressed to a tee in their high buttoned nineteenth century

      get-ups, I can’t help but groan whenever they visit.”

      Dad had appeared at the mention of his name. “Your team should be highly qualified to solve catering problems by now,” he glared.

      “I agree we’re gaining ground,” I smirked. “But failing that, at least we’re trained to sympathise.”

      The old crones never booked ahead but always wanted their favourite bay window table. It was an Anthony Armstrong-Jones photo opportunity on clear days but with a steady drizzle the brolly ballet bobbed like jelly fish adrift on the tide.

      Grey sky, grey people, grey cars, and a greyer-than-grey street to look out at.

      When the wind got up strong enough to blow fluff off a peach, everyone’s umbrellas turned inside out in-brolly-central. Our old timber sash windows closed, courtesy of Gramps and his six inch nails, rattled like snare drums. That was our cue to turn up the lights and draw the heavy drapes closed.

      Once, I suggested a more agreeable table.

      “Young man, if we wanted your dubious opinion as to where we should sit in your inferior establishment we would have asked for it. Until then please remain silent until you are spoken to. Do you understand?”

      “Yes, Ma’am.”

      On another occasion, when the restaurant wasn’t quite diverting enough for them, they insisted on being shown our rooms.

      “Far too bright and modern,” Grand Duchess said, glaring at me through her

      monocle. She then wagged her finger under my nose. “If we decide to come here young man, you can take that ghastly television thing out.”

      I swear spinach would have wilted under her gaze.

      Gramps shook his head. “Take no notice. Their curiosity just got the better of them, that’s all. They probably wanted confirmation they’re on a better deal where they are.”

      “Who are those awful old ladies, Gran?” Pandy asked.

      “Don’t you worry your head, Sweetheart. They’re up themselves. Crafty old biddies as greedy as puppies wanting something for nothing, that’s all.”

      “Suddenly I feel like a post pubescent tape worm with a bad haircut,” I groaned.

      Gramps frowned. “You have only to look at their lack of rings. They’d be a good match for a bloke all right. But only if they sweat Scotch and fart pound notes.”

      “You might find a more practical use for the common yet,” Gran giggled, a twinkle in her eye.

      “Them eating in our restaurant is a novel experience for us. They never eat from a la carte because it’s more expensive,” Justin added.

      “They’re not short of cash, but their guinea’s safer than in a miser’s purse. It’s all about getting their bill reduced. That’s why they’re serial complainers.”

      “You’re right, Gramps.”

      “Where your Gran and I are content to win at Bingo or Bridge, those old biddies play a strong hand of how much they can squeeze for lunch and prohibition gin.”

      “They always eat the best parts of their meal before sending their plates back with their complaints. That Coup de Grace ensures their entire meal is replaced,” I whined.

      Chef Peter sighed. “Aye, they’re acting the maggot for sure. Summat tells me they’re running us like Prince Butter Bean in the three thirty at Ascot.”

      Suddenly forty feet of chauffeured gleaming, black metal pulled-up at our entrance. I panicked like Chicken Little. “It’s them!”

      In they swept. Straight to their window alcove, no greeting, no thank you, no nothing.

      There they hovered, impatient to be seated, as each required individual attention.

      I knew it was about to begin as their monocles studied our special of the day.

      One of my favourites; mini racks of sweet Suffolk lamb with homemade mint sauce.

      Grand Duchess raised an eyebrow. She had eyelashes on her like the teeth of a Venus flytrap.

      When you’re not thinking about sex you’re not concentrating, right? But none of this trio looked shag-able. And if they were who would do the deed?

      Beau’s comment to Gramps came to mind, “If she dies, she dies.”

      Let him loose and he could kill them all.

      I switched off mentally. Imagined Grand Duchess’s sudden sense of urgency with Beau. Her discarded furs, hat, shoes, blouse, top bodice, under-bodice, corset complete with whalebones, bra, skirt, under skirt, full length petticoat, suspenders, garter belt, stockings, knickers and gloves in a crumpled pile on the floor. Phew!

      Followed by creaking sounds from her groin region as Duchess kicked into gear.

      Clearing the table with one sweep of her wizened arm she had the set determination of a politician, anxious to seize a vote.

      They perused the menu as if they were in a Pullman Diner, not at a no star hotel.

      Grand Duchess broke the silence. Slowly and deliberately, as if addressing a person of limited intelligence, she asked. “Waiter! I suppose—you—wouldn’t—know—the—age—and—breeding— СКАЧАТЬ