Confessions from a Hotel. Timothy Lea

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СКАЧАТЬ four o’clock and then it is the last stage of my journey back to Scraggs Lane. I had considered going straight to my penthouse flat in Park Lane but decided that it would break mother’s heart if she did not see me right away. England, home and duty.

      I am a bit uneasy about seeing Mum again after her behaviour with that bearded old nut in the Isla de Amor. I mean, this permissive society bit is all right for people of our age, but your own mother! Frankly, I find it disgusting. I mean, I would not set Dad up on a pederast but he is her husband. Gallivanting about in the woods with some naked geezer is not my idea of how my Mum should behave–even if she is on holiday. Of course, I blame the papers myself. All these stupid old berks read about the things young people are supposed to be doing and decide to grab themselves a slice of the action before it is too late.

      Dad, I can understand. It was no surprise to find him in that woman’s hut and I was amazed it took him so long to burn the camp down. I would have thought that he would have packed a can of kerosene with his knotted handkerchief, poured it over the first building he came to and woof! The whole bleeding thing over in one quick, simple gesture. But Mum, she was a surprise. I don’t think I will ever get over that.

      ‘Hello, Timmie love!’

      It is my sister Rosie who opens the door which is another surprise. Rosie behaved with the lack of restraint that characterises the normal English rose on holiday and her relationship with the singing wop, one Ricci Volare–and you don’t want more than one, believe me–was hardly what you might call platonic–even if you knew what it meant.

      In other words, the two Lea ladies had let the side down something rotten. Like justice they had not only been done but seen to be done.

      Rosie is married to my brother-in-law, Sidney Noggett, once my partner in a humble window-cleaning business, now an aspiring and perspiring business tycoon–or maybe it should be typhoon if that means a big wind–with Funfrall Enterprises who you know about.

      ‘Where’s Mum?’ I ask.

      ‘Standing on her head against the wall.’

      ‘She’s what?’

      ‘She’s taken up yoga.’

      ‘Oh blimey.’

      ‘Yes. She wants to find herself. Reveal the complete woman.’

      ‘I’ve just left two like that. She’s all right, is she?’ I tap my nut.

      ‘Oh yeah. She says some bloke on the island put her on to it.’

      ‘Oh my gawd. He hasn’t shown up has he?’

      ‘No, of course not. What is the matter with you?’

      ‘Nothing, nothing. It just doesn’t seem like Mum, that’s all.’

      ‘I think the holiday really did something for her. They say travel broadens the mind, you know.’

      ‘Yeah. You can say that again. I think I’m going to stay at home for a bit.’

      As she talks, Rosie’s eyes begin to glaze over and I reckon she is thinking of Mr Nausea.

      ‘I thought it was marvellous out there. The heat, the different people you met–’

      ‘How’s Sid?’ I say hurriedly. I mean, I am not president of his fan club, but I do reckon you have got to stick up for your own flesh and blood. Once Clapham’s answer to Paul Newman starts getting two-timed, then what hope is there for the rest of us? Into the Common Market and–boom! boom!–hordes of blooming dagos leaving wine glass stains all over your old lady. That is not nice, is it? On the evidence of Mum and Rosie you might as well forget about birds and start carving models of the Blackpool Tower out of chicken bones. Of course, it may just have been the weather. Get your average Eyetie or Spaniard over here and his charms probably shrivel up before he has half-filled his hot water bottle.

      ‘He’s upstairs,’ she says. ‘Recovering.’

      ‘Recovering?’

      From what? I ask myself. I knew he was having a big Thing with this bird on the island, but she looked a very hygienic lady to me. I mean, I cannot believe that she had–

      ‘You can see him in a minute.’

      ‘Oh God. What’s he doing here? Why isn’t he lording it back at your country house in Streatham?’

      ‘We’ve sold it.’

      ‘Sold it?’

      ‘Yeah, you can talk to him about that an’ all. Do you want to see Mum?’

      ‘Naturally.’

      I follow Rosie through to the front room–which has not changed, right down to my knee marks on the fireside rug–and there is Mum. I would have had difficulty recognising tier because she is indeed standing on her head with her feet resting against the wall. Her dentures are on the carpet in front of her head like some kind of name plate.

      ‘Hello Ma,’ I say. ‘It’s me, Timmy. Glad to see you get your knickers from Marks and Sparks. How’s it going then?’

      Quite a warm greeting from an only son, locked from his mother’s eyes through five long weeks, I am certain you will agree. I look down at the carpet for signs of tear stains beginning to appear but I am disappointed.

      ‘Timmy love, never interrupt me when I’m meditating. There are some fish fingers in the fridge.’

      And that is all I get. Talk about the younger generation. It is the older generation I am worrying about.

      ‘I’d better see Sid then, I suppose. What’s the matter with him?’

      ‘He was shot trying to escape from a prisoner of war camp.’

      ‘Oh yeah, very funny.’ You have to hand it to Rosie, she is getting a whole new sense of humour. Very satirical.

      ‘I was shot trying to escape from a prisoner of war camp,’ says Sid when I ask him. ‘It was one of Slat’s ideas. You know he was mad keen on the Blitz and starting holiday camps in deserted tube stations with sirens and muzac by courtesy of World War II?’

      ‘I remember something about it.’

      ‘Well, that was just the beginning. When he really thought about it, he came up with Prisoner of War Camps. When you settled up for your holiday you were issued with a rank according to how much you had paid. For two hundred quid you could be C.O. It didn’t make any bloody difference to the food you got but people are crazy about status, aren’t they? Instead of Holiday Hosts you had guards and that cut down on the organisation because they didn’t organise games. They just tried to stop you escaping. Every intake was given a spade and a pair of wire clippers and there was a prize at the end of the fortnight for who got farthest.’

      ‘How did you get shot?’

      ‘To get a bit of publicity at the beginning, they got a real German prison camp guard. Well, you know what the Krauts are like. Very thorough. They like to give value for money. I was trying to whip up a bit of enthusiasm for an assault on the electrified fence and he shot me.’

      ‘He СКАЧАТЬ