by Craig Melvin
The track snaked up past the electric thrum of the Whitehawk transmitter. His allotment was near. Dawn was near. The earth mother he hoped would show him some love. The allotment gave Charlie his alibi, too. Something to place him away from what happened at the pier. He’d needed some fresh air that morning, he’d say, turn up at Belle Hotel with some vegetables from his allotment, hide the wrist, Napoleon-style in his chef’s jacket; no one would be any the wiser. Slip Paul Peters the wedge. Give ’em the old Charlie Rock Star Chef smile. Cook up a spot of lunch. Back in business. Bingo.
The allotment was quiet, smoke belching from chimneys, but nobody up and about. It was, after all, barely lunchtime. Charlie weaved through the assortment of handmade shacks looking for something to take away. Near his own, long-neglected, Belle Hotel allotment, Charlie spied what he was looking for and grabbed a bunch of carrots, recently pulled kicking and screaming from the earth. The carrots had been neatly laid in a stack by the water butt and Charlie thanked the heavens that he didn’t have to break the autumn soil with his one good hand.
He rapped on the door of Dawn’s railway carriage.
‘Charlie, what a surprise.’
Dawn was still in the day-glo T-shirt she used as a nightie. Her body felt warm and soft as she leaned in for a hello hug. A moment or two later and Dawn fully woke up.
‘OK, Sheridan. What is it this time?’
She sighed. This wasn’t the first time he’d come begging, but to be fair he had always paid it back with a chunk on top. Eventually.
‘I’ll go and get me spade.’
Dawn made Charlie wait blindfolded in the railway carriage as she dug up her treasure. She trusted him, but not that much.
‘There you go, sunshine. Two grand. My life’s savings. Be sure to pay it back. And Charlie… be good, eh. Try not to hurt anyone.’
Charlie took his favourite route back to Belle Hotel, due south down Whitehawk Hill along the track carved out by his grandfather, Franco.
‘Straight to the sea. This way you cut out all that council estate concrete. Here we go, Charlie Farley, you want a hand over this stile?’
As Charlie made his way past the county hospital, cutting a swathe through the pub sided, seagull-shat alleyways of Kemp Town, a wobbly theatre flat of seediness and sophistication, Charlie broke out with his bunch of carrots and limp wrist onto the seafront.
Larry’s house was up for sale again. Number four Royal Crescent’s black ceramic tiles glinted in the sharp October sun. The great man was long gone, heaven via Steyning, an alabaster plaque all that remained to remind us.
BARON OLIVIER of BRIGHTON OM
ACTOR
1907–1989
Lived Here
1961–1979
Charlie raised the bunch of carrots, a greeting for his grandfather’s most famous friend, and set off westward along the prom.
Charlie knew it must be nearly noon and he was nowhere near his target. Charlie had blown it once and for all. All he’d had to do was get back with enough cash and he’d already saved Belle Hotel, got it firing on gas, got on the track to getting his Michelin star back. How hard was it to stride into Belle Hotel, stick it to Paul Peters, pop his head into the pub and pat Janet, his mother, on the head, stuff what was left of the Hooke’s repossession notice in the back of Franco’s book, strap on his apron (kitchen hook where he left it), scrub, turn, blanche and serve the buttered carrots for three pounds seventy-five’s worth of salvation. That was all that Charlie had to do. His one last chance. And he’d fucked it up.
Midday: Lulu
Lulu turned the cigarette lighter over and over in her hands. The Belle Hotel dining room was as old as she was. Peters pushed the papers towards her and Graeme. This was it.
‘Do you have a pen?’
Of course Graeme did, he’d brought his space pen. The one that wrote upside down. Lulu took Paul Peters’ proffered Bic.
Midday: Charlie
His timeworn key wouldn’t fit in the lock. The shiny new face of the hole repelled Charlie’s ham-fisted attempt at entry. Disgusted, he flung the only key left on his ring in the gutter and set off for the side twitten of Belle Hotel and the hotel’s pub.
Janet, his mother, was propping up the bar. Or rather, the bar was propping her up. Twin tracks of mascara trailed down her face.
‘Ma, they’ve locked me out. I’m back with the cash.’
‘Too late, darling. Peters has already sold her.’
‘Like fuck he has. Over my dead body.’
‘No, sweetheart, over Franco’s dead body.’
‘Where are they?’
Janet jerked a thumb over her shoulder. Restaurant.
His restaurant. The bloody cheek of it. He ran at the door that separated the pub from the rest of the hotel and was surprised to bounce back off it rather than plough through. What a friggin’ liberty. Peters had locked the brass, slid it shut from the other side. Charlie looked back at Janet and cracked out his lucky grin.
‘How long’s this thing been locked?’
12.04pm: Charlie & Lulu
Lulu heard the thud and knew it was him.
‘It’s not fair. We should at least let him in.’
She rose, left her co-conspirators, went into the lobby and shot back the bolt.
As Lulu walked back to the dining room, Charlie made his entrance with an almighty crash. Expecting to break the door down, he’d run at it like a bull in a china shop and flown through the lobby when the door yielded easily to his shoulder barge.
Charlie lay dazed on the wooden floor. He’d hit his head on the reception desk and was out cold for what felt like decades. When he came round, Charlie struggled to work out when he was. He knew exactly where he was, but he hadn’t seen Belle Hotel from floor height since, when? Was he, two, crawling around on the floor with Lulu, getting under people’s Cuban-heeled feet? Or maybe thirteen, back from the fishing trip and collapsed in a dirty heap before Franco scooped him up and brushed him out of sight. Or, wait, it’s the morning glory after the night before, Oasis at the Brighton Centre and the after-party to end all after-parties, hadn’t he crashed out with Noel in this same spot? But, look, what’s this, Lulu looking down at him, and what’s this, Paul Peters spoiling the view and then, from out of shot, the nasal twang of that excuse for a chef, Graeme.
‘Is he all right? I mean, Lulu, shouldn’t we call the police, or something?’
‘He’s fine, Graeme. Come on, Charlie, get up. We want to talk to you.’
Lulu helped him to his feet, took him by the shoulders and shook some sense into him. This was business now, not love.
Belle Hotel’s grandfather clock struck noon. Set five minutes late, Brighton time, it had been at the hotel almost as long as Franco had owned it. Bought it from the pawnbroker’s, Franco did. Cost a pretty penny, even back then.
Charlie clocked the clock chiming and an idea struck him.
‘Lu, tell these vultures to wait. I’ll be right back.’
Charlie braced the clock against the shoulder of his one good arm, tipped it back and lifted. He was gone, back out of the bar entrance before anybody had the time to do anything about it.
Graeme and Paul Peters went back into the restaurant and took their place on the brass-studded green leather banquette at table one, the family table. The table at which the Sheridans broke bread and talked business. Loyalty, conflict, power. Franco, Charlie and Janet. Four decades of family business and now this. Outsiders staking their claim. It was too much for Janet to take, so she took it out on the beer pump in the pub, swilling her glass and swaying along like the drunken sailor. She watched Charlie heading past with Franco’s clock and shook her head.
Ten minutes later, Charlie was back, grinning from ear to ear. Lulu was still waiting for him in the lobby. She’d passed the time looking at a Hockney-ish portrait of Franco, Janet and a cat that hung over the key rack. Charlie collapsed into Lulu and then rolled into the restaurant on his ex-girlfriend’s arm, letting himself
be led to face the firing squad. Peters spread the papers in front of him, covering the stain-spattered tablecloth with words, deeds and numbers. The restaurant that rang down the decades, percussion of cutlery on china, was deathly silent.
‘I am sorry, Charlie, for Franco’s sake. You missed the deadline. But for the future of your grandfather’s legacy it is essential that you countersign these papers and let Graeme and Lulu open the hotel tonight as a going concern. They have bookings that they can overspill from Hotel Epicure and a healthy few pencilled in for dinner tonight. Come on, Charlie, be smart, take a leaf out of Franco’s book. Who knows, play your cards right and Graeme may even offer you a role in the kitchen, you know, show him the ropes, make sure Belle’s reputation stays intact.’
Quite a speech from Peters, though Charlie was barely taking things in. He could feel Lulu’s grip on his good arm, the searing pain from the other, and as Peters came to the end of his words, Charlie’s gaze settled on a nodding Graeme. Not so much on Graeme’s bonce, but on what the thieving, talentless bastard had in his mitts.
Franco’s book.
The leather book Larry gave Franco.
Franco’s book, which held the story of Belle Hotel. Four decades of secret recipes and receipts. Every important document relating to the Sheridan family and Belle Hotel. Under Graeme’s fist.
‘Paul, I’m back. I was back before twelve, helping Mum out in the pub. Ask her if you like. I tried to enter my hotel, but you seemed to have locked the interconnecting door from your side. Is that legal? Locking me out of part of my own hotel? And Paul, I have the money you requested. Not… all of it, but enough.’
Charlie twisted out of Lulu’s grip, reached around for the roll of Dawn’s tatty tens and twenties and the pawnbroker’s crisp fifty-pound notes. He yanked the roll from his back pocket and flung it onto the table where it bounced twice and plonked in Peters’ lap.
‘Put that in your pipe and smoke it.’
‘Charlie, I, er, we’ve come too far to—’
‘Five K. Enough for five more days. Come on, Peters, you owe me that. I’ll give you the other five grand in five days’ time. Don’t you dare lecture me about financial prudence. You should hear what they’re saying about your fucking lot on the radio.’
‘Charlie, I—’
‘Lulu, please, this isn’t about us. This is between me and Peters. And you,’ Charlie dead-eyed Graeme, ‘don’t even think of squeaking.’ Charlie held out his good arm for Franco’s book and left it there. ‘Give me that book.’
‘I’m waiting for Mr Peters to tell us all exactly who is the owner of Belle Hotel and all its assets before I hand over what, to the letter of the law, is now about to become my property.’
On ‘property’, Charlie leapt, the tines of the fork he’d grabbed from the waiters’ station glinted in the sun that poured in through the coloured glass windows.
The fork only glanced across Graeme’s neck, with just two of the four tines piercing the skin, a touch wide of the pronounced Adam’s apple that Charlie had so mercilessly mocked in the past. It was his left hand, after all, and he’d had a knock to the head. Graeme was on his feet and in the karate stance in less than half a second. He broke the stance momentarily, touching the back of the book-clasping hand to his neck, checking for blood.
‘You crazy mother. I’ll have you for this. You’ll get years. They’ll be handing down more than anger management this time.’
Lulu screamed and dived at Charlie, grabbing his long greasy hair with both hands and pulling him away from Graeme with a force that shocked even her. The fork fell from Charlie’s hand and skittered across the mosaic floor.
The table tipped and clattered to meet the fork as Peters rose to his feet. Charlie and Graeme grappled left-handed with Franco’s book, Graeme still holding his stronger hand in the knife hand position. Charlie supported his broken wrist in his chef’s whites, flexing his bicep against Lulu’s violent tugs.
The moment that Peters yelled ‘Enough!’, Graeme dropped an extremely well- executed chop onto Charlie’s nose, the force of which propelled Charlie backwards in an arc of blood and caused Franco’s book to yank from Graeme’s hand and follow Charlie onto the skull-shattering surface.
The four of them watched the book, its worn leather covers wings in flight as it released all four of its brass clasps and let forty years of memories out like a confetti bomb.
Charlie came to for the second time in as many minutes with the gentle caress of fusty paper fluttering across his face.
‘Enough!’ It was Peters, at full height and finally taking control of what had fast become a very out-of-control situation, ‘Charlie, Graeme, Lulu. Enough. Stop it, the three of you.’
The last leaf fell from space, a birth certificate, Second World War paper. Light as a prisoner of war.
‘Enough. Charlie, you’ve bought yourself five working days. Five days, you hear me. Got yourself off on a technicality and only come up with half of the money. I shouldn’t be doing this. Count yourself lucky that things are in such disarray at the bank. I’m ashamed to say that the Hookes balance sheet is not reading well. We have too much bad debt, Belle Hotel’s included, and Her Majesty’s Government are going to have to bail us out. Lulu, Graeme, we should leave now. We’ll be back in five days’ time to do this again properly. You’ve no chance of turning this around, Charlie, I mean look at you. Your grandfather will be rolling in his grave. No need to get up, Sheridan, we’ll let ourselves out. Oh, I expect you’ll be needing these.’
The shiny new set of keys bounced off Charlie’s chest and came to rest among the scattered papers. Charlie let his eyes close as he listened for the footfall to fade, ignoring the whispered ‘Charlie’ from the stilettoed step that hung back a little from the rest. He couldn’t face Lulu now. It was just too complicated. More complicated and awful than even Lulu knew. What had gone on between them, what he now knew he’d done, must never, ever, come to light. He’d lost his childhood sweetheart, for sure. From where Charlie lay, the first thing he saw upon opening his eyes was the black-and-white photo of Charlie and Lulu as children peering over the lip of Franco’s stockpot on the stove. The old man had taken it as a joke, the pot was clean and stove cold, and framed it for the customers’ amusement. The kids in a stockpot picture sat at the centre of a gallery of over three decades of Belle Hotel family life. Snaps of Charlie and Lulu as teenagers wrestling in Christmas jumpers by the giant tree in Belle Hotel’s lobby. Franco in his chef’s whites showing Charlie how to serve a whole salmon at table, Lulu grinning at his side, waiting with the silver service spoon and fork. Caught on celluloid in memory of a shared past and sympathy for a separate future.
The sound of Belle Hotel’s main doors banging shut brought Janet rolling in and she helped Charlie pick up their past, rise to room 20, and there begin re-binding the book of Belle Hotel.
1970s
The Kipper Wars
Eggs Benedict
Two Eggs
One Muffin
Ham
Hollandaise Sauce
Poach the eggs, split and toast the muffin, serve the eggs on the ham on the muffin, smother in hollandaise, flash under the grill. Voilà, happy as Larry!
Franco Sheridan fought in the Kipper Wars. They changed his fortunes for ever. For over half his life, Franco fried, roasted and poured his way up and down the London to Brighton line. Head steward on the Brighton Belle train. Brighton–Haywards Heath–Victoria. Victoria–Haywards Heath–Brighton. Clickety, click; clackety clack. Up there for breakfast, elevenses back. Things had been pretty much of the same until, one day, Lord Olivier looked up from his Times.
‘Franco, old boy, you know we are under attack?’
The steward kept pouring, with the Balcombe bend fast approaching and Larry’s teacup only half full. He grunted and staggered back to the steaming galley for some milk.
‘Yes, under attack, our wretched government want to cancel breakfast on the Brighton Belle. Over my dead body.�
��
‘Your kippers, Larry.’
‘What, oh yes, thank you, Franco. Damn bureaucrats. Want to stop my bloody—’
The two men, so different in rank and standing, took in, in silent wonder, the view from the viaduct. Arched locomotion shadowed lush Sussex. For Franco this counted as worship.
Soon they were crossing the Thames. The great actor drained his teacup. Quick slap of Franco’s starched jacket and The Times changed hands. At Victoria, Larry hailed a Hackney Cab to the Old Vic. Larry was nearing the end of both his tenure and his tether as Director of the National Theatre and ready for more time in his seaside home. The Eugene O’Neill play currently running, directed by and starring Larry, had been a long day’s journey into night. Otherwise known as the last train back to Brighton. Larry was bone-tired and in no mood to have his morning comforts fucked up. The kippers kept repeating on him.
‘Bloody Westminster. I’ll win this one yet.’
In the end he won the battle, but lost the war. By sheer force of will (and a full-page advertisement in London’s Evening Standard) Larry got breakfast reinstated on the Brighton Belle. Franco kept his job and Larry kept himself in kippers. Not that he was going to be ordering kippers again. The day that breakfast was back on the Belle, Larry boarded the train in Brighton, ordered a bacon sandwich and passed Franco the recipe for Eggs Benedict that he’d enjoyed on a film set in the States. Those Yanks knew how to break their fast and Larry decided that he wanted New York brunch as he passed over Balcombe Viaduct
But, by the end of 1972, the train had been taken out of service. Franco got a plaque on platform 4 and a not so handsome payoff from British Rail. Not enough to buy Belle Hotel. Folk wondered who’d bankrolled the rest, some noticing that Larry never paid for breakfast.
Franco had been passing her on his way to and from work for donkey’s years. Seen her fade from her post-war grandeur into boarding-house dilapidation. Now he had his chance to bring her back to her former glory.
