The Belle Hotel

by Craig Melvin

  ‘Who are you going to draw, Charlie? I’m doing my mummy. Daddy says she lives with the angels.’

  ‘I’ll draw my daddy. Mummy says he lives at The Savoy.’

  Nobody bothered to ask the artist’s name, too busy. David something, it was. Northern bloke with glasses. Franco found the picture rather flattering and hung it over the key rack behind reception where he could admire it when he gazed up from his Remington.

  10 Downing Street

  Franco Sheridan

  Belle Hotel

  Brighton

  6 May 1979

  My Dear Franco,

  Denis and I would like to thank you sincerely for the discreet hospitality you have shown us over these difficult past years in opposition.

  We understand that things are now going to get a lot more difficult, as I said on entering Downing Street yesterday, ‘Where there is discord, may we bring harmony. Where there is error, may we bring truth. Where there is doubt, may we bring faith. And where there is despair, may we bring hope.’

  Where there is trouble, may we be brought to Belle Hotel.

  Yours,

  Margaret

  Hon Margaret Thatcher, Prime Minister

  Lifelong Labour supporter and trades union man, Franco had found the transition to tub-thumping Tory relatively painless. Especially when the Tory party were footing the bill.

  Being a union man had served Franco well on the trains; gave him a day a week in the office in Brighton, feet up on the desk, planning wildcat strikes over a cup of tea brought round on the trolley by some other bugger for once.

  Franco’s conscience was clear. As a hotelier he couldn’t afford the luxury of political opinion. He was with whoever’s name was written at the top of the bill.

  When Larry approached him with an idea, Franco had jumped at it. Helpfully suggesting that Margaret might want the whole of the top floor of Belle Hotel blocking out for her private purposes. Private purposes that saw Franco trousering thousands in room rates and hundreds more on top for the hot- and cold-running buffet that kept the Thatcher show on the road. The free market economy was born in Ship Street. Franco could have written a seminal book on the subject.

  Maggie and Franco’s careers were on the up in tandem. As Belle Hotel opened, the television critic Clive James wrote in the Observer, during the voting for the leadership, comparing her voice to a cat sliding down a blackboard.

  Something would have to be done about it, pronto. A chance meeting with Laurence Olivier at Belle Hotel, after a particularly gruelling day at conference for Mrs T, resulted in Larry arranging lessons with the National Theatre’s voice coach in the reassuringly expensive and discreet surroundings of Belle Hotel.

  Thatcher succeeded in completely suppressing her Lincolnshire accent, except under extreme provocation from James Callaghan, and Franco managed to completely suppress his glee at the good fortune his crossing to the other side of the House had brought about.

  Franco and Larry spent more time than they had planned in the company of Denis Thatcher and the able comfort of a gallon’s worth of G&T. Franco even challenged Denis to a game of golf, which was played pie-eyed at stupid o’clock in the morning on the pitch and putt in Rottingdean, while Maggie worked on her speech in the comforts of the newly named Churchill Suite at Belle Hotel.

  Franco enjoyed the most comfortable ‘Winter of Discontent’ in the land. One particularly stormy day, force 10s whipping in up Ship Street, Franco quipped that ‘Labour Isn’t Working’ to Maggie as she perused a picture of a dole queue supplied by her advertising agency. Maggie thanked Franco for the tray of tea and freshly baked shortbread in her newly minted RP and then reached for her notebook.

  Maggie fought on cutting income tax, reducing public spending, making it easier for people to buy their own homes and curbing the power of the unions.

  ‘Quite right,’ said Franco to Larry on election night, ‘damn unions have become too powerful. You’d see a union here at Belle Hotel over my dead body.’

  They raised a glass to Britain’s first woman prime minister and sat watching the thinly coloured BBC coverage on the new box Franco’d bought for the bar. He noticed that every time he raised a toast to ‘Maggie’ his till rang loudly in response. Never was a political candidate more roundly toasted than Margaret Thatcher, the grocer’s daughter from Grantham, was by Franco Sheridan the hotelier from Brighton.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock. Time and tide can’t beat the clock.

  Callaghan’s government lost the battle and the war. Maggie was sitting pretty in Number 10 soon after. Franco had been banking on her success. The seventies had been good to Franco and, with the dawning of a new decade, the self-made man’s time was about to come.

  1980s

  Franco Says Relax!

  Hookes Bank

  Franco Sheridan

  Belle Hotel

  Ship Street

  Brighton

  15 September 1983

  Dear Franco,

  Confirming your repayment to L.O. of £100,000 as per your instruction. Please see below a current statement of your cash position and liquid assets. Thank you for your hospitality over the August Bank Holiday weekend. I have to tell you that I am still in recovery!

  –£100,000 Funds transfer to L.O.

  –£4,500 Love Machine Jacuzzi delivered and installed.

  –£80,000 Herd of 80 Highland Cattle. Glenlow Estate.

  –£12,000 Purchase of Jaguar XJS Limited Edition

  +£950,000 Cash at bank.

  +£250,000 Krug Champagne entire remaining ’73 Vintage

  in bond at Tooley St Bonded Vintners

  Here’s to the next ten years!

  Yours,

  Paul Peters

  *

  Belle Hotel

  Invoice

  Date: 14 October

  To: Number 10 Downing Street

  Services: Emergency floor of rooms – 4am–6am, 12 October

  Cost: £2,500 including complimentary tea, biscuits and brandy

  The call came in soon after Franco heard the thud. Bomb. His old soldier’s bones knew it the second it went off. Few seconds later it all fell into place. Right: action, Franco. He woke up Charlie and Janet then went downstairs to open up.

  ‘Belle Hotel, Franco Sheridan speaking.’

  Brighton Constabulary. Major incident at Brighton Grand. Probable fatalities. Many wounded. Mrs T at Brighton Police Station, requesting Franco’s hospitality.

  ‘Of course. Her rooms will be ready in twenty minutes.’

  He’d have to take the current incumbent’s bills off his fee, but this was an emergency. As the disgruntled former residents of Belle Hotel’s fourth floor dissented into their dressing gowns, Franco sent Charlie round the bar sharpish with a tray of brandies and shortbread biscuits.

  Janet had the warm sheets off and fresh ones on before you could say IRA. Not that Maggie would be sleeping.

  Franco greeted her at the door. Shook her trembling hand and led her and Denis up to a place of relative safety.

  They were gone two hours later. Composed and ready to face the world. The IRA claimed responsibility, saying ‘Mrs Thatcher will now realise that Britain cannot occupy our country and torture our prisoners and shoot our people in their own streets and get away with it. Today we were unlucky, but remember we only have to be lucky once. You will have to be lucky always. Give Ireland peace and there will be no more war.’

  Margaret Thatcher began the next session of the Conservative Party conference at 9.30am that morning, as scheduled. She said the bombing was, ‘An attempt to cripple Her Majesty’s democratically elected government. That is the scale of the outrage we have all shared, and the fact that we are gathered here now – shocked, but composed and determined – is a sign not only that this attack has failed, but that all attempts to destroy democracy by terrorism will fail.’

  Franco watched Maggie’s Jag rumble down Ship Street to take her to her speech, blues and twos wailing off every wall,
refunded his disgruntled punters, went to his Remington and thumped out an invoice.

  The Times

  10 April 1984

  Tragedy struck the great actor Lord Laurence Olivier last night at the Oscars. Lord Olivier was presenting the best picture award and appeared on stage looking somewhat confused. Instead of reading out the list of nominees before announcing the winner, as protocol demands, Lord Olivier simply walked onto the stage, opened the envelope and said one word, Amadeus. The faux pas was greeted with huge gasps and then deadly silence. Fortunately for Lord Olivier and the Academy, this was indeed the winning picture. After some further confusion, not least from Lord Olivier, the Amadeus cast and crew took to the stage to receive their prematurely bestowed award.

  Larry’s roller pulled up at Belle Hotel’s entrance. The scent of beach and Brasso assaulted his senses, making him reel slightly as he grasped for the golden handle. He mouthed ‘fuck off’ for ‘thank you’ to his long-suffering chauffeur and stepped into the sanctuary.

  Franco, a crisp apron splatter-proofing his houndstooth suit, was busy with the usual pre-lunch prep, bossing people about, battering his cod. He one-handed the copper bowl under the tap and with the other pumped a hearty shot of ale into the pale eggy gloop. He tunelessly whistled Sinatra as he went about his duties

  ‘“Da, da, da, da, Chicago…” Morning, sweetheart.’

  Janet groggily acknowledged Franco and fixed herself a coffee from the shuddering boiler.

  Whisking as he walked, Franco shouldered the double swing door and side stepped into reception.

  ‘Larry!’

  He put the bowl down on top of the ledger – full occupancy tonight – lifted the hatch and strode over to the banquette to greet his old friend. Larry didn’t get up. He just sat there, scrunched Savile Row suit over a leather buttoned beige cardigan. Franco noticed soup stains on the tie.

  ‘The shame of it. The utter shame… utter…’

  ‘Larry, relax.’

  Franco noticed a PVC British Airways flight bag, its brash logo in marked contrast to the discreet hide banquette.

  ‘Can I have a drink? What time is it?’

  ‘Sherry o’clock. Come on in, I’ll set your table for you. Can I put this anywhere?’

  Larry kicked the bag in the general direction of reception.

  ‘Fucking Yanks. Fucking movies. Thank God for fish and chips.’

  Franco steered Larry by the elbow through the rose-stained glass divider and into the starched linen comfort of the restaurant. The five-year age gap and, no doubt, a gin-soaked night on the red eye, gave Larry the older part of the two men.

  ‘Here you are, Larry, take a seat, I’ll be back with your amontillado. No need for the menu, eh, shall I put something on ice?’

  Larry beamed on cue and flicked open the copy of The Times Franco had picked up for him at reception. Reception. Franco ran back to rescue the bowl, setting it down on the long metal table in the kitchen before leather sole-ing off to the bar for Larry’s livener, then, once he’d set the schooner and its fortifying contents in front of a visibly relaxing Larry, went to check the wine cellar.

  ‘Krug forty-seven. The year of his knighthood. Should do the trick.’

  It was early, just shy of noon. The first table was booked at one. Pandemonium after that, mind, but it gave him an hour with Larry before the first plates went out. Franco issued a couple of curt instructions to his sous chef and set off for an ice bucket. Fish and chips, he fancied that himself.

  Tartare Sauce

  4 pints mayonnaise

  1 lb gherkins

  1 lb capers

  Bunch of parsley

  Bunch of chives

  Franco cut, chopped and mixed the tartare sauce, seasoned it with a snatch of S&P from the battered wooden pots by the hobs, wiped his hands on his apron and put his book back up on its shelf. He’d give Charlie a taste of tartare later, explain how the acid in the capers cut perfectly through the creamy emulsion.

  The end-of-the-pier cod floated up in its batter life-jacket, Franco switched the oil down to standby, tonged the crisp fish onto a rack and shook out the chips. Then he fetched two oval plates from the warmer, wiped them with damp muslin and carefully arranged the Great British grub, loading the plates, along with a steaming bowl of mushy peas, onto a pock-marked platter. Fish knives and forks and ramekins of tartare sauce were waiting with Larry.

  ‘Come and get me when you’re ready.’

  Franco nodded at his sous chef, lifted the tray up onto his shoulder and exited backwards into the hush of an almost empty restaurant.

  The two men sat side by side and took their lunch. Opposite would have been too intimate, and besides, Olivier had already grabbed the banquette. They savoured the champagne. Caged memories rushed out with the release of the cork. Shakespeare on celluloid. The first self-directed, best actor Oscar.

  ‘The damned Academy.’

  Franco let it go. He topped Larry up and grated some black pepper onto his cod. Trembling fingers snatched the silver pot from his hand.

  ‘The damned Academy.’

  He wanted to talk about it. Hard to ignore, the Times picture of Larry’s Oscars black-tied cock-up was face-up on the banquette between them.

  ‘Have you seen this? Fuck. The shame.’

  ‘Well, Larry I—’

  Franco had read all about it over coffee at dawn. Poor Larry. He picked up The Times and pointed to the headline.

  ‘Look, Larry, it was an easy mistake. We’re getting on, you know. I forgot how to make tartare sauce just now.’

  ‘Yes, but you didn’t do it in front of a global audience of millions. The fucking shame of it. I’m a laughing stock.’

  He mimed opening an envelope.

  ‘Amadeus. Silly old fart. I am Archie Rice, the washed-up stage comedian. I am not Hamlet.’

  ‘Oh, Larry, forget it,’ Franco leaned across with the napkin-wrapped Krug and poured. ‘It could have happened to anyone. Who did you go to the after-party with, may one enquire?’

  ‘One may not enquire. Anyway, enough of my troubles. How is that grandson of yours?’

  ‘Well, thank you. He’s starting to help me in the kitchen, peeling your spuds and such like. I’m giving him little tastes of this and that, getting him to know his flavours, what good presentation looks like. Teaching him about the senses. The ones you need for our two professions, Larry. Touch, taste, sound, smell, sight and the elusive sixth sense.’

  ‘Common sense, Franco, common sense. Good, good. Ah, family.’

  Again Franco knew what was coming.

  ‘You’ve got to provide for them, Franco, old boy. Got to provide for them. Wild Geese, too.’

  ‘It’s not on the menu any more, Larry.’

  ‘No, Wild Geese II, my new pay cheque. If any one of those fuckers mentions Amadeus, I’m walking off set.’

  Larry pushed his plate away and wiped his face and necktie, mushy peas slimed over the in-flight soup stains. Franco noticed that two guests were standing by his reception desk.

  ‘Excuse me. Can I get you any pudding? Coffee, cognac?’

  22 June 1987

  Charlie had been officially ‘going out’ with Lulu since Valentine’s Day and had just spent the best part of half an hour stretched out on her single bed. Together they’d enjoyed the emptiness of the June-drowsy house, the thrill of an illicit fumble. Not bad to have got this far with a girl at just thirteen, shame his body was yet to catch up.

  ‘Charlie, why won’t you let me? Come on, I just let you.’

  ‘No, Lu, I gotta go. Johnny’s turning up soon and we’ve gotta pack our stuff before we go to the boat.’

  He’d been good with his hands, gentle, once she’d shown him what to do and he’d stopped shaking. But when it came to her turn he’d pulled away, too embarrassed by the lack of any signs of maturity down there to let her in.

  ‘There’ll be none of this once we’re onboard, Charlie. I’m sharing the captain’s cabin with Dad. You�
��ll be in the bunks with the crew.’

  Lulu rolled over and hopped from the bed, her pants hanging from one foot. She smartly stepped the other leg back into her pants and pulled them up in one quick movement. Lulu smoothed her school skirt back down over her bottom and sat down next to Charlie.

  ‘Do you mean what you say?’

  ‘What, that I can undo a bra one-handed?’

  ‘No, you spassie, that we’ll run Belle Hotel together when we’re older?’

  ‘Course, who d’you thing I’m gonna run it with, Parvez bloody Moondi?’

  ‘Charlie, say you love me. Before we go fishing. It’ll be torture being there and not being able to kiss you.’

  ‘Tell you what. I’ll give you ten snogs now to keep you going while… shit, look at the time. Yakking on and I’ve got to get my rucksack.’

  Charlie raced home, out across the Hove border and back into Brighton, punching the air as he ran at the sheer thrill of snogging Lulu, before spinning around the corner and into Ship Street and his home at the three-way crossroads. Belle Hotel.

  ‘Shit.’

  He’d never meant for him to actually come. It was Franco who’d suggested inviting Johnny. Janet had scowled and left the table. Charlie had shaken his head, thrilled at the idea, but never expecting Johnny to take him up on the offer. He’d rung him for a dare, never actually meant it. But Johnny jumped at it.

  He’d barely seen his father in the eight years since he’d left Charlie’s mum and Franco holding Belle Hotel. Only knew it was his brand-new Audi Quattro outside Belle Hotel because Father’s secretary kept Mother updated on all extravagances.

  ‘Oh. No.’

  Charlie shook. Just been a dare, a stupid dare to make him feel guilty. Or so he told himself. He was looking forward to spending the weekend with Roger. Let the other boys have their boring dads, he’d have the carpet king and Lulu all to himself. The ache in his chest tightened once more.

  ‘Shit.’

  He saw his father’s silhouette, narrow head haloed by smoke, at the restaurant window. He went in, through the recently Brassoed front door and turned right for the restaurant, where she’d no doubt sent him the moment he’d shown up. Janet would be in the bar, attached to the lager tap.