Queenie Malone’s Paradise Hotel

by Ruth Hogan

  The following day, when Tilly got home from school, her mother behaved as though nothing had happened, but she had cooked Tilly’s favourite tea, and there was red fizzy pop.

  The following week, Tilly’s Advent calendar had been fixed to the wall with a drawing pin, and two doors were open revealing a robin and a snowman. Tilly was busy chasing spaghetti hoops around her plate with her fork. She needed five hoops on each small square of toast to eat alternately with a mouthful of scrambled egg. Although her mother was being extra nice to her at the moment, Tilly sensed that this was a fragile and temporary state of affairs. It was her rituals that were a constant and would keep her safe. Her mother had pushed away her plate, food only half eaten. She had lit a cigarette and was drinking Scotch from a tumbler. Tilly had noticed that her mother was much better at cigarettes now. She had bought herself a gold-coloured cigarette lighter with her initials engraved on it, and she pulled the smoke deep into her lungs and then blew it out in a thin stream, through lips softly pursed, as though for a kiss. It was a shame about the lighter, because it meant that now the only box of matches was the one kept in the kitchen to light the cooker, and Tilly could only risk taking one occasionally or else her mother might notice they were disappearing. Tilly placed her knife and fork neatly in the centre of her plate.

  ‘Have you ever seen a dead person?’

  Eli, who was sitting next to Tilly, lifted his head and looked straight at her mother, just as though he was waiting to see if she would answer. Her mother didn’t even hesitate.

  ‘Yes, I did, once, a long time ago.’

  ‘Was I there?’

  ‘It was before you were born.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  Tilly’s mother flicked her ash into the cut-glass ashtray and sipped the golden liquid in her tumbler.

  ‘It was a little girl who was knocked down by a car.’

  She stared out at the darkness that was the view from the kitchen window, as though trying to picture the scene. She shuddered as the heat and blood, the scent of lilac and the noise of the traffic swept through her like the echo of a nightmare.

  ‘She was holding a red balloon.’

  Tilly tried to picture it.

  ‘Was she on her own?’

  ‘No, her daddy was with her.’

  Her mother bit her lips as she recalled his broken frame slumped helplessly in the gutter as his daughter died.

  ‘Was she covered in blood?’

  Tilly’s mother ignored her final question and took another deep gulp from her tumbler. She seemed to be somewhere else. For some reason she couldn’t explain, Tilly felt suddenly afraid, as though she was standing on the edge of a deep, dark hole. One more step and she would fall. She waited. Eventually her mother noticed the silence.

  ‘Go and put your things in the sink, and then you can do the washing-up.’

  Tilly did as she was told, ever afraid of rousing the Kraken. Besides, she liked washing up. She loved all the swooshing and sploshing of water and bubbles, and the little mini-mop for cleaning the dishes. She squirted an over-generous arc of green liquid into the plastic bowl, and turned both taps on full blast so that water splashed up all over her chest and all over the draining board, and bubbles quickly multiplied into a wobbling mountain of foam. Tilly’s approach to the task in hand was enthusiastic rather than skilful, and she wielded the mini-mop more like a conductor’s baton than a domestic utensil. By the time her performance was completed, the floor and draining board were awash with water and bubbles and Tilly’s jumper sleeves were sodden. She glanced across at her mother to gauge her mood. She had lit another cigarette and refilled her glass from the bottle on the dresser.

  Tilly decided to risk one more question.

  ‘Where do people go when they die?’

  Her mother swirled the liquid in her glass round and round.

  ‘Nobody knows.’

  Tilly was surprised. In her experience, grown-ups knew pretty much everything, or at least they pretended to.

  ‘Don’t the good ones go to heaven, and the bad ones to hell?’

  Tilly’s mother didn’t lift her eyes from her glass.

  ‘That’s just what people tell themselves to be less afraid of dying.’

  Tilly didn’t understand how this would make the bad people feel better about dying. According to Mrs O’Flaherty, hell was a really horrible place to end up, full of flames and demons, and people screaming and writhing in agony. Still, if Rosemary Watson carried on the way she was, there was a good chance that she would end up there, which would certainly make Tilly feel better. Rosemary Watson had started saying things about Tilly’s mother in the playground. She said that her mum had told Mrs Dawson at the Co-op when she was paying her money into the Christmas club, that Tilly’s mother was a ‘mental case’ and ‘far too fond of the sauce’. When Tilly had confronted her about it, Rosemary had said that she’d better watch out because she’d probably turn out the same way.

  ‘Like mother, like daughter!’ she sniped, as she flounced away with a prissy swish of her silly plaits. The name-calling troubled Tilly, perhaps all the more because she didn’t really understand it but knew that it was intended to be cruel. It was like being scared of the dark; it wasn’t the darkness itself that you were afraid of, but the unknown monsters it concealed. And anyway, Tilly’s mother didn’t even put tomato sauce on her chips.

  Later that night, cosily tucked up in bed, with Eli asleep on the rug, Tilly thought about the dead little girl her mother had seen. She had never really thought about children dying. She knew that poor, starving children died in hot countries far across the world. To help them, she had once saved pennies in a little cardboard money box she was given at Sunday school. But she had never really imagined children like her dying. She wondered what it would be like if she died; what it would feel like, where she would go, and who would have all her clothes and toys. Tilly thought that tomorrow she might make a list saying who she wanted to have what, just in case. Perhaps Rosemary Watson could have her doll that weed out of its bum, and then she would feel bad about being horrid to Tilly, and the doll might wee all over Rosemary’s skirt. Tilly lay very still and straight, with her arms by her sides, and held her breath. Perhaps if she could make herself stop breathing for long enough, she could get an idea of what it would feel like to be dead. Instead, she fell asleep.

  12

  Tilly

  The next morning was cold and bright. Tilly drew circles with her finger in the condensation on her bedroom window as she looked out at the back garden below, which sparkled with frost. She was glad that she hadn’t overdone the ‘not breathing’ and died in her bed, but she was still going to make the list today. After breakfast, she was bundled into her warm winter coat and red knitted beret.

  ‘Where are your gloves?’

  Her mother was scrabbling through the drawer in the coat stand that stood in the hall. Tilly pulled the red mittens from her coat pockets like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat.

  ‘Ta-dah!’

  Her mother tutted impatiently as she tied a woollen scarf around her own neck, and pulled on matching gloves in an elegant shade of cornflower. Tilly remembered that they had been a present from her daddy, and not for a birthday or Christmas, but ‘just because my lovely wife deserves to be spoilt’.

  Her mother had wiped her flour-dusty fingers on her apron and shushed away his compliments. But Tilly also remembered her smile as she unwrapped the tissue paper and stroked the soft blue wool. She looked at her mother with pride. Whatever else she might be, she was very beautiful, and always nicely dressed. She didn’t look like a mental case to Tilly. It was Saturday, and they were going shopping at the Co-op. Normally Tilly liked this type of shopping with her mother, but today she was worried that Mrs Dawson might be rude, or whisper or stare at them because of what Mrs Watson had said.

  Her mother walked briskly along the glittering pavement, her back straight and her head held high, gripping Tilly’s hand firmly i
n her own. Tilly trotted along beside her like an exuberant Shetland pony and Eli followed behind. The shopfront of the Co-op was decked in Christmas fare and framed with coloured paper chains. There was a small pyramid of Christmas puddings and several iced Christmas cakes. Shiny round tins of sweets and shortbread stood on their sides like wheels rolling across the front of the windows, interspersed with square boxes of crackers. A large – and very obviously plastic – turkey and a lurid pink leg of ham squatted side by side on a huge foil platter. Standing guard was a rather cross-eyed reindeer under a silver tinsel Christmas tree.

  ‘Goodness me, Mrs Dawson’s very early with her Christmas decorations.’ Tilly’s mother peered warily at the strange-looking reindeer.

  ‘I think it looks really lovely and “Happy Christmassy”,’ said Tilly decisively, ignoring her mother’s reservations.

  Her mother clasped the handle of the shop door with a blue-gloved hand, and Tilly, still firmly held by the other hand, felt her mother’s brief hesitation before she pushed the handle down, and the bell jangled to announce their arrival. Tilly needn’t have worried. Mrs Dawson greeted them with her usual, friendly smile. Whatever she had heard, Tilly thought she must be keeping it to herself, or perhaps Mrs Dawson didn’t care what her customers did at home, so long as their money ended up in her till. The shop was busy as usual for a Saturday, and women with wire shopping baskets hooked in the crooks of their elbows stood chatting to one another, or browsed the aisles looking for something tasty for Sunday tea. Small children stood aimlessly next to their mothers, bored by the domestic chit-chat, or chased one another up and down the aisles until they knocked into something or someone and were shouted at by Mrs Dawson, or their mothers, or both. As well as the festive window display, the shelves on the end of one aisle carried a range of ‘specials’ seductively billed as ‘Christmas gourmet treats’. On the top two shelves there were tins of chestnut puree, maraschino cherries, blocks of marzipan, paper cake frills decorated with sprigs of holly, and boxes of dates. Lower down in the display sat tins of red salmon, cooked ham and crabmeat, and jars of potted shrimps, pickled onions, pickled walnuts and piccalilli. Shopping on a Saturday was a social occasion and nobody seemed to be in any hurry. A few of the other women smiled briefly at Tilly’s mother as she moved through the shop, and a couple even murmured ‘hello’, but the economy of their greeting made it clear that they did not consider her to be one of them, and nobody stopped her to chat. Tilly was relieved therefore to spot Auntie Wendy inspecting a tin of chestnut puree with a mixture of suspicion and disdain.

  ‘Auntie Wendy!’

  Auntie Wendy looked up from the offending tin and greeted them a little more extravagantly than usual; a greeting that could not be missed, nor its intention misinterpreted by the other women in the shop.

  ‘What in heaven’s name are you supposed to do with chestnut puree?’ she exclaimed as she replaced it on the shelf with a thump. She took Tilly’s mother by the arm, and they wandered around the shop together filling their baskets with less exotic but more appetising fare. By the time they were ready to pay for their shopping there were long queues at both tills. Her mother and Auntie Wendy set their baskets down on the floor and Tilly smiled sweetly at the young woman who was standing in front of them jiggling a plump, gurgling baby on her hip. When they eventually reached the till, Tilly helped her mother unload the shopping onto the counter. The cashier, a ruddy-cheeked woman with a sturdy shampoo and set and gold hoop earrings nodded approvingly at Tilly.

  ‘What a helpful young lady you are. And what do you want to be when you grow up?’

  ‘A virgin.’

  The silence that followed was immaculate. The cashier, whose face was bravely resisting a grin, continued.

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Because I like bananas.’

  An amused splutter escaped from someone in the other queue, but was immediately stifled and Tilly continued into the expectant silence:

  ‘And apples, and oranges and grapes. I don’t really like apricots, but I love raspberries.’

  The cashier nodded again, but this time because she hoped the movement would distract her from the eruption of laughter that threatened to destroy her composure. Tilly’s mother hastily packed away their shopping into her bag and paid the cashier. She then helped Auntie Wendy to do the same. The expression on her face and her manner were calm and assured, but Auntie Wendy’s lips were pressed together so tightly that her mouth had become little more than a crease on her face. Once they were safely outside and several yards down the road, Auntie Wendy gave in to the laughter and wiped the tears from her cheeks. She looked at Tilly, who was completely oblivious to the fact that she was the cause of such amusement.

  ‘Tilly, do you know what a virgin is?’

  ‘It’s a bit like a greengrocer.’

  ‘And what makes you think that?’

  Tilly rolled her eyes in exasperation. Sometimes grown-ups could be very dim.

  ‘Like Mary the Virgin in Mrs O’Flaherty’s prayer: “blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit in thy room”.’

  Tilly was fed up with all this now. The grown-ups were being inexplicably silly and their laughter had wounded her dignity. She wasn’t even sure if she wanted to be a virgin any more. She thought she might run off and join the circus.

  13

  Tilda

  As I open the blue cover of the diary, the hubbub of voices and the clatter of cups and saucers in the café are sucked into the background. The diary is a doorway to another world.

  27 July

  Stevie has gone and I’m glad. Perhaps that is a wicked thing to say, but it is the truth, and the truth is sometimes an ugly thing. The doctor says that my nerves are bad again. Perhaps it is just me that is bad. He says that it might help if I write things down like I did before. Now I have Tilly all to myself and perhaps she will love me, because I am all she has left. Of course, Stevie will be back. But not for a while.

  I know I can’t compete with him. He is her clown, her knight in shining armour, her playmate, her partner in crime. But I am her mother. She misses him so badly, she goes into his shed and touches his things. She thinks that I don’t know about the key. But she doesn’t know why he had to go. She has no idea that he was stupid enough to lose the only proper job he’s had in years. The one that meant we could finally settle down and make a real home. And that after he was sacked no one else would employ him. She doesn’t understand the shame, the gossip and the worry about where the money’s coming from to pay the bills; the fear that comes with each brown envelope that falls through the letterbox. If it wasn’t for his cousin’s friend’s broken hip we could’ve been out on the streets by Tilly’s birthday. I’m sure Stevie will be like a kid in a sweetshop running the pub while the landlord recovers. And no doubt he’ll be giving readings to anyone who’s taken in by his sweet talk. But at least he’ll be earning enough to pay our bills. He didn’t want to leave his precious daughter, but I bet he couldn’t wait to get away from me. He is afraid of my illness and would rather not see it. He still wants to be a father, but not a husband. He promised ‘in sickness and in health’, but Stevie is better at making promises than keeping them.

  Before Tilly came, it was different. Stevie and I were in love. We loved each other: proper love, when all the time not spent together is wasted and just to be endured, got through somehow. The kind of love that makes you utterly invincible and utterly vulnerable. Stevie made me forget about my awkwardness. He charmed me. His love protected me and made me normal. It made me believe in ‘happy ever after’. But I was wrong. I gave up everything for him. Mum and Dad said that I had a choice: him or them. Him or God. I chose him. I went with him when he moved from job to job, town to town. I thought that Stevie would be enough. I made him my whole life. When Tilly was born, she became his life and a part of me died. It wasn’t meant to be like that. We were supposed to be a circle of love, we three. I fed her, changed her nappies, dried her tears,
soothed her fevers and paced the floor exhausted, night after night, rocking her in my aching arms until she fell asleep. He worshipped her. She was perfect, and he loved her absolutely. He had nothing left for me and I’d never felt so alone.

  My eyes are awash with unshed tears, and I can hardly breathe. I need someone to thump me on the back before I choke on her words. I feel a soft, warm weight on my knee. Eli’s head is resting there. I barely have time to register the feeling before he moves away, but I know it happened. I have never felt him before. My breath shudders through, resuscitated by his touch. My mother’s words are rewriting the childhood that for so long I have claimed to be my own. The people and the places are still there, but the perspective has slipped so far out of focus that I barely recognise the story that was once, and ought to remain, so familiar. I never knew that my dad had been sacked. What the hell for? I never knew that they had ever been so in love. I never even thought about it, not once. The Grace and Stevie I knew, my parents, lived as man and wife under the same roof and cared for one another, but I don’t remember many hearts and flowers. There were secrets, fights, days of bitter silence and occasionally a truce. And yes, sometimes he would slip his arm around her waist, or kiss her on the cheek, but it was the fights I remember most. Had I really robbed them of their precious love for one another, and stolen him away from her? I think about my mother, softened by love and truly happy. I can’t remember her like that. My tears splash onto the open pages of the diary, smudging the black ink, as though trying to wash the words away. But they have been written and read, and now nothing can wash away what I know. Thank God I have long hair. It curtains my face and hides my embarrassment. I never cry. I am blinking furiously to stop the tears, but I badly need to sniff or risk a snail trail barely excusable on a three-year-old. Eli sighs loudly. I have a feeling that he is telling me to get a grip as I fumble in my pocket for a tissue. A soft wad is pressed into my other hand.