Queenie Malone’s Paradise Hotel

by Ruth Hogan

  An hour later, I am standing on the pier, staring out across the endless, grey sea and thinking of Daniel. I haven’t been back to the café since my birthday. What’s the point? I have tried to convince myself to go back, act cool as though I only ever thought of him as a friend, and possibly stick my foot out at an opportune moment and trip up the red-haired beauty as she swans past me. But I’m no good at acting cool. I’d be like the clown again in the too-big shoes. The only one who’d fall flat on her face would be me. Queenie thinks I should go back. She says that fear can play havoc with the eyesight, but I have 20/20 vision. I know what I saw. I pull out a cigarette from the pack in one pocket of my coat, and fumble for a lighter in the other. A click, close to my face, followed by a flame comes from a brass Zippo held in a deeply tanned hand. A heavy silver bangle spins on the wrist of the lighter’s owner as he snaps the lid shut.

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

  I drag deeply on the cigarette, pulling the smoke into my lungs.

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Well, you’re doing a mighty fine job of pretending to be someone who does.’

  I offer him a cigarette that he takes with a grin. Joseph Geronimo Heathcliff O’Shea rests his elbows on the railings next to me and blows the smoke from his cigarette out to sea. He is standing very close and I am glad. Eli, who is sitting on the other side of me, is gently wagging his tail. It seems that he is pleased to see Joseph Geronimo too.

  ‘I haven’t seen you in the café recently.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Daniel’s been wondering where you are.’

  ‘I bet he has.’

  Joseph Geronimo takes my hand and begins walking me down the pier. The wooden slats clack beneath our feet and my hand feels small, like a child’s, in his.

  ‘I was there that night, you know. I saw you outside and I know why you turned away, and why you haven’t been back since.’

  I can’t trust myself to speak. I don’t want to think about Daniel, or my mother, or anything else for that matter. I just want to throw myself at this man and hide in the embrace of his strong, warm body. I want him to be my shelter from a world where I feel like an outcast. Instead, I kick a discarded drink can with petulant venom, sending it scuttering down the pier. Joseph Geronimo stops and turns to face me.

  ‘What is it, exactly, that you’re afraid of?’

  ‘Boiled eggs.’

  He laughs and we continue walking hand in hand.

  ‘Nice try. But you’re not getting out of it that easily.’

  He leads me to a wooden bench facing out to sea and we sit down.

  ‘You’re a smart woman, Tilda, so don’t take me for a fool.’

  We sit in silence for a while, Joseph Geronimo waiting for an answer, and me trying to find the appropriate words to construct one. My reflex response of evasive bullshit clearly isn’t going to cut it with him. Finally, in exasperation, he answers his own question.

  ‘The thing you are most afraid of is yourself. Of who you are. Am I right?’

  He leaves no pause for an answer because he doesn’t need to. We both know he’s right.

  ‘You sneak around in the shadows pretending to be like everyone else, but like it or not, you never will be. What you have can be a blessing or a curse, but the choice is entirely yours. It is what you make of it. You can spend the rest of your life skulking or you can find your swagger.’

  And with that he kisses me. Not a peck on the cheek, like a friend, but long and full on the mouth like a lover. I don’t stop him. I don’t pull away.

  ‘My man, Daniel, will disembowel me with his bare hands if he finds out about that,’ he declares, leaning back on the bench and grinning.

  ‘I doubt it!’

  ‘Look at me, Tilda.’

  He cups my chin in his hand and forces me to look into his dark blue eyes.

  ‘Tilda, you are a fine-looking woman, and you are magnificent in more ways than you know, but in affairs of the heart you’ve shit for brains. Pardon my language.’

  He can see I am about to argue, and he silences me with a finger across my lips.

  ‘Sometimes, we see what we fear most, instead of what’s really there. Sometimes, we have to learn to trust. That redhead – she’s been after Daniel for months, purring and pouting and wiggling her arse. But he’s not interested. It’s you he’s set his cap at, damn him. He’s friendly because she’s a customer and so are her friends. But that’s it. And if I didn’t know it to be true I’d be chasing you to church for myself. But I’ve seen how you look at him, and he’s the man for you. Now get up off your bony backside and come with me. I’m going to buy you a mug of tea and a cherry brandy.’

  He takes my arm and we head off back down the pier towards the café.

  ‘Come on, dog, keep up.’

  19

  Tilly

  Eli stood in a patch of gossamer winter sunlight next to the lilac tree, gently wagging his tail. Tilly loved the lilac tree. It was just a collection of bare brown sticks now, but in spring it would be a haze of blossom and fresh green leaves. Tilly thought that the flowers looked like fluffy, purple pine cones, but her mother said that their perfume gave her a headache. She would never have lilac in the house, and one year she had tried to persuade Stevie to chop it down and replace it with an ornamental cherry tree. But when Tilly had found out what was planned, she had been heartbroken, and made such a hullabaloo that her mother eventually relented and the tree was left in peace. Tilly was playing tag with Eli, but she knew that she could never win. She flung herself this way and that, her hair flying wildly behind her and her coat flapping open, but she could never quite touch him.

  Auntie Wendy was watching from the back gate in complete bewilderment. She was glad to see that Tilly was enjoying herself so much, as things had been hard enough for her lately, but she seemed to be sharing her game with someone else, and yet she was completely alone in the garden. Auntie Wendy closed the gate behind her with a deliberate clunk, so that Tilly would be sure to hear her. Tilly looked up at her and waved, and then returned to her game. Auntie Wendy was prickled by a vague worry that something wasn’t quite right.

  ‘Who are you playing with, Tilly?’ she asked.

  ‘My dog. But he’s too fast for me to catch him.’

  Tilly looked to her side as if to indicate his presence.

  ‘That’s lovely, sweetheart, but it’s just pretend, isn’t it? He’s a pretend dog?’

  Tilly looked up at Auntie Wendy, her eyes completely clear with truth.

  ‘No, he’s not pretend. He’s dead, like daddy.’

  Under normal circumstances, Tilly was quite pleased when something she said provoked such a shocked expression from a grown-up, but almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she remembered her promise. Auntie Wendy’s face looked exactly like her mother’s when she had first tried a big gulp of the whisky that was kept in the sideboard. Tilly clamped her hand over her mouth to stop any more words escaping. Her tummy lurched with fear and she hoped that her promise wasn’t broken.

  Auntie Wendy’s face didn’t move. Tilly wondered if she might have to poke her to get her going again. It was like being at the cinema when the film gets stuck, and the picture freezes on the screen. The appearance of her mother at the back door jolted Auntie Wendy back into motion. Auntie Wendy smiled weakly at Tilly, and turned towards the house. Tilly hoped she wouldn’t say anything. Tilly lay flat on her back on the frozen lawn and squinted up at the sky, watching the tiny flecks of black pitch and wheel across the bright, blue space. Tilly wondered if the birds could see heaven from where they were, and if her daddy could see her from wherever he was. Something tickled her neck, and her fingers touched the fine gold chain, searching for the heart-shaped locket that Father Christmas had brought her. It was engraved with a ‘T’ in a tiny circle of flowers. It had come in a lovely red velvet box that now stood in pride of place on her dressing table, next to the white china angel that had been Mrs O’Flaherty’s C
hristmas present to her.

  Tilly’s daydreaming was soon interrupted by the sound of raised voices coming from the house. The angry shouting made Eli sit up very straight, and Tilly’s tummy pitch like the birds in the sky. In the weeks before he went away, her daddy used to shout like that, and her mother would scream back at him. Tilly never heard the actual words, just the anger, because as soon as it started, she would run to the bottom of the garden, or at night, pull the covers over her head and hide under the pillow. She had never heard her mother and Auntie Wendy argue about anything. Auntie Wendy was always on their side, no matter what, so this must mean serious trouble. Tilly got up and crept a little closer to the house to see if she could hear what they were saying.

  ‘The poor kid’s obviously disturbed and it’s not surprising after what you’ve done to her. I ought to report you to someone.’

  Auntie Wendy was fuming, but her mother’s voice was surprisingly calm.

  ‘She’s my daughter and I think I know what’s best for her. I’ll thank you not to interfere in something that’s really none of your business.’

  The back door burst open, and Auntie Wendy marched out into the garden. Her face was cross and very red, and she looked as though her head was going to explode. Her mouth was still moving, but she had run out of words, and Tilly could tell by the quick, clackety-clack of her heels on the path and the fierce grip that she had on her handbag that she was very, very upset about something. Her mother followed Auntie Wendy, but only as far as the doorway, where she stood watching her. She looked like someone who had made up their mind about something that no one would ever be able to change. As Auntie Wendy reached the gate, she hesitated for a moment and looked towards Tilly.

  ‘Wendy.’

  Her mother’s voice was quiet, but heavy with warning. Auntie Wendy left without saying a word.

  After she had gone, Tilly hung around in the garden for a bit, even though her fingers and toes were beginning to go numb with the cold. She was dying to go and ask her mother what had happened, but more than a little bit afraid to know the answer. Tilly loved Auntie Wendy. She was like a hot-water bottle, chocolate sponge and custard, Black Beauty, a go on a helter-skelter and Milk of Magnesia. She could make Tilly feel happy and excited, warm and safe, and when something was wrong, she could always make it a bit better. Now Tilly was worried that she might not see her any more. She couldn’t understand it. Auntie Wendy was her mother’s best friend; her only real friend. Something really bad must have happened.

  ‘It’s just a bit of a misunderstanding,’ her mother said, when Tilly eventually plucked up the courage to go inside and speak to her.

  ‘Is Auntie Wendy still our friend?’

  ‘Of course she is. She’s just got the wrong end of the stick about something. Everything will be back to normal in a couple of days.’

  Tilly was unconvinced. Auntie Wendy usually had the whole stick, and not just one end of it, let alone the wrong end. Tilly didn’t know anyone who was more organised, or who knew more about what was going on around them. Auntie Wendy always knew if someone had new curtains or was having a baby, and what was on offer at Mrs Dawson’s and if the coalman didn’t fill the bunker right up to the top. Tilly wasn’t fooled for a minute. Her mother was trying to pass off a zebra for a horse.

  ‘Why don’t you write a letter to Daddy? You haven’t written one this week.’

  Tilly recognised the diversionary tactic and was even more suspicious. She had begun writing to her daddy again just before Christmas. When he first went away, he had written to them every week – sometimes letters, sometimes postcards with pictures of the seaside on them – and Tilly always wrote back. But as time went on, they heard from him less frequently. Her mother said that he was very busy running the pub, and he didn’t always have time to write. After her daddy died, starting to write the letters again had been her mother’s idea. One day, when Tilly had been feeling really miserable and missing her daddy so much that it made her cry even when she was watching The Clangers, her mother had suggested that she could write him a letter and if they left it in the right place, an angel would find it and take it to him. Tilly thought it was a stupid idea, even more stupid than kissing boys or having bosoms, but she knew that her mother was trying to cheer her up, so she went along with it. Each letter was left on the kitchen windowsill, at night, just before Tilly went to bed. They would say a little prayer for her daddy, and ask an angel to come and collect the letter and take it to him. Sometimes Tilly nearly laughed during the prayer because it seemed so silly, but her mother took it all very seriously. Tilly was certain that it was her mother who took the letters, but she kept writing them. Just in case.

  Later, after the letter was written, Tilly sat at the table dividing her fishcake into eight equal pieces and crowning each piece with three peas while her mother sat smoking and searching through a shoebox full of old papers and Christmas cards. Tilly ate a piece of fishcake, and then a piece of carrot, and then had a drink of orange squash. She kept going until her plate was empty except for one piece of carrot, and her glass was drained.

  ‘I’m not eating this carrot. It’s got a brown bit. I think a maggot must have pooed on it.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Or weed on it, or been sick on it.’

  ‘Probably, dear.’

  ‘I’m having a hysterectomy.’

  Tilly had no idea what one was, but if it was good enough for Mrs O’Flaherty, it was good enough for her.

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Muuuuuuummm!’

  Tilly’s exasperated whine was accompanied by her feet drumming against the chair legs.

  Her mother looked up, finally.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tilly, what is it?’

  ‘I’ve finished. Ages ago. Except for the carrot with maggot poo on it.’

  ‘Don’t say “poo” at the table.’

  It was a good job she hadn’t heard the rest of it. Her mother returned to the shoebox and pulled out an old Christmas card. She opened it, read it and smiled.

  ‘Let’s go to the seaside.’

  ‘But it’s winter.’

  ‘It’ll be lovely,’ her mother replied, smiling.

  Tilly thought it would be lovely too. But she still wasn’t going to eat the last piece of carrot.

  20

  Tilda

  ‘Danny boy! I found your woman wandering on the pier. Smoking cigarettes she was, too. If you don’t come and claim her, I’m keeping her for myself, and we’ll run away together to Roaring Water Bay. And I’m taking the dog too.’

  Joseph Geronimo has marched me into the café, and makes his declaration with all the swash and buckle of a pirate in a Hollywood film. I don’t know whether to laugh, cry or hide under one of the tables. Daniel, who is clearly not good with surprises, stares at us both open-mouthed and forgets to stop filling the coffee cup that he is holding, so that it overflows and the scalding liquid runs down his leg.

  ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ he shouts whilst struggling frantically to remove his jeans, having thrown the coffee cup and its contents all over the floor. Now I know what to do. I’m helpless with laughter at the sight of Daniel bunny-hopping behind the counter, his jeans round his ankles. Two elderly ladies with very sturdy handbags, who are sitting at a table in the corner, and who look as though they may have come into the café by mistake, are watching with shocked disapproval.

  ‘Language! Language!’ tuts one of them.

  Queenie is sitting alone in the corner, grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘Right, Danny boy, I’m counting to five.’

  Joseph Geronimo nods towards me and raises his eyebrows at Daniel. Daniel, who is now without his trousers or any vestige of dignity, hesitates for just a second before he strides out from behind the counter, with as much swagger as a man wearing only his underpants and socks in a public place can muster. He grabs me by both arms and kisses me passionately on the lips. It’s not exactly Love Actually, but it’s a start. And they are ve
ry nice underpants. Of course, if this was a film, there would have been a spontaneous round of applause from the customers in the café at this point, but in real life, there’s a rather embarrassed and very English hush, followed by one of the old ladies remarking, ‘That’s all very well, but when’s he going to take our order?’

  A little while later, Daniel and I are sitting at one of the tables drinking tea and cherry brandy. Daniel is wearing a clean pair of jeans and he is holding my hand. Having flattered and fussed over the two old ladies, and given them free tea and crumpets, Joseph Geronimo is in charge behind the counter and I suspect that Eli is behind there with him. I’m explaining to Daniel how I’ve ended up here and why I’ve been reading little books in his café.

  ‘So, have you had any surprises so far?’

  ‘A few. But I think there’s probably worse to come.’

  He squeezes my hand.

  ‘Well, I always thought you were as mad as a box of jumping jacks anyway, so feel free to come here and read whenever you like. If you read anything that makes you even more peculiar than you normally are, I promise I’ll either ignore you or lock you in a cupboard.’

  I can’t stop smiling. Maybe I am mad, and yes, maybe I will get hurt, but isn’t it about time to take a risk? I’m sick of being careful and hiding who I really am. I’m fed up of waiting for my real life to begin. I’m going to get my party dress out of the wardrobe and start dancing. If it gets ripped or stained, so be it. At least I’ll have worn it.