Queenie Malone’s Paradise Hotel

by Ruth Hogan

  ‘Hey, you two! Don’t get too mushy. It’s only the first date.’

  Queenie has gone and Joseph Geronimo is getting bored of serving teas and wants some company.

  ‘How about you make me a chip butty? I think I deserve it.’

  I go and sit at the counter, and Joseph Geronimo comes around and sits on the stool next to mine, while Daniel sorts out his order. I place my hand over his.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Joseph Geronimo turns to me and winks.

  ‘You’re as welcome as the flowers in May.’

  Part 2

  Divas, doughnuts, dating and dancing

  21

  Tilly

  Tilly had never been in a taxi before, but her mother had said that they were treating themselves because they were on holiday. Tilly didn’t think it was much of a treat. Although she had felt quite posh and important when the driver had opened the door for her and called her ‘miss’, she still preferred to ride on a bus with its prickly velvet seats, a friendly conductor and lots of other people to watch. But as they drove down the hill from the station, past the shops and the bank, several pubs and a large post office, Tilly felt a fizz of excitement starting in her tummy. It had something to do with the strange light at the bottom of the road. Tilly felt as though she was about to emerge from a long, dark tunnel. All at once, the brown and grey of bricks and concrete fell away, and the whole wide world was filled with bright light, sand and sea and sky. Tilly bounced with joy and pointed and shouted.

  ‘The sea! The sea! I can see the sea!’

  The taxi driver glanced back in his mirror at Tilly’s beaming face. He had seen it hundreds of times before, but it still warmed his heart like a lover’s kiss. Tilly craned her neck at the window, desperate to gather in all the sights and sounds and smells. The sun was high and shining brightly on the sparkling waves, and she could taste the sharp, salty tang of the sea in the air. Children swaddled in hats, scarves, coats and gloves ran along the beach chasing footballs and flying kites, and men in tweed coats walked along the promenade arm in arm with ladies wearing silk scarves to keep their hairstyles safe from the whirling wind. An elderly couple ate fish and chips from newspaper, huddled in a bus shelter facing out to sea, while hungry gulls stood guard, hoping for scraps. A man, walking alone, with one hand on his hat and the other in his pocket, looked so familiar that for a tiny breath Tilly thought it was her daddy. But the truth pulled her back by her ponytail before she could blink. Her mother took her hand and squeezed it gently.

  ‘Look, Tilly, the pier.’

  The pale blue metal tentacle stretched out to sea, strewn with coloured lights and fluttering flags. The golden minaret that crowned the ballroom at the end of the pier glinted in the sunlight, and the fairground rides whirled and spun and raced just like Tilly’s heart when she saw this magical world spread out before her. This was definitely Tilly’s idea of a treat. The taxi carried on past the pier and then turned left, and began to climb one of the long roads lined with tall Victorian houses, many of which boasted colourful signs declaring themselves to be hotels or bed and breakfast establishments. The taxi pulled up outside a splendid-looking house, with a green and white sign hanging on an ornate metal bracket over the door. The Paradise Hotel was a burst of high summer in a bleak midwinter street. The front of the house was bedecked with hanging baskets of roaring red geraniums, purple and white petunias, and pink fuchsias. White troughs on the windowsills were overflowing with trailing lobelia, more fuchsias and jewel-hued violas, and two huge pots either side of the very grand-looking front door contained a riotous display of snapdragons, marigolds and busy Lizzies. Tilly thought that whoever lived here must be very special indeed to make such beautiful blooms grow in winter. Her mother thought that the person who lived here had spent an awful lot of money on plastic flowers. The sign proclaimed this person to be one Queenie Malone, and just below a first-floor window a huge Union Jack was waving from a diagonal flagpole. Tilly was impressed.

  ‘Do you think the Queen stays here on her holidays?’

  Her mother pushed open the first of the two front doors, and once they were both inside the lobby and she had checked her appearance in the glass, she rang the doorbell on the inner door. Tilly was jiggling from one foot to the other in excitement, peering through the glass door panels to see if anyone was coming.

  ‘Tilly, do stand still. Anyone would think you’ve got ants in your pants.’

  Tilly knew that they must be on holiday for her mother to be saying ‘pants’ in a public place, so she couldn’t resist pushing the joke a little further.

  ‘Or nits in my knickers.’

  A sentence containing both the words ‘knickers’ and ‘nits’, and so bringing together the rude and the repulsive was, in Tilly’s eyes, a recipe for the knickerbocker glory of all jokes, and she collapsed into a fit of giggles at her own comedy genius. Even her mother was trying not to laugh. At the sound of footsteps coming from inside the house, her mother grabbed Tilly’s hand and shook her, as though to throw off the giggles, and they both stood to attention, although the shadow of a grin was still dancing across her mother’s face. The woman who opened the door was unforgettable in every way. Her hair, which was the colour of Parma violet sweets, was swept into an immaculate candyfloss bouffant. Her matching eyeshadow, lipstick and nail polish were a toning shade of frosted lilac, and on her bosom shelf rested several strands of pearls and an enormous sparkling brooch in the shape of a peacock. The rings on her fingers twinkled like the crown jewels. She was wearing a tight-fitting, plain cotton dress that was a striking shade of fuchsia. Her perfume smelled of gardenias. Tilly thought she was beautiful.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies, and welcome to The Paradise Hotel.’

  She swept them through into the hallway where she hugged Gracie hard, like a mother welcoming a long-lost child home.

  ‘My God, Queenie! You look so different. You look amazing.’

  Gracie’s face was lit by a smile brighter than Tilly had ever seen on her mother before.

  ‘Is that why you’ve got the flag over the door? Because you’re called Queenie?’ Tilly asked.

  ‘It most certainly is, young lady. That, and to show people that The Paradise Hotel is fit for the Queen herself.’

  Tilly knew already that she was going to love Queenie. Once the greetings and hugs were over, Queenie said that she would take them to their room. It was up three flights of stairs, almost at the top of the house. The stair carpet was a deep maroon and cream pattern, and almost every step creaked when it was walked on. Queenie said that the creaky stairs were a good way to deter guests from creeping about in the middle of the night to indulge in ‘clandestine canoodling’. Tilly had no idea what she was talking about, but made a mental note to ask Queenie about it later. Perhaps when her mother wasn’t listening. Every landing windowsill was adorned with gleaming brass plant pots which sprouted huge, feathery ferns or lush green aspidistras. On the walls were little signs made of varnished wood saying things like ‘Home, Sweet Home’, ‘Bless this House’, and ‘No Swearing’, and framed pictures of the Queen. The real Queen. Queenie unlocked the door to their room and handed the key to her mother.

  ‘Now, once you’ve unpacked and settled in, come downstairs to the guests’ sitting room and I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea.’ And with a fragrant waft of gardenias she was gone.

  Their room was full of light that streamed in through the big bay window facing the seafront, and it even had a little balcony. The twin beds had matching eiderdowns covered in pale cabbage roses, and beside each bed was a little cupboard with a lamp and a small jug of water and a glass, set out on a lace doily. There was a wooden wardrobe with coat hangers covered in pink and blue quilted padding, and right next door was a tiny bathroom with pretty flowery wallpaper and yet another picture of Her Majesty on the door facing the toilet.

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to wee if the Queen’s watching.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll man
age,’ her mother replied as she lifted their suitcase onto her bed and snapped the lock undone.

  Tilly gazed out of the window towards the sparkling sea and the magical pier, and was enchanted.

  ‘I want to stay here forever.’

  22

  Tilda

  I’m looking for something to keep me occupied until it’s time to get ready. Tonight, I’m going on a proper date with Daniel. He’s taking me out for dinner and I don’t want to get ready too early and then have nothing to do but wait. God, I’d forgotten how slowly time goes when you’re so looking forward to something. It’s like playing a 78 rpm at 33 rpm; I want to crank the handle to make the time go faster. I’m trying really hard to quit the matches. I’ve only lit two today and that was this morning, because I don’t want to have to come back into the flat and leave Daniel standing at the door while I check that any more recently spent matches are still dead and floating in the water. There is, however, one thing that might distract me for a while. The little blue book is lying on the kitchen table. I pour myself a glass of wine. I could just read a few more pages.

  3 November

  Stevie still hasn’t replied to my letter. Until now, I’ve been happy enough that he’s away from Tilly. I need to protect her. It’s my duty as her mother. I told him that he’s got to change; be more responsible and act like a grown-up. And stop teaching Tilly things she shouldn’t know. I wanted her to have time to forget and perhaps learn to love me the way she loves him. I thought that if she had only me, then maybe she would. But who was I kidding? He is still her hero, and although she tries not to show it in front of me, that bastard is breaking her heart. She thinks I don’t notice her watching for the postman, desperate for a letter from her daddy. I know I wanted this. But we needed the money. It was only meant to be for a few months. Has he given up on both of us so soon? I wrote to him asking him to visit us. I can’t bear to see Tilly so desperate for him and not do anything about it. I will never be enough for her. Besides, if I’m honest, I’m not sure I can cope for much longer on my own. Well – I’m not on my own, am I? It’s me, the drink and the pills; the unholy trinity. God help us. But I love my child more than my own life, and I know now that I need him to come back. It’ll be Tilly’s birthday soon, and he must be here for that. I’ll beg if I have to.

  10 November

  He’s not coming. Tilly’s seventh birthday and he won’t be there. He’s working, he says. Can’t get the time off. He’ll lose his job. He works in a pub, for Christ’s sake; and that’s more important than his daughter’s birthday? I’m supposed to be the bloody drunk, but at least I’m here. I pleaded with him, for her sake, and God knows it hurt. But never, ever again. He can go to hell.

  I don’t seem to have much luck with birthdays. But at least, in the end, my dad had a bloody good excuse for standing me up on that one. My eyes fill with tears at the memory of one of the worst days of my life. The chime of the doorbell pierces the silence like a hatpin into a balloon. Instead of a bang, there is a crash as my toppled wine glass spills its contents across the table before rolling off the edge and onto the floor. If I carry on breaking them at this rate, there will be none of my mother’s best wine glasses left. Daniel is early. Eli watches my confused dithering and I swear he is smiling. Do I clear up the mess first or answer the door? The bell rings again and answers my question for me. Daniel is standing in the hallway, grinning broadly and shuffling from one foot to the other.

  ‘I know I’m early, but I was ready and just hanging around, so I thought I’d come and hang around with you.’

  Just the sight of his face is enough to dispel the darkness contained in the pages I have just been reading. I stand awkwardly in the doorway, smiling like a toothpaste advertisement.

  ‘I think this is the bit where you ask me in.’

  ‘Oh God! I’m so sorry. Please do. Come in.’

  ‘I don’t mind if I do,’ he laughs, and he does. Then stands in the hallway waiting patiently for me to turn into a sensible person again and show him where to go. I take him through to the sitting room. Eventually.

  ‘I’m not ready or anything. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘No, I’m fine thanks. You look ready enough to me. Come on, get your coat. Let’s go. We’ll be late!’

  ‘Late for what?’

  ‘For everything!’

  His enthusiasm is reassuring and contagious.

  ‘I was going to get changed. Where are we going?’

  ‘You’re lovely as you are. Just put on something warm. And hurry up!’

  On my way to the bathroom for an emergency make-up, hair and perfume pit stop, I make a very slapdash and perfunctory effort to clear up the mess in the kitchen. This involves extravagant swathes of kitchen roll, and the inappropriate and largely ineffectual use of a broadsheet and a tea towel as a makeshift dustpan and brush. When I have spread the mess around sufficiently, I chuck the whole lot in the bin. Five minutes later I am wearing my big coat and my neck is swaddled in a soft, cream cashmere scarf that I found hanging on the coat rack in the hall. Daniel is standing with his hands in his pockets, pretending that he has not been poking around my things that are lined up on the mantle shelf. But he has put the glass eye back in the wrong place. I wish I could just leave it where it is. Simply turn my back on it and walk away. But I can’t. The things have to be in a precise order. The threat of some unspecified catastrophe is still too strong for me to abandon all of my safety rituals and so I restore it to its proper place.

  ‘Aha! You caught me!’

  Daniel is smiling, but clearly slightly puzzled.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s just . . .’ I trail off lamely.

  How could I even begin to explain something so nebulous and complicated?

  ‘Right, that’s enough. I’m hungry and we’re going. Now, this minute!’

  Daniel grabs me and spins me round to face the door. Eli climbs onto the sofa and nestles himself into the cushions for a cosy night in. He obviously trusts Daniel to look after me and is standing down for the night.

  Daniel takes me to the pier.

  The sky is blue-black velvet scattered with diamonds, and the lights strung along the length of the pier twinkle like stars threaded onto a wire. Waves rise and crash beneath us, and then splash and burble their retreat across the pebbles speckled with flecks of white foam. The smell of hot doughnuts and fish and chips wafts in warm currents through the cold night air and mingles with the snatches of music from the fairground rides. I love the pier. At least here I feel safely inconspicuous. Maybe because it is a world of smoke and mirrors. It’s a good place to hide. There is magic here, even if some of it is only make-believe. Daniel could not have chosen better. Now I’m the one who’s grinning.

  ‘Where are we going to eat?’

  ‘Right here. Sit down, and I’ll be back in a tick.’

  ‘Right here’ is on a wrought-iron and wooden bench facing out to sea under a little wooden shelter, on the middle of the pier between the amusement arcade and the fairground rides. Daniel returns with two parcels of fish and chips wrapped in white paper, and a black duffel bag from which he produces a chilled bottle of pink champagne, two glasses, two white linen napkins, and a single red rose. It’s plastic.

  ‘God, it’s awful, isn’t it? But I don’t want you getting spoilt, so I borrowed it from the amusement arcade on the way back from the chippy.’

  I’m dumbfounded.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Why this? Why here?’

  ‘Don’t you like it?’

  The disappointment on Daniel’s face hits me like a punch in the stomach. Why am I so awkward at this?

  ‘It’s perfect. I just can’t understand how you got it all so right.’

  His grin reappears.

  ‘Well, judging by how long it took you to cross the café’s threshold for the first time, I figured that if I took you to a restaurant the chef would be having a smoke and the kitchen would be closed for the night by the
time I actually got you inside.’

  The champagne is cold and delicious. The fish and chips are hot and delicious. And so is Daniel. But I’m not going to tell him that bit. Not yet, anyway.

  After dinner we repack Daniel’s duffel bag and stroll down the pier towards the fairground rides. Daniel is holding my hand and swinging it gently backwards and forwards. Despite the champagne, I am silenced by a sudden shyness, but Daniel doesn’t appear to notice.

  ‘So – which ride are we going on? Which one’s your favourite?’ he asks.

  ‘The galloping horses. But it’s closed.’

  The ride is in darkness; the brightly painted horses still and silent. Even though it’s midwinter, some of the rides are still half full of passengers, screaming with fake fear on the ghost train and squealing as their stomachs lurch and their heads spin on the roller coaster. The slot machines rattle and ring all year round, swallowing money with appetites as insatiable as baby birds’. But the galloping horses are all asleep.

  ‘Well, let’s just pretend.’

  Daniel drags me over to the horses.

  ‘Which one do you want to ride?’

  With anyone else, I would just feel silly, but with him, somehow, it’s all right. We climb up onto the carousel and I inspect the horses. Each has a name painted in swirling gold script along its neck.

  ‘I want Jim.’

  He has a wild eye and his mane is twisted and curled as though by a stormy wind.

  ‘Hop on and hold on tight.’

  My hands grip the golden barley-sugar-twisted pole in front of me, and I can feel the coldness of the metal even through my woolly gloves.

  ‘Now close your eyes.’

  I hear Daniel walk away. As I sit there in the darkness, I am afraid that he has left me here and gone home. That I have said or done something wrong, and he has taken his chance to escape. Or maybe he has only done all of this for a bet, and I am ‘stupid Tilda’ again, believing in magic where there is none. But then I remember Joseph Geronimo’s words. No, more than remember; I can hear them in my head. Sometimes we have to learn to trust. And even though my eyes are still closed, I know that there are bright lights all around me, and I am slowly moving, and there is music. God, maybe I am drunk after all. I dare myself to open my eyes. The carousel is alive. This magic is real. Daniel is in the control booth. For at least ten seconds he manages an expression of cool nonchalance before dissolving into mad excitement. He punches the air with triumphant joy, like a small boy who has scored the winning goal in a game of football in the park. He disappears from the booth and clambers unsteadily across the wooden boards of the moving carousel to mount the horse next to Jim. Molly is a cheerful-looking white mare with blue eyes and a pink ribbon in her mane.