by Ruth Hogan
‘How on earth did you manage all this?’
Daniel can’t stop grinning.
‘Joseph Geronimo.’
‘But how did you know that I would choose the horses?’
‘I didn’t. But he did. He said it was an absolute cert. And I said I’d bar him from the café for life if he was wrong.’
Daniel pauses for a second, and then adds, almost to himself, ‘But then, he never is.’
We are galloping at full speed now. The wind is styling my hair in the same tangled fashion as Jim’s, and the lights are flashing past in a kaleidoscopic blur. All I can hear is the bright organ music, and Daniel whooping with joy. I want to stay here forever.
23
Tilly
‘Why has Queenie got a dead dog on her poof?’
Tilly and her mother had unpacked and were now taking in the remarkable splendour of the guests’ sitting room whilst waiting for their promised cups of tea. It was clear from their surroundings that Queenie’s style of interior decor was as flamboyant and individual as her fashion sense. Eli, who had appeared in their room soon after Queenie had left it, showed little interest in the rather odd-looking Pembrokeshire corgi, but Tilly was fascinated. She poked at its fur with a tentative finger and then, with more confidence, at one of its dark, glossy eyes.
‘It’s stuffed,’ she pronounced.
The taxidermist must have been having an off day, for he had condemned the unfortunate little dog to both an expression and a posture that suggested the poor creature was suffering from the discomfort of severe constipation. The dog’s face was ruched into an anxious frown and was staring in the direction of his own bottom. Tilly had once seen a glass case full of stuffed animals on a school trip to a museum. The rest of the exhibits had been very boring: old bits of broken pottery, funny-shaped rocks that were supposedly ancient tools but looked like stones that you could find all over the place in your own garden, and bits of old wooden farming equipment. The most exciting thing about the whole trip was when Rosemary Watson was sick on the bus. That and the glass case. It had held a fascination for Tilly that she didn’t really understand.
‘The eyes are made of glass,’ she said, adopting the manner of someone who was an expert in these matters.
‘The real eyes would have gone squidgy and mouldy and dribbled out onto the floor by now.’
She paused in thought for a moment.
‘Which hole do you think they put the stuffing in? His mouth or his—’
Tilly’s question was cut short by the grand entrance of Queenie, bearing a huge tray draped in an elaborate lace doily and laden with tea things. Puffing gently with the effort, she set it down on a side table covered in a heavily fringed, red chenille tablecloth, and was just about to pour when the telephone rang in the hallway. Queenie bustled out again, inviting them to help themselves. Tilly was growing more impressed by the minute. First there had been the lovely Queenie and their beautiful room with its view of the pier; and now there was a stuffed dog and a telephone. Tilly didn’t know many people who had a telephone inside their own house, or a stuffed dog for that matter. Her mother poured her a milky cup of tea and handed it to her.
‘Now be careful not to spill it, Tilly. I think you would have been better off with a little mug,’ she added, almost to herself. But Tilly was delighted to be treated like a grown-up with a proper cup and saucer for once.
‘Can I have some sugar please?’
Tilly’s mother raised her eyebrows in puzzled surprise.
‘But you don’t like sugar in your tea.’
‘I know, but it’s lumps.’
‘Just one then. Put your cup and saucer down first.’
Tilly was desperate to get her hands on the little silver sugar tongs that were hanging tantalisingly from the edge of the cut-glass sugar bowl. She carefully replaced her cup and saucer on the tray, and took up the silver tongs. She almost managed to get the sugar to her cup and saucer, but was squeezing the tongs so tightly in her concentration, that at the crucial moment, the lump shot up into the air and landed on the carpet. Before her mother could say a word, Tilly quickly retrieved it and placed it on her saucer.
‘Don’t you want it in your tea?’ her mother asked.
‘No. I don’t like sugar in my tea, do I? I just wanted a sugar lump.’
There was also cake. Tilly’s mother made her sit in a chair next to the table before she was allowed to choose. There were the pastel shades of Battenberg cake; rich, dark fruit cake; rock cakes knobbly with currants; and tiny jam tarts. Tilly chose Battenberg – not because she liked the taste, but because she liked its colour and construction. Her mother passed her a small slice on a delicate, bone china tea plate decorated with red and gold roses. Once again, her mother rued the choice of such delicate crockery, but this time she did so silently. She didn’t want to make Tilly nervous and therefore possibly precipitate any breakages. Crossed fingers would have to do. Tilly, completely undaunted by the best china, peeled off the marzipan that framed the slice and unstuck the four squares of sponge from each other; two pink and two yellow. She then licked the jam from the edges of the squares; first a pink one, then yellow, then pink, then yellow. That was really as far as she wanted to go with that particular cake, and she already had her eye on a green jam tart. But she knew that the chances of her getting it would be greatly improved if she ate the cake she already had first, and as her dress had no pockets in which to hide them, she ate the squares of sponge in the same order in which she had licked them. Just as she was about to make a plea for the jam tart, Queenie returned.
‘Now, ladies, how are we getting on? Is everything all right for you? Is the tea hot enough? Do you need any more cake?’
Tilly did, but there was no pause to allow her to make this known. Queenie seated herself opposite her mother, crossed her ankles in a most elegant manner, and poured herself a cup of tea.
‘Now, I want to hear everything that’s happened since I saw you last. But first I want to tell you all about me and my beloved hotel!’
Queenie’s lilac coiffure and sparkling jewels and Tilly’s natural sense of curiosity in adults’ conversations held her attention for a little, but deprived of the green jam tart and fascinated by her new surroundings, Tilly soon allowed Queenie’s voice to drift into the background while she continued her inspection of the sitting room from her chair. A shiny upright piano stood against one wall, crowned with a vase of brightly coloured plastic flowers and populated by a collection of china dogs of every size and breed imaginable. Tilly didn’t count them, but she reckoned that there must be about a hundred. Or at least twenty. There was a grand marble fireplace flanked by two china statues. One was a young lady wearing old-fashioned clothes and with rather too much of her bosoms on show, who was holding a basket of oranges. The other was a man wearing a big hat and boots, who was smiling at the lady in a very friendly way. Tilly thought that either he must be her boyfriend, or that he was just after her oranges.
On the mantle shelf there was a mirror with a fancy gold frame, and a set of dangly, sparkly glass things that looked like candlesticks wearing earrings but had no actual place to put the candles. In the centre of the shelf was an impressive mantel clock decorated with golden birds and fat babies with little wings; it had a very loud tick and an even louder chime, and struck every quarter of an hour. In between the non-candlesticks and the clock was a selection of ornaments and boxes made completely out of shells. Above the piano was another picture of the Queen, and skulking in various corners of the room was a splendid collection of lush green ferns and aspidistras sprouting from yet more gleaming brass pots on mahogany plant stands.
The curtains in the bay window were a complicated, layered arrangement, firstly of brilliant white lace, and then drawn-back, swagged and tasselled folds of heavy, deep gold velvet. On the windowsill stood a magnificent glazed urn, covered in red, blue and purple flowers and dragons, which held a bouquet of peacock feathers. In the centre of the room was a
high-backed Knoll sofa and two matching chairs, all of which were sporting embroidered and fringed antimacassars. Plonked, seemingly at random, in places where they were bound to get in the way, were several other upholstered chairs in various colours and patterns, but all similarly accessorised with antimacassars. Tilly thought that perhaps the guests played musical chairs in here.
‘Good grief, is that the time? I must get on. No rest for the wicked.’
Queenie’s voice tuned back into the foreground, and as she gathered up the tea things onto the tray, she passed Tilly the green jam tart in a paper napkin.
‘Keep it for later,’ she said with a wink.
After their tea and cake, they went for a walk along the beach, Eli trotting along just behind them, and Tilly, scarlet-cheeked and cheerfully bedraggled by the wind, darted back and forth towards the foaming fringes of the waves, squealing in delight each time the freezing water threatened to drench her good winter shoes. By mid-afternoon the orange sun was slipping down the sky behind the furthest edge of the sea, and Titian streaks shimmered on the distant water. The lights on the pier beckoned and Tilly’s mother was unable to resist her daughter’s pleading any longer. It was decided that they would not have dinner at The Paradise Hotel on their first night. Dinner there was not until 7 p.m., and they hadn’t had any lunch, just tea and cake. They ate fish and chips sitting on a wooden bench on the pier. Tilly loved eating them straight from their newspaper wrapping. It was a rare treat. She smothered her fish and chips in salt, vinegar and tomato ketchup, and breathed in the delicious vinegary steam before tucking in with the little wooden fork that came free with the chips. Tilly’s mouth was soon dementedly lipsticked with ketchup, but her tummy was full and she couldn’t stop smiling. Even her mother had managed to eat most of her dinner, and the seagulls were the grateful and greedy recipients of her leftovers. As she watched her mother eating, Tilly thought how her mother looked softer and happier than she had seen her in a long time. The sea air had brought colour to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. She looked like she’d been carrying bags of shopping that had been far too heavy, and had finally put them down.
After the fish and chips it was time for the funfair.
‘Just one ride tonight, Tilly. Which one will it be?’
Tilly didn’t even have to think about it.
‘The horses, please.’
The carousel of galloping horses was at the far end of the funfair, but Tilly had spotted it as soon as they had arrived. It was the first fair ride she had ever been on, and still the one she loved the best. The first time she had been far too small to ride alone so she had sat in her daddy’s lap, her tiny, chubby legs barely long enough to straddle the seat. But she had laughed and clapped her hands in delight, forgetting, in her excitement, to hold on tight as her mother had told her, but she was safe in her daddy’s arms. Her mother had stood on the ground watching them gallop round, and had waved each time they passed.
‘Are you coming on too?’ Tilly asked her mother.
Her mother looked uncertain, but tempted.
‘You’ll be all right. It doesn’t go very fast. Come on. Please,’ Tilly coaxed.
Her mother gave in. As they flew round and round, and up and down in a whirl of lights, with the music and the sound of the seagulls echoing in their ears, Tilly saw a man standing by the ghost train who seemed to be looking straight at her. He was tall and dark with a neat little moustache, and very smartly dressed, but seemed to be a bit out of place. Tilly thought that he looked rather like a film star. He lifted his hat to her and waved as she galloped past. The next time she looked he had gone.
24
Tilda
The little blue diary has gone. I last saw it the night Daniel took me to the pier. I have searched for it everywhere, except, of course, the place where it is. I have crawled around on the floor, checked the kitchen cupboards and drawers, my pockets and the fridge. I have emptied the bin full of wine-soaked newspaper and broken glass. But it has disappeared without a trace; vanished into thin air; gone absent without leave. Daniel says it will turn up when I stop looking for it. I hope so, because while it is lost, so am I. I need to know what happened next.
25
Tilly
Tilly was terrified of boiled eggs. The fear of discovering a sharp, snipping beak and a pair of black, googly eyes staring up at her as she broke through the shell was as scary as an unexpected attack by a dozen grumpy Daleks on Dr Who. And the thought of finding a slimy, green, stinky dead baby chicken floating in a cloudy, snot-like jelly was even worse, and almost more than Tilly’s normally robust morning stomach could bear. She could feel the sick rising in the back of her throat and she swallowed hard. She never ate boiled eggs at home, but the one squatting menacingly in front of her had arrived without any prior warning whatsoever. It had been delivered by the magnificent Queenie, who was, this morning, squeezed into an emerald green dress that fitted so tightly that Tilly thought it made her look like a marrow. Her earrings were balls the size, shape and colour of cherry tomatoes dangling from delicate gold chains, and her bracelet of green beads looked exactly like a string of fresh peas. The overall effect, Tilly thought, was that of a rather glamorous vegetable patch.
But however much Tilly admired Queenie, there was still the problem of the egg. Breakfast had started well enough with the snap, crackle and pop of Rice Krispies. There was a choice of cornflakes, bran flakes, Rice Krispies or Grape-Nuts, which Tilly had tried once and thought was like crunching bits of grit and gravel. The cereals were kept in large plastic containers on a sideboard covered in an oilskin cloth decorated with baskets of fruit. The milk was in a big glass jug, and although Tilly had been allowed to pour her own Rice Krispies, and had managed to do so without allowing more than a sparse sprinkling to escape across the oilskin, her mother had insisted on pouring the milk. There was also a deep dish of stewed prunes, dark brown and with a sweet, earthy smell. Nobody seemed to be having any prunes. Her mother had managed a couple of spoonfuls of cornflakes instead of her usual cigarette and was now buttering a slice of toast. Tilly wondered if she could get away with just eating the soldiers.
‘Now, young lady, don’t let your lovely chucky egg get cold,’ warned Queenie as she sailed past with a plate piled high with sausages, bacon, eggs and tinned tomatoes. Tilly caught the whiff of a diversionary tactic and seized on it like a robin on a worm.
‘What’s a chucky egg?’
Her mother looked up from her toast.
‘It just means a chicken’s egg.’
‘What language is it in?’
‘What?’
‘Chucky. Is “chucky” French for chicken?’
‘No.’
‘Well, is it German?’
‘No, it’s—’
‘American?’
The diversion was going well from Tilly’s point of view, but she was running out of countries, and she knew that her mother’s next ‘no’ would be followed by a full stop.
‘Is it Eyetie?’ she asked, in desperation.
‘Tilly!’
‘What?’
‘Don’t use that word. It’s not polite.’
‘Well Uncle Bill says it. He says that Mr Brunetti in the fish and chip shop is an “Eyetie”.’
‘I don’t care what Uncle Bill says. You do not say “Eyetie”.’
Tilly was quiet for a moment.
‘What language is “Eyetie”?’
Her diversion was up and running again.
‘It’s Italian, but—’
‘So “Eyetie” means “Italian” in Italian?’
‘Tilly, that’s enough. Eat your egg.’
Tilly stared mournfully at her egg. She touched the top of it very lightly with her fingertip.
‘It’s cold.’
‘Well, whose fault is that? Come on Tilly, eat it up. You don’t want to upset Queenie.’
‘It might bite me. I’m scared.’
Tilly’s mother rolled her eyes in exasperation.
Ever since Tilly had been old enough to understand what eggs were, she had avoided them while they were still in their shells.
‘How do you know there’s not a tiny chicken in there waiting to peck me?’
‘Because I do.’
‘But you don’t. Nobody does until I open it, and then it’s too late. I’m sure it moved. I saw it moving a really little bit. Twice.’
Tilly’s mother looked across at her small daughter’s face crumpled into a scowl, and with her chin jutting in determination. She also saw the flicker of genuine fear in her eyes. Without a word, she reached across the table and snatched the dangerous egg. A moment later it was safely trapped in her handbag, and a huge smile of surprise and relief shone on Tilly’s face.
With the egg disposed of, and a dollop of marmalade from her mother’s plate to spread on her soldiers, Tilly was able to relax and examine both her surroundings and her fellow diners. The dining room was considerably less grand than the sitting room, but very cheerful and definitely made Tilly feel like she was on holiday, even though it was winter. The brightly coloured wallpaper was a repeat pattern of a pretty lady wearing a short, flowery dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat, leading a smiling donkey wearing a matching hat and carrying two baskets of lemons. There were ten round tables covered in red, yellow and white checked oilskin tablecloths, and on one wall a large display of photographs. Tilly thought the people in the photographs looked very interesting. They looked like the kind of people you saw at the circus, in magazines or at the London Palladium. Tilly had never been to the London Palladium, but she had seen it once on the television. The man in charge talked very fast and was called Bob Monkeyhouse. And all the people in the photographs must be friends of Queenie’s, because she was in the photographs too.
