Queenie Malone’s Paradise Hotel

by Ruth Hogan

  Reuben and Hannah Burns

  Freed from sin by God’s eternal mercy

  A mercy they chose not to extend to their daughter.

  ‘Did you know them?’

  The woman standing at my side is tall and thin with a dark red birthmark just above her left eye. It looks like a thumbprint.

  ‘I’m their granddaughter.’

  The woman smiles and waits. Her silence has purpose. It is bait to catch more conversation.

  ‘I never met them. I don’t even know if they knew about me. They disowned my mother before I was born.’

  The woman sighs and reaches over to place her hand on the headstone, leaning heavily, as though it is the only thing keeping her up.

  ‘It is hard to understand why a mother would abandon her child.’

  It is indeed. Like mother, like daughter.

  ‘But sometimes it feels as though there is no other choice.’

  I shake my head in disbelief. What the hell would she know about it?

  ‘Perhaps it was something they lived to regret.’

  She’s trying to be kind, I know, but I’m surprised at how incensed I am by her polite platitudes about these people whom I never met, but who caused so much pain. I’m glad I didn’t bring any flowers. I need to get away from her.

  ‘Do you think it will be all right if I go inside?’ I ask, pointing towards the church, which seems to glower down at me from its hill. I don’t know why I need to look inside, but I do.

  ‘I’m sure it will be fine. It’s never locked.’

  I’m surprised. I thought most churches were these days, for fear of burglary and vandalism. As I turn to walk away, the woman holds me in her gaze.

  ‘Your grandparents’ lives were surely poorer for not having you in them,’ she says, and then she walks away.

  Inside, the church is dark and cold and unwelcoming. I’m not surprised that even the vandals and the burglars stay away. St Patrick’s was full of magic, but this place is just an empty box of bricks and wood. The only adornment is a large, brass crucifix on the altar. It looks like a weapon. I could not pray in here if my life depended on it.

  Outside, the sun puts in a welcome appearance and as I turn away from the church and walk back down the hill it warms my back and lifts my spirits. I have seen what I came to see and for now I can leave it behind. Eli is waiting at the gate.

  ‘Come on, you. Let’s go and see Daniel.’

  32

  Tilly

  Reg held the keys to the kingdom of heaven on earth – or rather water, as they were now on the pier. He unlocked the heavy double doors and flung them open with a flourish. Tilly gasped in astonishment at the magical sight that greeted her. The ballroom was exactly how she imagined God’s front room to be. She had sometimes thought about what God might do after his tea, at the end of a long day listening to people’s prayers, doing miracles and sorting out Bermondsey. She couldn’t imagine him watching The Sweeney or Coronation Street on the telly, or going to the pub, but she could imagine him sitting in a front room like this, being entertained by his angels, and anyone else who had managed to get into heaven and had a really good party piece. Sometimes, when they used to go to Auntie Wendy’s at Christmas or for one of the grown-up’s birthdays, everyone would do a party piece. It would always be after tea, and the men would start drinking beer and laughing, and the ladies would drink Bambi Sham from glasses shaped like ice-cream-sundae dishes, with pictures of Bambi on them. Kevin would scrape out a painful version of ‘Greensleeves’ on his violin whilst standing in the hall, and Uncle Bill always made the same joke about ‘should’ve used a hanky’. Kevin played in the hall because he was too embarrassed to play in front of everyone, and Tilly could understand why when he was so rubbish at it. Karen always danced about a lot and sang a song from The Sound of Music about raindrops and kettles and warm, woollen kittens getting stung by a bee. Tilly liked the dancing but thought that the song was a bit soppy. Auntie Wendy would sing along to a Shirley Bassey song played on the record player, which made Tilly laugh because of the funny faces she pulled. Her daddy used to do his ‘Albert and the Lion’, and Uncle Bill played the spoons on his hands and knees. Tilly would do impersonations of Mrs Dawson at the Co-op, and Mr Frittlecock, who came door to door once a week collecting a bob for the insurance. Her mother was reluctant to perform, but sometimes, after much persuasion and more Bambi Sham, she would say a poem about gold and silver cloths by someone called Yeats. Tilly didn’t understand a word of it, but it didn’t matter. The way her mother said it made it beautiful; almost like saying a prayer.

  The ballroom was even bigger than the school hall where they had morning assembly. It was almost as big as the train station. Dangling from the scarlet-painted ceiling were three enormous chandeliers dripping with diamonds, which flashed and twinkled even in the gloom, before they were switched on. The walls were ruffled with boxes and balconies edged with gold, and richly decorated with flowers, leaves and fat babies with little wings, like icing on a fancy cake. At one end of the room there was a shallow flight of gold stairs leading up to a very grand-looking stage, which was framed by deep purple velvet curtains that wouldn’t have looked out of place in The Paradise Hotel, and crowned by an enormous gilded carving of unicorns, flowers, dogs and mermaids. The wooden dance floor gleamed like golden syrup. Tilly thought that it must have been polished by thousands of pairs of dancing feet, but Reg laughed when she told him and said it was more likely the hours he put in with the electric floor buffer. Tilly stood wide-eyed and open-mouthed like a baby bird, drinking in the spectacle and splendour. Reg, who had seen it all before, every day for many years, jingled the huge set of keys in his hand.

  ‘Come on, sweetheart. Chop-chop! Miss Cynthia will be here any minute now, and I need to sort out her music or she’ll have my guts for garters.’

  ‘Miss Cynthia has already arrived!’ announced a self-assured BBC voice from the other end of the room, as an elegant figure swathed in pearls and lavender silk swept through the door in a cloud of L’Air du Temps. Miss Cynthia looked to Tilly like a woman made out of a broomstick. She was tall, thin and very, very straight. She taught ballet, tap and modern dance to classes of little girls who adored and feared her in equal measure, which made her the perfect teacher.

  ‘ “Chop-chop!” indeed, Reg.’ She wafted Reg away with slender hands whose long fingers were tipped with violet-polished nails. Reg scurried off, pretending to be suitably put in his place, but his grin and her wink reassured Tilly that it was only a game between friends. Miss Cynthia placed her bag down on a chair, and turned her attention to Tilly.

  ‘Good afternoon, young lady. I am Miss Cynthia. And you are . . .?’

  ‘Miss Tilly.’

  ‘I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Tilly. Are you here to join one of my dance classes?’

  ‘Miss Tilly is my assistant,’ replied Reg, returning with a pile of records balanced on top of a record player and held in place with his chin, which he set down at the side of the stage.

  ‘Quel dommage! She looks like a dancer to me. Well, never mind. She has no ballet or tap shoes, but perhaps if she could be spared from her duties for half an hour at the end of the afternoon, Miss Tilly might like to join my modern dance class for today.’

  Tilly wasn’t aware that she had any duties, but she was desperate to join Miss Cynthia’s modern dance class for today and hoped that her pleading expression was conveying this to Reg. Reg looked at Tilly thoughtfully, but apparently he wasn’t getting the message.

  ‘Tilly, sweetheart, do you need to spend a penny?’

  Tilly’s blushes were spared by the splendid Miss Cynthia.

  ‘Mr Reginald! Young ladies who avail themselves of cloakroom facilities do so in order to powder their noses,’ she exclaimed, ‘and gentlemen who speak about such matters so indelicately are not fit to be called gentlemen at all.’

  The tap lesson was first, and soon little girls dressed in black leotards and pleated white skirts
began filing through the door like a stream of baby penguins. Their mummies and daddies left them at the door. Miss Cynthia didn’t want any of her girls distracted by proud parents cooing and fussing. Discipline, concentration and a little bit of magic are the qualities that make a great dancer, Miss Cynthia told all her pupils. She would provide the first two and the rest was up to God or the devil. Not all the parents were entirely comfortable with Miss Cynthia’s alleged second assistant, but none was brave enough to question her, and there was no denying that she got results. Miss Cynthia soon had the girls arranged in three straight lines tapping and clapping as fast as their little hands and feet could manage. When their earnest concentration was mirrored on their faces, and tips of tongues crept out or crinkled frowns appeared, Miss Cynthia’s voice would ring out above the music.

  ‘Smile, girls! Smile! It’s dancing, not darning socks!’

  It became apparent that Tilly’s duties as Reg’s assistant consisted mainly of watching Miss Cynthia and her girls.

  ‘You stay here, sweetheart, while I sort out a couple of things backstage. And keep an eye on Miss Cynthia; make sure she behaves herself.’

  Tilly was more than happy to watch the dancing, but she had no intention whatsoever of challenging Miss Cynthia, even if she were to set fire to the curtains and swing from one of the chandeliers. Tilly liked to think that she was pretty daring when it came to most things, but keeping Miss Cynthia in check, if she chose to misbehave, was definitely a job for a grown-up. As the baby penguins waddled out, the cygnets glided in. Miss Cynthia’s ballet class was clearly a different species altogether from the tap dancers. Their hair was neatly coiled into buns and they wore pale pink leotards, soft, frilly skirts, and pink ballet shoes tied with broad satin ribbons. They all walked prettily and lightly, with their backs straight and their heads held high. Tilly immediately thought of Cecily. Perhaps her next stop after Effie should be Miss Cynthia. The last little girl to come into the class seemed vaguely familiar to Tilly from her seat on the steps of the stage. She took her place on the front row and waved happily at Tilly. She danced beautifully, as though she were completely alone in her own world of music. By the end of the ballet class Tilly was fizzing with nerves and excitement. She had no idea what ‘modern dance’ was. What if she was as bad at it as Kevin was at playing the violin? As the cygnets floated out, a rather jumbled collection of creatures trotted, sidled and lolloped in. This was a garden mixture of misfits, some bright and chirpy as robins, some plain and twittery like sparrows, and a big, fat pigeon of a girl whose podgy fingers were clutching a doughnut, which Miss Cynthia confiscated as soon as she saw it. The truth was that Miss Cynthia had started her modern dance class as a kindness to those who had a burning enthusiasm to dance, but were sadly hampered by a complete lack of natural ability and very little capacity to acquire any by instruction. The pigeon had no desire to dance, but her parents were determined that she should, if only for the exercise. Miss Cynthia stood in front of her motley clutch of fledglings and clapped for attention.

  ‘Now, girls, this afternoon we are going to create a dance about love and longing.’

  There was some twittering in the back row from two little sparrows that was quickly silenced by a raised eyebrow from Miss Cynthia.

  ‘Imagine that you really love someone; passionately, devotedly and with a flaming ardour, but that you cannot be with them, and then show me what that feels like in your dance.’

  Miss Cynthia’s wistful expression was met with a row of vacant stares, except for Tilly whose face lit up with recognition. She knew exactly what Miss Cynthia meant. She just didn’t know if she could dance it. The fat pigeon scowled. The only thing she was missing was her doughnut.

  ‘I don’t know what you want me to do, miss,’ Drucilla moaned.

  Miss Cynthia sighed heavily.

  ‘Just do your best, Drucilla. Just do your best.’

  Miss Cynthia lifted the needle onto the record and the music began: ‘Je te veux’ by Erik Satie. Miss Cynthia said it meant ‘I Want You’ in French. Tilly soon forgot her nerves and was twirling round the room to the music, reaching up with her arms and then hugging them into her chest, skipping, leaping and generally having a lovely time. She just listened to the music and it told her what to do. She got so carried away that she forgot she was supposed to be sad and missing someone, but Miss Cynthia didn’t seem to mind, which was hardly surprising considering the efforts of the rest of her pupils. The two sparrows held hands and hopped from one end of the room to the other. A very tall, thin girl, who looked like a washed-out flamingo, crouched on the floor and then pretended to grow, like a beanstalk, swaying gently and very distinctly out of time to the music. The other pupils seemed to be copying one another in a lot of aimless wandering about and listless arm-waving, punctuated by the occasional jump or pause (although one of these was to pull up a pair of flagging socks and so couldn’t really be counted as part of the dance). The pigeon shuffled round in a very small circle, weakly flapping her hands by her sides, but quickly exhausted by the effort sat down on the floor and roosted until the music had finished. Miss Cynthia began by shouting words of advice and encouragement over the music, but after a while even she became a little disheartened, sat down and took a cigarette from her bag.

  ‘I don’t know how you put up with them.’ Reg offered her a light and shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I’ve seen zombies with more get-up-and-go!’

  Miss Cynthia laughed and drew on her cigarette.

  ‘I sometimes wonder myself. Look at the poor things. They haven’t exactly been blessed with many God-given advantages, but every now and again, one of them actually seems to enjoy it. Look at Tilly; she’s having a wonderful time. And the child can actually dance. She’d be welcome to join any of my classes.’

  She took a final draw on her cigarette, stubbed it out with her violet-tipped fingers and stood up to rejoin the fray.

  ‘Besides which,’ she said to Reg with a wry smile, ‘it pays my bills.’

  Miss Cynthia woke the somnambulant dancers with a burst of Rossini’s ‘The Thieving Magpie’, and she soon had them all flying round the room squealing with laughter and excitement. All except the pigeon, who refused to leave her perch.

  After the dance classes had finished and Tilly had thanked Miss Cynthia, she waited for Reg to lock up so that they could go home for their tea before the ballroom had to be opened up again for the evening dance competitions. As Tilly waited backstage she inspected the pictures that were temporarily propped up against the wall while the foyer was being repainted. They were photographs of all the people who had performed in the ballroom, and in one of them she saw a face she recognised very well. It was Queenie.

  ‘Oh yes, Queenie was on the stage,’ said Reg when Tilly pointed to the picture. ‘She was quite an act. But one day she just packed it all in. Said she’d had enough. That’s when she bought The Paradise Hotel.’

  ‘But why?’ Tilly couldn’t understand why anyone would want to give up the magic of the ballroom, even for The Paradise Hotel.

  ‘You’ll have to ask Queenie. I’m sure she had a good reason. I just don’t know what it was.’

  As Reg began switching out the lights, another photograph caught Tilly’s eye. It was one of the older ones, a little faded, but still clear enough for Tilly to recognise the man in the hat and the overcoat; the one with the moustache she’d been seeing since her first day on the pier. The title on the photograph was ‘Valentine Gray – The Great Mercurio – Thaumaturge Extraordinaire’. Tilly didn’t understand what it meant. She turned to ask Reg, but he was already walking away, jingling his keys impatiently.

  ‘Come on, sweetheart. Home! We’ll be late for tea and I’ll tell Lily Lilo that it’s all your fault,’ he threatened jokingly as he ushered Tilly through the front doors. Outside, the little ballerina who had been last to join the class was still waiting to be collected. She bounced up to Tilly and curtsied.

  ‘I’m Bunny. What’s your name?
’

  ‘Tilly. You’re really good at dancing. How long have you been coming to lessons?’

  Bunny grinned proudly.

  ‘About ten years,’ she answered, ‘or maybe longer.’

  Tilly was doubtful. Bunny looked about six years old and was obviously as good with numbers as Tilly was with boiled eggs.

  ‘Can you teach me to dance like you?’

  The little girl twirled three pirouettes in a row and deliberately wobbled off the last one to land on her bottom in a fit of giggles.

  ‘Of course I can.’

  Having locked the front doors, Reg was ready to go and whistled to Tilly, who was trying to copy Bunny’s pirouettes.

  ‘Come on, sweetheart. I’m dying for my tea.’

  Tilly said goodbye to her new friend and skipped off after Reg, who was already on the way home.

  After tea, Tilly was sent to visit Gina in her room, while Queenie and her mother put their feet up and had a gin and tonic and what Queenie called ‘a girls’ gossip’. Tilly didn’t mind. She was fascinated by all the things in Gina’s room, and was now trusted enough to play with some of them. Her favourite things were the music boxes. She picked up the Eiffel Tower and carefully wound the key on its base. She set it back down on the dressing table, and did a little twirl in front of the mirror to the tune of ‘La Vie en Rose’.