Queenie Malone’s Paradise Hotel

by Ruth Hogan

  ‘God, Daniel, I’m so sorry. And I’m so embarrassed.’

  ‘Well don’t be. It seemed like quite a party you were having. I’m sorry I missed it.’

  He places a plate of toast in front of me. It has a thin scraping of butter and is cut into rounded abstract shapes like clouds.

  ‘I thought I’d save you the bother of all that fiddling about and cutting it into tiny squares.’

  It takes me a while to brave the toast but when I do, he’s right. I do feel better. Not great; but definitely better. Daniel sits opposite me, occasionally looking up from his monumental fry-up, smiling and shaking his head with amusement. After my second cup of tea I get up and fetch the diary. I open it at the page where Penelope began reading aloud. I hand it to Daniel and ruffle his hair.

  ‘Thank you for my horrid drink and my toast clouds. I’m going to have a bath and try and turn myself back into a living person. If you read this, you’ll understand what last night was all about.’

  I stay in the bath until my skin is wrinkled, like a forgotten apple lurking in the depths of the fruit bowl. I wallow in a cloud of steam and bubbles, hoping that my hangover will seep out through my pores and disappear down the plughole along with the bath water when I finally emerge. By the time I’m dried and dressed, with a bit of make-up on and out of direct sunlight, I look reasonable and feel more like myself. I’m very grateful that the hangover fairy seems to have left the building, taking all her little goblins with her. Daniel is still sitting at the table drinking tea. The diary is open in front of him but he has stopped reading.

  ‘Well, I reckon it’s a bestseller.’

  He speaks gently, allowing his tone to offer the sympathy that he knows I couldn’t cope with in words.

  ‘What did your drinking companions say?’

  I try to remember.

  ‘Penelope said that good people sometimes do terrible things and Joseph Geronimo said that by leaving the diaries for me, my mother was trying to put something right.’ I sit down opposite him and steal a sip of his tea. ‘And what do you think?’

  Daniel looks at me and shrugs his shoulders.

  ‘I think it’s all about love.’

  I stare blankly back at him. He may as well have said ‘plimsolls’. Perhaps my hangover is finding its second wind. Daniel stands up. He needs more room to air his explanation. Even Eli is sitting up now and giving Daniel his full attention.

  ‘Think about it, Tilda,’ he says, throwing his arms in the air. ‘All that stuff, that madness, that heartbreak. It’s all about love. It makes you crazy and you can end up acting like an idiot. Oh yes, love might be “a many splendoured thing”, but it’s also a right royal pain in the arse!’

  I’m stunned, and Eli has tipped his head to one side in apparent confusion, but Daniel is warming to his subject now and adds striding about to his arm-waving.

  ‘Look – Gracie loved you and she loved Stevie. But she loved too hard, and it drove her crazy because she didn’t love herself and so she didn’t think that anyone else could. She gave up everything for love but didn’t feel loved in return. And yes, she was ill and thought God had disowned her, which probably didn’t help, but in the end it was all about love.’

  Even in my slightly befuddled state Daniel’s words strike home. Sometimes a simple truth is like a hammer blow. Daniel sits down again and checks his mug for tea. It’s empty.

  ‘And at this point, I’d also like to take issue with Lennon and McCartney for propagating the ridiculous notion that all we need is love. I can think of at least five more things just off the top of my head, and given more time for proper consideration I’d probably come up with a few more.’ He looks sorrowfully into his empty mug. ‘And one of them is definitely tea.’

  I get up and put the kettle on.

  Later, as we are walking hand in hand along the promenade to open the café for any teatime trade, Daniel starts swinging my arm backwards and forwards. It’s something he does when he wants to say something and doesn’t quite know how to say it.

  ‘All that stuff about love being a right royal pain in the arse . . . I don’t mean with you. It’s not like that with you.’

  He carries on swinging my arm.

  ‘The madness, and the making you crazy, sure enough. But not the pain in the arse.’

  At the café, we switch on the lights and turn the jukebox on. I set the tables while Daniel fires up the coffee machine. It’s still only early afternoon but already it’s almost dark. As I watch the strings of coloured lights flicker into life along the pier, I finally voice the thought that has been chasing round and round inside my head.

  ‘Jesus, Daniel. What if he’s still alive?’

  38

  Tilda

  Looking back, I always thought that my mother had killed him. And I never once doubted that he was dead. I thought she had driven him away and that if he had stayed at home with us he wouldn’t have died. I always blamed her and I was right. She murdered him for me. I wasted years mourning, praying and lighting candles for a man who wasn’t actually dead. And now, after all this time, I have to consider the possibility, however remote, that he might not actually be dead.

  These days I remember my childhood like an old cine film shot in soft focus mellowed by distance and nostalgia, that jumps and jerks from one frame to another. Some of the characters are just shadows in the background, some have starring roles and others are out of the frame altogether. Bits of the film are missing or blurred and it is shot entirely from one perspective. With the content of my mother’s diaries it will be completely remastered and restored in high definition and glorious colour. But what if I prefer my original screenplay?

  I have finished reading the first diary now; rushing through it, searching for clues about what really happened to my dad. I remember that first Christmas without him. My mother tried so hard to make it happy for me. I remember the red jumper with reindeers that made me itch, and going to church with Mrs O’Flaherty on Christmas Eve. I prayed so hard for my dad in case he was stuck in Purgatory. I loved St Patrick’s. It was such a beautiful place and full of magic. And dead people. The dead people didn’t bother me then. People were just people and I either liked them or I didn’t. Whether they were dead or alive made no difference to my opinion of them. It was only later that they became a problem, and that was my mother’s lesson. She lived in fear and made it my inheritance. But it made me fear the living, not the dead. That year Father Christmas brought me a heart-shaped locket engraved with a ‘T’, which, according to the diary, was sent by my dad. She never told me the truth about where it came from but at least she gave it to me. In the diary she also tells the truth about the letters. So many lies undone; the fragile fabric of her fabrications unravelled at last by the truth. She told me when I wrote them that the letters were taken to my dad by a special angel. She didn’t tell me that the angel was an employee of Royal Mail.

  The next diary will take me and my mother to Queenie’s. And that is where I am going today. Of course, it’s not Queenie’s any more. When Queenie retired, my mother and Reg ran it very successfully together for another ten years. When Reg died of a stroke my mother sold The Paradise Hotel and moved into her flat. It is now, according to its website, a luxury boutique hotel run by Aubrey and Austin, whose aim is to make each of their guests feel cherished and pampered. I can’t wait to meet them but I am uneasy about revisiting my sacred childhood sanctuary and finding it wrecked beyond recognition. I have rung ahead and asked if could visit. I said that I lived there as a child, but nothing more. I’m not sure if it was Austin or Aubrey I spoke to, but he was both delighted and delightful.

  It takes me only ten minutes to walk from the flat to what will always be ‘Queenie’s’ to me. A new rococo, black and gold wrought-iron sign proclaims The Paradise Hotel’s status as a ‘bijou and boutique hotel’. The profusion of plastic potted petunias and marigolds from my childhood has been replaced by miniature bay trees topiaried into pom-poms, but the Union Jack
remains. Either side of the front door are two black artificial Christmas trees, scattered with tiny white fairy lights and topped with silver replicas of Michelangelo’s David, wearing black net tutus to preserve their modesty. I ring the doorbell to be greeted by a full orchestral rendition of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana, and two men who appear simultaneously to answer the door.

  ‘You must be Tilda. We’re so excited to meet you. Come in, come in.’

  The speaker is a slim, well-groomed man in his early forties, with very short fair hair and an engaging smile.

  ‘I’m Austin, after Healey – I was conceived in one, according to my mother – and this is Aubrey, after Beardsley. His father was a fan.’

  Aubrey is a little shorter and heavier than Austin, with dark hair thinning on top and heavy, black-framed glasses. His violet shirt is immaculately pressed and his square silver cufflinks blink and wink under the hall lights as he shakes my hand.

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Tilda. Do come through and have a drink.’

  The hallway, staircase and corridor through to what used to be the guests’ sitting room are wallpapered in a striking pattern of enormous black and white roses punctuated with Venetian glass mirrors. There is not an aspidistra in sight. I suddenly realise that in coming here I am desperate to find a trace of my old life, but after so many years, incredibly foolish to believe that I shall. I am wrong. The old wooden reception desk has been replaced with a gleaming black marble monster with lascivious curves and curlicues. Sitting on top of it, in majestic splendour and protected by a huge glass dome, is Queenie’s stuffed corgi.

  ‘It looks like you’ve found an old friend.’

  Austin is watching me as I gasp with astonishment and then clasp my hands with delight.

  ‘Well, finally, we may have found someone who can settle this once and for all.’

  Aubrey is affectionately patting the top of the glass dome and looking at me expectantly.

  ‘What the devil is this chap’s name?’

  ‘Queenie always called him Prince Phillip.’

  There is a brief but significant silence shattered by an explosion of squeals, shrieks, OMGs and hand-clapping. I always thought that it was quite funny, but not that good.

  Finally, Aubrey composes himself sufficiently to take both of my hands in his, and in an almost reverential tone, barely louder than a whisper, asks, ‘Did you actually know Queenie?’

  Austin and Aubrey are Queenie’s biggest fans. They have an enormous collection of programmes from Queenie’s brief but apparently illustrious career, a couple of albums she recorded, signed photographs and ticket stubs, and a feather boa she once wore on stage. They even have some footage of her shows. They have spent a great deal of time and money lovingly gathering memorabilia of a person they have never met and are much too young to have seen perform live, and yet they seem to love her almost as if they knew her. They certainly know far more about her time as a performer than I do. Queenie will always be a star to me, but I had no idea that she was actually quite famous. I learn all of this whilst drinking prosecco in their private lounge that was, in Queenie’s day, the guests’ sitting room. Except for the carpet and curtains it is exactly how I remember it and exactly what I need; a happy childhood memory still intact and – most importantly – still true.

  ‘When Queenie died we cried for days and we were desperate to get hold of this place when it came on the market. The woman who sold it to us had inherited it from Queenie herself. It came with most of its contents included in the price. We thought we’d died and gone to heaven.’

  Aubrey wanders round the room proudly surveying Queenie’s treasures. The china dogs still sit on top of the piano, the clock on the mantle is still ticking and the man in the boots and hat still has his eye on the young lady’s oranges. Even the plastic flowers have survived.

  ‘Of course, we would have left the whole place pretty much as it was when we bought it, but it’s not what people want now, is it? They watch too many property shows on TV, telling them what they should and shouldn’t like. So now it’s all minimalist chic and statement piece this and en-suite that. I ask you – what sort of person wants a lavatory in their bedroom? But at least we still have all this.’

  ‘What was she like, the woman you bought the place from?’

  I have to ask.

  ‘We never met her, did we, Aubrey? It was all done through solicitors and estate agents. But she left us a bottle of champagne and a note to welcome us, saying she hoped we’d be as happy here as she had been, so she must have been nice. It was a lovely thing to do.’

  I keep quiet. That confession can wait until another day. And I’m sure that there will be another day with Austin and Aubrey. After two bottles of fizz and endless questions about Queenie and The Paradise Hotel, they allow me to leave. Daniel is at the café, getting ready for his New Year’s Eve party tomorrow, and I promised that after my visit I would go and help. Before I leave, I invite Austin and Aubrey to come. They see me to the door and stand together in the porch light between the Christmas trees to wave me off. As I turn to leave, Aubrey places a hand on my arm and says, with a sincerity that tugs at my heart and fills me with pride, ‘It’s a privilege to meet someone who really knew her. In her time, you know, she was the best. No other drag queen even came close.’

  39

  Tilda

  The heart-shaped wooden box was at the back of the bottom drawer of the tallboy in my mother’s bedroom. The drawer is full of paperwork that I haven’t got round to sorting out yet. When I first went through my mother’s things I dealt with the easy stuff first: clothes, linen, surplus household stuff and furniture I didn’t want to keep. A quick glance in the drawer was enough for me to dismiss its contents as a job for later, and I missed the box. But now my mother’s papers have taken on a new significance in the search for Stevie, so I have returned to the drawer. The box had been Queenie’s mother’s. As I lift the lid the music that I danced to at my first class with Miss Cynthia sparkles out of the box and into the air: ‘Je te veux’. Inside nestles a ragbag of treasures. The silver ‘Mother’ brooch is still bright and shiny as the day I gave it to her. There is a lock of baby hair tied with a scrap of pink ribbon and pinned to a knitted baby bootie, and three milk teeth wrapped up tight in a child’s handkerchief. My silver christening bracelet is there too, and a programme from Miss Cynthia’s Christmas Concert when I danced a solo to ‘The Glow-Worm’. It is as pristine as the day it was printed, and inside my name is carefully underlined and the note in the margin in my mother’s handwriting reads ‘She was beautiful’. There is a gold locket engraved with a ‘G’. I remember my mother wearing it. Inside it is a picture of my parents on their wedding day. I unscrew the lid of a half-empty bottle of aftershave and sniff gingerly. It smells of my dad. Queenie’s watch is in there too; a small, round face on a gold-coloured expandable link bracelet. And lastly there is a photograph of a man and woman in their late forties; respectable-looking. God-fearing. The woman has a birthmark just above her left eye. It looks like a thumbprint. She is the woman I met in the graveyard. ‘Mum and Dad’, it says on the back of the photograph; my grandparents. It seems these were my mother’s most precious possessions and she made this box her reliquary. I think Daniel must be right. It was all about love. If only I’d known.

  I shouldn’t have started this now. I haven’t got time. I still have Queenie’s watch in my hand. I no more expect it to work than I did the Christmas tree lights all those years ago, but several tentative turns of the winder are rewarded by a gentle, rhythmic ticking. I slip the bracelet over my wrist. I need to get ready for the party and collect Penelope, who has, once again, managed to evade the niece and her New Year’s Eve Thai turkey curry extravaganza with wines recommended by Good Housekeeping and mince-pie ice cream à la Delia. Penelope is coming to our party instead. Daniel is already at the café with Joseph Geronimo, no doubt sampling the food and drink and generally getting into the party spirit. Last night I told him all about my
visit to The Paradise Hotel, and Aubrey and Austin, but he was more interested in Queenie.

  ‘You never told me Queenie was a man,’ he said.

  It was hard to explain. You had to have been there. And then.

  ‘I was a little girl. Queenie was just Queenie to me. I suppose I knew almost from the start. I mean, I don’t remember it ever being a shock or a surprise. But you had to know her to really understand. She was so much more than just a man, or a woman for that matter. She was a fairy godmother crossed with a fire-eater and we all loved her. But to me she was perfect; the soap powder mummy that I had always longed for. It really was as simple as that.’

  ‘And what about straight-laced Gracie? From what you’ve told me, I can’t imagine that she would have approved, let alone lived and worked with her. It doesn’t make sense.’

  But of course it did. It made perfect sense. I hadn’t really thought about it before. As a child I had simply accepted the situation for what it was. I was happy and secure and I didn’t need to know any more. But as soon as Daniel had asked the question, I knew the answer.

  ‘She was a mother to Gracie as well; and Gracie knew that Queenie, unlike her real mother, would never abandon her no matter what. Queenie made her feel safe, needed and loved. She understood what it was like to be different and she accepted Gracie for who she was, just like her own mother had accepted Queenie. In fact, at The Paradise Hotel, my mother fitted in very nicely. Everyone there had been cracked in the kiln in one way or another. Lil was afflicted with terrible mood swings and rages, Marlene and her friends were the barking side of eccentric, and nowadays Cecily would be labelled as having “learning difficulties”. Even Reg had a glass eye.’