Half a Pound of Tuppenny Rice

by David Coubrough

  Later that evening, at around eleven, Richard walked unsteadily back up the drive towards the hotel, supported by Rose, who was both sober and alert. However, after twenty yards they were accosted by a shadowy figure emerging from a bush after a call of nature; they swiftly recognized him as Hector.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ bellowed Richard. ‘You drunken old fool! You gave us a helluva shock.’

  ‘Well, maybe you shouldn’t be here together doing whatever you’re doing.’

  ‘Stop that nonsense,’ Richard barked. ‘You’re so paralytic you can’t even see straight.’

  ‘I’ve seen enough.’

  This prompted Richard to poke Hector repeatedly in the chest.

  They were caught in car headlights by Tom Youlen, who was driving up the lane for his night shift and who pulled up sharply and rushed from his vehicle. ‘Cut that out, sirs.’

  Rose removed her high heels and hurried away. Hector calmly asked Tom for a lift up the drive, while Richard walked slowly back to the hotel, his mood now very dark indeed.

  Later, at about two in the morning, Richard appeared in reception resembling a defeated boxer who couldn’t sleep owing partly to injury but also to high adrenalin levels. It had been a truly grim day. He demanded that Tom get him a large scotch. The night porter refused, saying he had drunk enough and that the bar was locked anyway. He quoted from the Hotel Proprietors Act 1956.

  Richard, not for the first time that night, became aggressive. ‘Get me a drink, or I’ll get you sacked in the morning.’

  Tom called the manager, Mr Simpkins, who emerged from his flat adjoining the hotel and helped Tom bundle Richard out of the drawing-room and escort him to his bedroom.

  The next day the episode seemed forgotten – but not by young Grant. He was extremely concerned by Robert Vernon’s account of the scene in the dining-room and by Hector’s tale of his mother joining Richard in the local pub before they then disappeared together. He persuaded his friend Danny Galvin to drive him to Zennor. As luck would have it, they spotted Richard heading for his Bentley and followed him out of the car park and down the drive. Danny tried to hold back, staying some three or four cars behind. When, ten or so minutes later, Richard pulled up at a modest cottage in Zennor, who should open the front door but Tom. As Danny and Grant parked in a nearby side street they immediately realized their cover had been blown. Marching towards them was a burly man with a red face and a huge neck. It was Bill, the other night porter from the hotel.

  ‘He knows you’ve followed him, and Tom knows you saw him open the door. Now I’ve got news for you, young Mr Galvin. You and your friend Granted here are heading off in your motor, and you’ve seen nothing here today, have you, lads?’

  The last remark lingered in the hinterland between statement and question, delivered in a strong West Country burr that left the recipients in no doubt of the answer that was expected.

  ‘Oh yes we have,’ replied Grant. ‘You can’t gag us. And the name is Grant,’ he added.

  Bill looked thunderously at the audacious teenager, and for a moment Grant thought the porter was going to punch him.

  ‘Now look here, laddies. Either you head off or I make a phone call to the constabulary. Do I make myself plain?’

  ‘OK,’ said Danny. ‘We’ll go.’

  ‘That be better. We don’t want your folks up at the hotel hearing about sonny boys getting into trouble. And you have no idea what trouble you might find yourselves in,’ concluded Bill, pleased with himself for achieving a stand-down.

  On their return to the hotel the two boys bumped into Caroline Jessops as she walked through the car park, wearing a brown bikini with a hotel towel draped around her neck, fresh from a swim at the pool below.

  ‘What have you two been up to?’ she inquired, with a twinkle in her eye.

  ‘Oh, just checking out the local golf course at Lelant,’ Grant lied.

  Caroline was amused at the response, not believing it but not sufficiently interested to challenge him.

  ‘Why don’t you play golf here?’ she challenged, referring to the nine-hole pitch-and-putt course. ‘I could caddy for you,’ she added coquettishly.

  Grant smiled, their eyes connecting, as if owning to a chemistry that was developing between him and this brown-eyed girl in a bikini. ‘Great, let’s play at four today.’

  Danny put in, ‘You can leave me out. Can’t stand the game.’ This provoked a wry smile from Grant, as he had to acknowledge defeat in their game of subterfuge, while Caroline broke into a broad involuntary grin.

  As Grant and Caroline ambled around the nine-hole course later that day she probed him as to how he was feeling. ‘You’ve been a bit weird lately.’

  Grant admitted his upset at hearing of his mother’s involvement with Richard Hughes-Webb. He revealed what Hector had told him, but she didn’t register surprise; she already knew about the row at dinner, as Robert Vernon had been telling the world. At any rate it turned out she knew quite a lot about the Hughes-Webb family, as she and Suzie had become pretty close over the years.

  ‘Did you know about her father and my mother?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, trying not to sound too wounding.

  ‘Well, what do you know?’

  Before Caroline could reply, Suzie came rushing up towards them, brandishing a five-iron and a putter. ‘Can I join in?’ she asked breezily.

  7

  18 AUGUST 1972

  ‘I’ll challenge the winner!’

  Paul Galvin shouted at Grant Morrison and Justyn Silver, the folds of his belly falling over the top of his shorts as he watched them battle it out on the squash court. The two combatants needed no extra incentive, but eventually Grant emerged victorious and went straight into battle with Paul, who very quickly became incredibly sweaty. Galvin Senior was a smallish, stocky man with greasy, grey swept-back hair, and it soon became clear to Grant that he was cheating, reinventing the score at regular intervals and claiming some dodgy line calls in his favour. As he romped to a controversial victory he let out a roar emanating deep within the pit of his overfed stomach. Shaking hands heartily with his opponent and pretending to commiserate, he walked off the court with the triumphant look of a conquering Roman emperor.

  ‘So that puts you in your place,’ asserted Caroline, who had been the sole spectator on the balcony.

  ‘I couldn’t have cared less, but did you notice how brazenly he cheated?’

  Caroline smiled, amused at how badly Grant was taking defeat; the validity or otherwise of the scoring was an arcane dark art to her.

  Grant went on, ‘And I was concerned that he’d worked up such a sweat and was wheezing so much – like a wounded elephant – he might have had a cardiac arrest at any moment.’

  ‘Oh, come on. He beat you. Get over it,’ she teased.

  Grant was having none of it. ‘I mean, what sort of man cheats at squash? Does he cheat in life, in business, too?’ He continued his rant as they walked back into the hotel, where he promptly bumped into Danny Galvin.

  ‘So, the old man thumped you,’ Danny announced joyfully.

  ‘Well, let’s just say I didn’t think the match was played on a completely level playing field.’

  ‘Oh, that means Dad was up to his usual tricks, winning by hook or by crook,’ Danny laughed.

  ‘Well, you said it. I wouldn’t like to accuse anyone.’

  ‘No. Everyone knows Dad always cheats at games. He has to win at all costs, you see. There are people who say he cheats in business, but I’d rather not know.’

  Paul Galvin’s business dealings were largely mysterious, apart from the fact that he was a London-based accountant who commuted daily to his office in Holborn from his home in Chelmsford. However, later the same day Paul disappeared to visit a business venture of his own. He had used his experience and expertise advising clients in the property sector to set up some personal private speculation; in 1970 he had bought an old petrol station near Penzance and gained planning permission to knock
it down and build three holiday homes.

  By chance, that very day Paul’s son, Danny, and Justyn Silver filled their cars with four friends each and drove off to the go-karting circuit at Penzance. En route Danny unexpectedly pulled his Mini off the main road. Justyn drew up behind him. Danny had spotted his father shouting and gesticulating at a group of people outside what looked like a new housing development. Unbeknown to the teenager, the buildings had been on the market for over a year. Paul had been unable to sell any of the houses and now had the bank breathing down his neck. Danny was later to discover that his father had borrowed to the hilt to build the houses. With costs spiralling and Paul failing to recoup any cash from property sales, the bank were threatening to foreclose, and the family home in Chelmsford would have to be sold to pay off the debts. There was a further twist, known only to Paul: the company contracted to undertake the building work, Sandersons of Penzance, had been recommended by Tom, the hotel porter. Tom’s brother, Dickie, had worked for Sandersons for some thirty years as a plasterer. This brought the problem closer to home, as Dickie, Ivan’s father, was now unlikely to receive his wages.

  Danny alighted from his car to hear his father yelling ‘You have done me’ at someone who was obscured by the group in front. ‘Come on out, you idiot. You have stitched me up, sold me down the river!’

  Out of the group emerged Tom, for once looking sheepish and rather diminished. Paul used to enjoy a late-night brandy with the porters Tom and Bill, who would keep him company downing their ‘rosy leas’, as they called their tea in exaggerated Cockney accents.

  In 1970, when Paul first told Tom about the plot of land he had bought in Penzance, Tom pointed him in the direction of Sandersons. When the houses didn’t sell, Paul attributed this partly to a poor performance from the firm. With the cost overrun and the failure to find buyers, Paul was left in severe financial distress by early 1972. He deliberately collapsed his company, Galvin Properties Ltd; this triggered Sandersons’ bankruptcy, as the firm was still owed 50 per cent of their fees. Tom, although blameless in the execution of the project, had wound up both his brother, Dickie, and Robin Sanderson, the owner of the company, by saying that Mr Galvin could still afford fancy hotel prices, living the life of luxury at the hotel on the hill, as he called it. Collapsing his company was Paul’s way of protecting his financial well-being, as he had put all his assets into his wife’s name to safeguard their home in Chelmsford.

  As Tom moved forward from his position at the back of the group, Paul let rip. ‘This is the fool who talked me into building in this pisspot town with your mickey-mouse company.’

  At that moment Paul saw his son Danny coming towards him, while the others waited in the two cars.

  ‘Dad,’ Danny called out. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘No, he’s not OK. He’s not OK at all,’ said Robin Sanderson angrily.

  Fortunately Danny’s unexpected appearance had a calming effect on Paul, who returned to his car exclaiming that he had had enough for one day.

  Danny saw the looks of thunder on the faces of Robin Sanderson and Dickie Youlen, but he addressed Tom. ‘What’s going on?’

  The porter was speechless, but his brother was more forthcoming. ‘Your father has cheated us – left me and my mates unpaid. And Mr Sanderson here tells us it’s the end. He and his family have had this business for eighty bloody years, and now it’s the bloody end!’ Dickie roared.

  Danny hastily withdrew from the scene and told his friends what he had just heard.

  ‘Wow, that’s heavy, man.’ They fell silent for a few minutes before Caroline exclaimed that the scene with parents was becoming a real drag. Ten minutes later the teenagers were happily bashing into each other on the go-karting track, laughing their heads off.

  Back at the hotel that evening the mood at the Galvins’ table was even more muted than at that of the Hughes-Webbs. Danny obtained permission to leave after the main course. His father hadn’t uttered a word since they sat down other than to bark his order from the table d’hôte menu at an unfortunate waitress.

  Around eleven that night ‘Puffin, shag, herring gull, gannet and chough’ was heard in a deep Cornish baritone, floating into reception as Tom came on duty. Paul took a break from pacing around outside the hotel, dragging angrily on a cigarette, to utter in ominous tones, ‘I’ll sort him out.’

  8

  PRESENT DAY

  ‘Arnie Charnley always paid his bills in cash. When other guests were checking out with their credit cards he would wait at the back of the queue before producing what he called his “holding folding”. He was a very popular figure who would entertain people with his risqué jokes and anecdotes.’

  Grant was ploughing on relentlessly, regaling Brigit with further tales of the 1972 holiday as they trekked back towards the car after their walk from Cape Cornwall. ‘The arrival of the Charnley family was a bit of a ritual. Arnie’s Jaguar, his pride and joy, would pull up in front of the hotel, and he would commandeer the porter to assist. His wife, Lucy, whom he referred to as “the Duchess”, would wait in the car until the luggage had been brought in, preparing for her grand entrance – powdering her nose, applying eyeliner, lipstick and so on. It was generally believed that he was terrified of her. They arrived off the night train, which transported the Jaguar. Tom always made sure he was on duty for the Charnleys’ arrival, as he and Arnie had a special arrangement. Arnie’s main obsession in life was the horses; betting, that is. He had long since promised the Duchess that he had given up, claiming he hadn’t been inside a bookies’ for five years. Indeed, he didn’t need to visit bookmakers in Cornwall, as Tom placed his bets for him. In fact, Tom even looked after Arnie’s stockpile of readies, as he didn’t dare risk keeping cash in the bedroom or the car in case the Duchess made a discovery.’

  Brigit listened patiently before speculating, ‘Don’t tell me, Tom lost all Arnie’s money and got the blame for placing bets on the wrong horses.’

  ‘Not exactly. In fact, that last summer Arnie was very successful. The day he arrived he told Tom to put £50 on Vivaque, at thirty-to-one, running in the four-forty at Newton Abbott. When it won, Arnie found it very hard to conceal his joy from the Duchess but wasted no time in regaling the rest of us, so much so that I still remember the horse’s name.

  ‘Each morning Arnie used to set off for an early jog, usually with Richard Hughes-Webb, Bob Silver and Paul Galvin. Tom would see them trot off at seven, enjoying some good-natured banter. They would run down through the woods, next to the cascades, before crossing the road to the beach where they would run for about one and a half miles until they hit the nudist part, which was normally the cue for some rather more vulgar banter. “Did you see her? She was about a hundred and nine!” They would usually reappear at the hotel still amusing themselves with their puerile humour but would then snap out of it pretty sharpish.’

  ‘Are we still focusing on potential murder suspects or have we moved on to “Carry On” film territory?’ Brigit did not see the relevance of all this.

  ‘Actually this is relevant, because one morning as they came back through reception panting and sweating Tom was quick to ask Arnie for a private word. At this time I’d decided to stalk Hughes-Webb after hearing about the incident with my mother in the drive, and I happened to be loitering in reception and witnessed a bit of a scene. The others, who all had their own secrets known to Tom, moved away and returned swiftly to their rooms, eager to shower after their morning exertions. Tom seemed fraught, pacing around in an uncharacteristically anxious manner. He informed Arnie that he’d had a burglary at his cottage and that all Arnie’s cash, so carefully secreted with him, had been stolen.

  ‘“What?” exclaimed Arnie. “All my dosh? You can’t do this to me. What if it’s gone for ever? How will I pay the bill here? And, more importantly, what will I tell the Duchess?” By this stage his face was puce, and he was jumping up and down as he sprayed angry words at Tom, who quickly outlined an impromptu plan. The Duchess loved the
gardens of Cornwall, and Tom knew Arnie was bored stiff by them, so Tom suggested that he drive her to Caerhays Castle on the south coast – at least a ninety-minute journey. “And while she’s there you can go and see my nephew Ivan, who I think may be responsible, as only he knew where I kept the suitcase with the cash.” Arnie was stunned. First he had been advised that several hundred pounds of his money – a fortune in those days – had been stolen, and now he had to turn sleuth to interrogate Ivan. He considered the proposal. At this stage he would have considered anything. He exhaled deep breaths saying “Calm, calm, calm” to himself while clutching his left arm with his right hand.’

  ‘So did he go along with the plan?’

  ‘With some of it. He thought the Duchess would love being driven by Tom acting as chauffeur, and he had heard his wife mention that Caerhays possessed over two hundred different types of rhododendrons. She had often badgered him to take her there, and Arnie couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less. He quickly got the Jag insured for Tom to drive, which would enable him to stay behind and watch his beloved Lancashire playing a Gillette Cup semi-final cricket match on television. Arnie instructed Tom to inform the police about the cash, but the porter was insistent that he couldn’t let the police near his cottage, saying, “Don’t let daylight in on magic.” In the end they compromised, with Tom saying he would tackle Ivan himself.’

  ‘I should think Arnie was pretty anxious, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes but he couldn’t show it in case the Duchess noticed. The following day we all witnessed the hilarious scene of Tom wearing a peaked cap and dark suit collecting the Duchess and chaperoning her into the back seat of the Jag. He was given instructions as to where to park the car, when to speak to her and even to address her as “My Lady”.’