Mr Mullins had been at his desk when I arrived. He had several letters opened, their envelopes all screwed up into tight balls, waiting to be filed in the bin. They were in a hurry, he told me, because it was Mrs Mullins birthday and they had arranged to meet friends at the country club an hour earlier than usual. He and Mrs Mullins had left in a rush a few minutes after I arrived, by which time Suzie was already in the bathroom. “Don’t be late getting home, Donald. I don’t like you riding that bike so far in the dark,” had been Mrs Mullins parting words, offered in haste from the kitchen door, just before it slammed behind them. They took me by surprise, because I couldn’t recall her ever before sounding quite so motherly, a quality that jarred next to the latent lust for her that my adolescence fought hard not to admit.
I had not been to the back of the house since they left, until Suzie’s request for the cotton wool, which she knew was still downstairs, discarded into the neutral zone. As I approached, I saw that Mr Mullins, for the first time ever, had forgotten to shut his desk. And the light was still on. I don’t know what attracted me to the white envelope. Maybe it was just because it was bigger than the others, and also a little fatter. I wasn’t trying to go through his desk. I had no desire to pry, but somehow I found myself reaching into the habitually closed space and loosening that protruding envelope from its padding of folders and writing pads to pull it into the cone of yellow light. It wasn’t sealed.
Photography had been a hobby of Suzie’s dad since his teens. He had a shed at the back set up as a dark room. It was full of trays, bottles, clothes lines with pegs at eye level and, in one corner, a grey metal enlarger, a machine that looked like it might have been a prop in The Shape Of Things To Come and might be able to launch a dog into orbit. Photography was still a hobby of the rich. The Cottee household had its box Brownie, but it was only used when we went on holiday, or to a wedding. Pictures were still expensive, objects of fascination, rare enough to prompt viewers to congregate in the front room to pass them round for comment. The weight of the envelope told me immediately it was packed with photos. They were large-format, enlarged to the size of a book page, all black and white and printed on Kodak paper, a name whose diagonal repetition faced me as the unsealed envelope’s contents slid across the desk, face down.
Mr Mullins had a Leica, beautifully slim like his daughter, and a flash unit that was four times the size of the camera. But it was also deceptively heavy, engineered like a weapon, and cost close to my dad’s annual wage. After his adored Suzie, it was his pride and joy, or perhaps I should say its products were. He was never an obsessive photographer, always talking about angles and frames, but he did make regular trips in the car specifically to take pictures. It was a true passion. I had helped him with his developing several times and was always eager to see the results of his work. It was the stillness and illusory permanence of their make-believe monochrome that made the pictures so captivating.
I turned over the first sheet with some eagerness. I was ready to turn the second as fast, but the image froze my gaze. I looked. I looked again, and again. I still had the second photo ready to view, but still I looked at that first one. I was just starting to look through the rest when words made me jump.
“Dan, where’s my swabs?” said Suzie at the dining room door. She was semi-clad, with just a towel covering the business districts. She had another towel turbaned around her head. I dropped the photo I was holding. The others were face up on the desk.
“Great tits, aren’t they?” said Suzie, grasping the bag of cotton wool swabs from the top of the bureau with over-stated haste. She had recalled that my last photographic outing with her father had focused on ornithological subjects.
I was speechless, even embarrassed as Suzie then paused to look at the detail of what had captivated me. There, in sixteen slightly altered poses, was Mrs Mullins, her hair uncharacteristically down, wearing a strip or two of black satin around her middle, their flopping knot bows to the side, but otherwise totally naked. She leaned forward, her chest a-dangle. She leaned back, her hips thrust upward, her cunctation a foreshortened giant right in my face. She waggled her behind at the lens, and gestured rude things with foodstuffs.
“She’s getting fat,” said Suzie, apparently oblivious both to her mother’s condition and my continued speechlessness. “You’ve got a crush on her, haven’t you?” I blushed. “Come up to the bathroom, Don, now.” I followed.
Three weeks later, our near-marriage by then almost recreated after that ice-breaking moment, we were off on holiday together. It was seven in the morning when Mr Mullins arrived in his Humber Sceptre to pick me up. My mother, and just about the whole street were up to see me off.
Fourteen
If there’s one thing my mother used to drill into me... - Suzie outlines her business strategy. She has an argument with Maureen and Donald intervenes. She has a showdown with Michael Watson and then agrees new terms, though distrusts their basis. She meets the staff to outline her position.
If there’s one thing my mother used to drill into me, it was the need to act, to be derisive at all times. Predestination is the thief of time, she used to say, and she was not wrong! So I learned that the only way to approach a job was head on, no messing, straight in there. Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today. Only losers say, “Winning isn’t everything.” And it’s how I have started my time at The Castle.
And now I am reaping the rewards of this approach. For the first time since Mullins The Milliners went its way, I have my chance to shine in business, to show what I can do. And I have Mick to thank for that. I never say never and never say die. I don’t expect owt for nowt and there’s no such thing as a free lunch.
Not that he offered privilege along with opportunity, though. The place was a complete and utter dump, run-down, filthy, disorganised and badly managed. The neglect was criminal, if you ask me. If they had been trying to run it down, then they couldn’t have done it better!
I had the place cleaned from top to bottom. There’s no point washing clean things, but if it’s filthy, get cracking. We even did those places where the punters don’t go. I insisted Mick get in a couple of skivvies to clear out that room upstairs so I could set myself up with an office. Now one man’s junk is another man’s treasure, but one man’s meat is another man’s poison. Why The Castle needed to store eight broken air conditioners beats me. And it wasn’t as if they had been neatly pushed against the back wall. They were all in bits and pieces and strewn everywhere. It was like a scrap yard. There’s money in muck, but only when you shift it.
“Don’t dither,” my mother would say to me. “It’s the early bird that catches the worm. You’re just like your father, dithering this way and that with his camera, trying to imagine consequences. There’s only one way to find out in life, my girl, and that’s to act. The chance is gone if you don’t take it. But always beware, because it’s the second mouse that gets the cheese.” And that is how I have lived my life. What looks good today is for eating today. By tomorrow it might be off and so the choices will be different. Act, act now, act strong and act derisively, that’s what she used to say. But the key to everything was planning. “Be sure you know what you are doing before you do it,” was another of her grottos.
Let’s face it. It was a scrap yard. And the blokes who came with the skip to shift all those bust and broken machines with their tangled little pipes said something about them being full of knuckle and worth a bit. “Just get them out of here today,” I said, “or I’ll give you some knuckle of my own!” You should have seen them shift.
And the muck that came off those floors! It wasn’t just the junk room upstairs: it was everywhere. The place was a filthy tip, top to bottom and we cleaned the lot. Act today, tomorrow is too late.
At the back of the glass racks behind the bar, the grilles were thick with grease. The bar staff have just been taking the first glass and then filling in
the gaps at the front with clean ones from the washer. The Castle’s turnover has been so low that they haven’t needed to disturb the ones at the back for neons, so they’ve never been moved.
The carpets have all been washed. They’ve had so much beer spilled on them that they were just a sodden, fomenting mush, their soggy spring an illusion of pile created by concentrated wort floating on an impervious backing below. I had the whole lot lifted and jet-washed. There’s actually nothing wrong with the carpets. The patterns came up really nice once you could see them. Mick said he thought they were supposed to be brown. I mean, if you’re going to have a best room, then it should be clean and comfy, just like home. But in the end we didn’t put most of them back because once we got them up we found some lovely original tiles. All they needed was a polish and brush up. Now, the staff can mop the floors and so cleaning is all the easier.
And the toilets... What wasn’t broken smelt so much it was hard to get within range. What was broken was most of the fittings. The flush on the gents’ urinal was so scaled it could barely drip. Probably like most of the things that get pointed at it! One of the fag packets we picked out of the trough had ‘Joey, December 2003’ written in biro on the back. Basically all the punters pointed Peter at the porcelain at one end, because the other half was a heap of compost. The ladies’, needless to say, was worse, but individually, creatively so. Every rose has a thorn!
Well, we’ve cleaned everything, repaired anything that was broken and replaced what was beyond recall. And, thanks to the efforts of my wonderful Donkey, the whole place has a new coat of emulsion. I persuaded Mick to close for a week and to pay the bar staff overtime so we could get everything done. Donkey worked for nothing, said he was doing it for me, bless him. He’s so defendable. He’s not going to surprise you, my Don, but he’s always there.
On the other hand he’s often there precisely when you don’t want him. He gets under your feet, as my mother used to say. He also puts his nose into places where it’s got no right to be. Just the other day, for instance, I was tempted to take it between my fingers, twist it and pull it off after he poked it straight into what he should have stayed out of. I was in the middle of doing management when he poked it in.
I was having it out with Maureen. Managers need an office and I haven’t got one. My idea was that I would move into the upstairs room once all the junk was gone. I hadn’t told anybody, but that was always my plan. It was a day or two after the junk went that I asked Maureen to clean the place out. I left her to it and went downstairs. A full two hours later, I went up to see how she was doing.
What I found really surprised me. Frankly, the place was hardly touched. What on earth she had been doing all that time I just don’t know. She had run a vac here and there and had slopped a mop around. But there was still grease on the tiles by the wall, the window was all streaked and the cupboard hadn’t been done out.
I knew straight away that this was going to be a defiling moment. If my word was going to mean anything round here, then it would have to hold sway over the likes of Maureen. I’d rather do nothing than do something badly. And if my time at The Castle was going to produce results, then I had to be sure that I got what I wanted whenever I asked for it. And Maureen Jackson was probably the best place to start. She’s been in The Castle the longest and she’s the laziest. Though she makes out she’s a half-wit, I’ve noticed she does a lot more chatting than I’d expect, and certainly a lot more watching. And I certainly wasn’t going to pay for her two hours just to wave a duster in mid-air and push a mop back and forth across the same three tiles. I decided I’d tear a strip or two off Maureen Jackson.
“Here,” I said forcefully, “you’ve not done what I asked.”
“I’ve cleaned up.”
“You’ve done nothing of the sort, Maureen. I don’t know where you were brought up, but this wouldn’t do in a Kiddington household. Look at that window! It’s all streaked! And the floor’s barely half done....”
“Mrs Cottee...”
I liked the way she assumed I’d like to be addressed more rather than less formally.
“...this room hasn’t been done out in at least four years. It will need more than one go to get it straight.”
“Straight. That’s the word, Maureen,” I said. “Straight as a die. Straight as an arrow. Straight up, straight down, no messing. And there’ll be no messing round The Castle while ever I’m in charge. I want a fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay. A penny spent is a penny earned, and, round here, I am doing the spending if you are doing the earning. And I’m not paying for jobs half-done.”
“But Mrs Cottee...”
“A chain is only as strong as its weakest link, Maureen. There’s no room for slacking. United we stand, divided we fall, and I want one hundred percent from all of you, one hundred percent of the time.”
“I only had a mop and a brush and a vac.”
“It’s a bad workman that blames his tools, Maureen. If there’s something you need, then speak up. The Castle will provide. If it’s needed, I’ll get it.”
“You could start with some proper equipment.”
“Well, you can have whatever you need, just as soon as we are straight and the place is earning again. Now I don’t want this episode to colour our relationship, Maureen. They say a good beginning makes a good ending. But our beginning has not been good. Things can only get better, but you have to want them to get better. If you want more things to help you do a good job, you have to ask. Seek and you will find. Fretting cares makes grey hairs. Speak up, Maureen, and it can happen. Sit and do nothing and you’ll be out on your ear. And I don’t care how many years you’ve done. Now it’s a good horse that never stumbles, but knaves and fools divide this world and, in The Castle, I want no divisions. I am not paying money for old rope, Maureen.”
“Don’t you call me old rope, you ...”
“And don’t give me any of your lip or your backchat. I’m in charge now. Mick Watson may have been a pushover for you, but things have changed. Susan Cottee’s new brooms have to sweep clean. Do you understand?”
Now I hadn’t quite got my hands around Maureen’s throat, but they weren’t far off when Don came in from the corridor. He’d been fixing tiles on the stairs and had heard the commodium.
“What’s going on in here then, ladies?” he said.
“We’re having a tiff,” I said.
The minute a man appeared on the scene Maureen went all sullen and quiet and condescending. I can see she’s used to getting her own way.
“I’m asking Maureen to walk the walk and talk the talk. I’m laying it on the line. I’m striking while the iron’s hot to make sure that she understands.”
“You’re laying it on a bit strong, if you ask me. Are you all right, darling,” he said to Maureen.
“Darling?” I asked myself. Her response was to look as guilty as a twelve-year-old found playing with herself. She’d have tripped up over her bottom lip if she’d set off walking.
“It’s one hand that washes the other, Donkey. There’s no room for slackers at The Castle, not under my oversight.”
“But you’ve also got to win people’s hearts, Suzie, and strangling someone doesn’t usually promote friendship. Are you sure you’re all right?”
Again Maureen looked sheepish - not difficult for her I might say - and again Don gave her a little hug across the shoulders.
“Now why don’t you two kiss and make up?”
“I’ll do out the room again Mrs Cottee.”
“Right you will,” I said, “right you will.”
“Can I have a bottle of Mr Squeezee?”
“You can have a bottle of whatever you want Maureen,” I said, “as long as you don’t drink it. Here’s five euros. Now hop off to the supermarket and get whatever you want.” As she left the room I turned to my husband and said
, “And I would be grateful if you kept your poking nose out of offices where it’s not welcome. People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. The last time you cleaned out a bath after you’d used it was 1957, and that was probably because your mother shouted at you. The Castle is my place and I’m going to run it my way! Now get on with you, get back to your renovation.”
But there’s only so much that’s possible with renovation. The Castle needs some new money. I went to ask Mick in Paradise the other day and put it on the line. Either put your money where your mouth is, I said, or shut up. He did both, much to my surprise. He phoned me last night and said I could have half of what I wanted. Fifty percent of something is better than a hundred percent of nothing. If life gives you lemons, make lemonade, but you need enough of them!
I’ve already made a list of things that need to be done, starting with the tiles on the stairs down to the basement that need to be replaced right away. Half of them are broken. Phil says that the bar staff bounce the spare gas cylinders down the stairs and the tiles chip easily. Well that’s just another thing that’s going to change. Either the bar staff do it my way, or they’ll get the sack. He who pays the piper... I’ll have no slacking under me. They’ll carry things down to the store room in future, not bounce them down the stairs. It’s in one ear and out the other with most of these people. But if they mind their P’s and Q’s, out of acorns great oaks may grow and, let’s face it, money talks. More haste, less speed, I tell them. Think of the tiles!
A Search for Donald Cottee Page 15
