‘So, you now wish to swap the single room for a double, is that right, sir?’
‘That’s right, yes.’ Has he got cloth ears or what?
Once again he bent his head to the ledger, ‘Mmm…’ He flicked the pages back and forth, constantly chunnering under his breath, ‘Mmm…Can’t seem to…’
Suddenly he pounced on the page with his pen at the ready, ‘You’re very fortunate, sir. We do have a double room available, but it’s one of our premium rooms, so you must understand it is more expensive than the previous room.’
‘How much more?’
He was at it again, flicking the pages and chunnering, ‘Mmm…Mmm, now let me see…’
Shifting his spectacles, he perused the page, ‘The single was £50 per night, bed, breakfast and evening meal. The premium room is £105 per night.’
‘One hundred and five pounds a night? GOOD GRIEF!’ It took a minute to recover, ‘Is there any room for negotiation on that?’
He gave a patronising little smile, ‘None whatsoever…sir.’
‘So, how much is the dinner?’ I was doing mental calculations.
‘The evening meal is £30.’
‘So, how much is breakfast?’
‘Twenty pounds.’ By now he had stopped calling me ‘sir’. (Pompous swine!)
‘Right! So, if I took the bedroom for three nights, room only, it would work out at £55 per night?’ We were in the right territory now, so to speak.
“Fraid not, sir.’ With obvious glee he went on to explain, ‘We are not a boarding house. We do not do rooms only. This is a fine hotel with a reputation to uphold.
‘So?’
‘So, we have overheads to meet, and a reputation to which we aspire.’ He twitched his nose again, ‘I’m sure you understand?’
‘What if I included breakfast then?’
‘Mmm!’ He stretched his neck as far as it would go, then he groaned, before saying, ‘Well, yes we can sometimes do bed and breakfast…but…’ I did not care for the way he fixed his beady eyes on me, ‘…only for business persons, who travel from place to place in a hurry.’
‘Well, that’s all right then!’ I gave a sigh of relief, ‘That’s absolutely fine!’ I felt like I’d got one over on him, ‘I, my good man, am exactly that…a “business person”.’
Fumbling in my wallet, I took out one of the kennel cards, and casually slid it across the desk. Keeping my cool, I pointed it out:
BEN BUSKIN—MANAGER
DAISY KENNELS
BEDFORD
All creatures lovingly cared for.
I swear he gave a little snigger, ‘I see.’
‘Right then! So you will know that I am the very man, Ben Buskin, exactly like it says there.’
Suddenly, from the corner of my eye I saw Dickie and the hairy mutt streaking across the foyer and out the back door. The porter must have taken a break. ‘Good grief!’ Grabbing a hankie out of his top pocket, the receptionist slapped it over his nose, just as the door slammed behind them, ‘Whatever was that?’
‘What?’ I feigned innocence.
‘That…THING!’ Taking a deep breath he almost choked on the lingering vapour, ‘Heavens above!’ He made a face, ‘Can’t you smell it?’
I managed to keep a straight face, ‘Can’t say I do, no. But I really am anxious to get to my room. I’ve had a long drive, so if you don’t mind, I need to get settled.’ I even managed to sound irritated.
‘Mmm.’ He perused my business card once more, ‘I’m not altogether sure we can accommodate you…’
‘Well, I’m not altogether happy with your attitude,’ I announced grandly. ‘I’d like to speak with the manager.’
His manner changed instantly. He cleared his throat and he chunnered for a time, and then he spoke.
‘I’m sure there’s no need to be hasty. There’s no reason to trouble the manager,’ he assured me. ‘You’re right. Your card does seem to be in order, and the room is definitely booked, so yes, we can do the three nights for £55 per night.’
He must have had a previous upset with the manager, because he kept looking nervously towards the office door.
Either that or he was still puzzling over the hairy blur and the smell that had assulted his senses.
I was unpacking when there came a nervous knock on the door. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Room service…sir.’
I recognised the rank smell emanating under the door. It was Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants, and he sounded really brassed off.
‘Phaw!’ As I flung open the door, the pong enveloped me, ‘Quick! Get in here, the pair of you!’ As they came in, I glanced up and down the corridor. I was not surprised to see that it was empty.
‘The smell’s getting worse!’ Dickie was green around the gills, ‘When he fell down the ditch, Battersby must have landed on a dead rat.’
‘You and him both!’ I’m not joshing. I have never smelled anything like it in the whole of my life.
‘We’ll have to give him a bath or something.’ Dickie was beginning to panic, ‘If anybody comes in here, there’ll be trouble.’
‘Huh! Sick more like!’ I tried to keep my distance but the rancid smell filled the room, ‘Best open the windows before we choke to death!’ While Dickie struggled the dog into the bathroom, I threw open all the windows.
It took all our strength and more to get the mountainous bulk washed. First we tried to lift him over the ridge, but he kept slithering back. Then we stood him up on his back legs and tried to shove him backwards. It was like the Krypton Factor! At one point we had one of his front legs over the rim and the rest of him sitting on the toilet.
We grappled and fought and the more we tried, the more tangled we got; it was only a matter of time before the giggling started.
It got even more uproarious when Dickie pretended that we were Dick and Dom, shifting a sofa, ‘Me to you,’ he kept saying, and I found myself replying, ‘No, no, you to me.’
In the end we collapsed on the floor, exhausted and laughing while the mutt calmly strolled into the shower and stood there, regarding the two of us with a pathetic look. ‘Look at that! He wants a shower,’ I felt like a proud mother.
‘He wants drowning, that’s what he wants!’ Dickie announced, and the mutt promptly cocked his leg and peed up the shower panel.
‘FILTHY PIG!’ One thing about Dickie; he has a way with words.
The next hour was pandemonium.
We all had a shower: me, Dickie, the bathroom, and the mutt. As for the shower curtain, it looked like it had been shredded with a cheese grater.
We were soaked, exhausted and in need of sustenance, but we did smell a good deal sweeter though.
Leaving the mess for the morning, we fell asleep in our respective places, with me in the double bed, Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants on the sofa, and the mutt stretched out on the carpet.
What a day!
What a night!
So, what’s next?
I thought of Rhett Butler’s prophetic words in Gone with the Wind, ‘Tomorrow is another day.’
I can’t help wondering what joys it might have in store for us!
BLACKPOOL
SPETEMBER, SUNDAY
Well, diary! Here we are in Blackpool!
After a good night’s sleep, I scrambled out of bed like an excited kid, flung back the curtains and threw open the windows. The wind took hold of the windows and wrenched them out of my hands, ‘Good grief! It’s like all hell let loose out there!’
‘Mind your wig doesn’t blow away!’ Lazing on the sofa, Dickie Manse laughed as I struggled to shut the windows, ‘I’ve heard how the weather in Blackpool can turn at the drop of a hat…sunny one minute, gale force the next.’
‘Shut up you, I don’t need a weather forecast.’ He really gets my goat sometimes! ‘I need to grab these windows before they take off. Don’t help me though, whatever you do.’ By now the windows were in a frenzy, crashing about and ready to take off at any minute.
Waiting for them to swing back in my direction, I leaned over the window ledge, arms out, all set to grab the windows. ‘Some holiday this is turning out to be!’ I was fed up, sick of him and his stinking dog, and then to top it all, just as the windows came within reach, the hairy hound leaped on my back and launched me to the elements. Before I knew what was happening I was outside, clinging on to the window by the tips of my fingers; freezing buttocks bared to all and sundry and me screaming like a banshee. ‘DICKIE! GET UP…DICKIE!’ I could hardly hold on, ‘DICKIE!’
‘Stop panicking, you big girl’s blouse, you’ll do yourself a mischief! We’re three floors up and there’s a concrete car park down there.’ He was really enjoying himself, ‘One wrong move and you’ll be splattered like an omelette.’
Deliberately taking his time he sauntered across the room, a sheet wrapped loosely round his middle, his hair standing up like the bristles of a brush. I don’t know what was more frightening…the thought of putting my life in the hands of an idiot like Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants, or hanging on to the window by the tips of my fingers; being whipped back and forwards, while the wind whistled a tune round my nether regions.
Suddenly my jim-jams got snatched away in a fierce gust of wind. I started screaming, ‘HURRY UP! DEAR LORD, I CAN’T STAND MUCH MORE!’ By now I was swinging half-naked, and so cold I couldn’t feel a thing.
‘OH, YOU POOR SOUL, DON’T DO IT! DON’T JUMP!’ Some woman shouted from below, ‘HE’S LISTENING, DEAR! WE ALL KNOW HOW HARD LIFE CAN BE AT TIMES, BUT YOU’RE NOT ALONE. HE UNDERSTANDS.’
Silly mare! ‘IF HE’S LISTENING, HE MUST KNOW I’M FROZEN TO THE BONE AND ABOUT TO BE MANGLED! DOES HE UNDERSTAND THAT?’
‘Hey!’ Dickie was hanging out the window, ‘How am I supposed to pull you in if you keep moving?’
‘Pull the window in, you idiot!’ I screamed. What’s he like? ‘In case you’ve forgotten, I’m on the end of it!’
‘Right then, here we go. You swing the window in towards me and I’ll grab you.’ he glanced at my hands and other shrivelled bits. ‘Trouble is,’ he sniggered, ‘I’m not sure which bit to grab!’
‘When I get inside I’ll wipe the smile off your face, you see if I don’t!’
Suddenly, with alarming courage, Dickie threw himself across the window ledge, arms outstretched ready to help me back in. He might well have succeeded if only the big, hairy mutt hadn’t got excited and sunk his teeth into Dickie’s rear end. With a shriek of absolute terror, Dickie shot out the window, and got caught up by his towel, which attached itself to the window handle. ‘HELP!’ I always knew he was useless, ‘WE’RE GONERS, THE PAIR OF US…GONERS, I TELL YOU.’
So there we were, hanging out the window, me all but stark-naked with a sharp-eyed crow waiting to swoop down and pick off myjuicy bits, and Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants screaming about how he was ‘TOO YOUNG TO DIE LIKE THIS!’ Bolt upright on his back legs, the hairy hound stared at us out the window, a toothy grin on his face, and a river of slaver running down his chin, ‘HELP ME! I’M BLEEDING!’ Dickie yelled. ‘I CAN FEEL IT, ALL HOT AND STICKY, RUNNING DOWN MY BACK!’
‘Will you stop yelling!’ I was well out of patience and now my lips were freezing together, ‘It’s not blood. It’s the Baskerville hound slobbering on you. And you know what…I COULDN’T CARE LESS!’
Suddenly it was like the whole world had turned out to see the show. Some goofy bloke was taking pictures of my bare rump, and two girls were shouting obsenities that would have shamed a navvy. There were police sirens below and somebody banging on our room door, and before we could catch our breath, we were yanked back inside and ordered to get dressed by a big fella in uniform. I’m sure we’d have got off with a warning, but Dickie got stroppy and we were then marched to a waiting police car. With Battersby strapped securely in the front seat and me in between Dickie and an officer in the back, we found ourselves being despatched at speed to the local cop shop; full sirens and everything!
As we went down the street, with all our worldly belongings, we could hear the crowd laughing behind us; except for the woman shouting…‘HE’S UP THERE WATCHING! HE’LL HELP YOU, DEAR…DON’T YOU WORRY!’ Dopey mare, what’s she on?
At the station it took us a full hour to explain before we were let loose with a caution. ‘Blackpool never wants to set eyes on you again!’ The officer warned, ‘So be off, and mind you keep your nose clean from now on.’ I’ve no idea why he gave Battersby that shrivelling look, but it must have annoyed the mutt because as we left, he not only cocked his leg up the front door, he also left his calling card halfway down the steps. (I must give him a pep talk. This can’t go on.)
‘We’d better leg it outta here!’ After that ordeal, Dickie was close to tears, ‘I’m all for getting in the car and taking off.’
‘What!’ No way, I thought. ‘We’ve come here for a good time, and I am not leaving yet!’
Now that we were far enough away from the police station I was fighting fit and ready for anything. I told Dickie, ‘What’s the world coming to when a couple of hard-working guys can’t have a quiet weekend away without being arrested for disturbing the Queen’s peace.’
As usual, Dickie showed his ignorance, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I am just saying that’s why we got arrested…for disturbing the Queen’s peace…’
‘Well it weren’t me! I never even touched her piece. I’ve got more respect than that. And what would my gran have said?’
All I could do was stare at him, ‘What are you talking about?’ Sometimes he’s on another planet altogether.
Now he was totally confused, ‘I’m talking about…what you just said…’
‘Forget it. All I’m saying is, I am not being railroaded out of town for no one! We came here to have a good time, and that’s what we’re gonna have!’
‘Are we?’
‘Of course!’ After all, I’m in charge.
‘So we’re really staying then?’
‘Absolutely!’
‘So…where are we gonna sleep?’ Dickie had a point. The hotel manager had made it clear we weren’t welcome back.
‘Wherever we lay our head, that’s where!’
‘What…like Clint Eastwood in that film?’
‘What film?’
‘Can’t remember now, but we need to find somewhere warm. If we sleep outside, we’ll freeze!’
‘Not while we’ve got Battersby we won’t.’
‘I’d rather freeze than fall asleep with a hairy dog lolloping all over me! Anyway, I’m hungry, and so is he. We didn’t get our dinner.’
‘What d’you fancy?’
He twitched his nose in the air, ‘I can smell fish and chips.’
‘Me too!’ My stomach was playing a tune, ‘Fish and chips it is then.’
I’d already noticed there seemed to be a fish and chip shop on every street corner, so it didn’t take us long to find one. It was a small place that was warm and cosy; the proprietor was built like an outhouse while his daughter was small, pretty and very friendly. ‘I like her.’ Dickie was drooling more than the mutt.
‘Keep your hands to yourself!’ I whispered a warning, ‘You can see the size of her dad, and we don’t want to end up at the police station again, do we, eh?’
‘No.’
‘Good!’
So we tucked in, thawed out, and cheered up when the proprietor told us, ‘The weather’s taking a turn for the better tomorrow. I reckon we’re in for a sunny spell.’
He heard our sorry story and offered us a room in the attic for a fiver a night, breakfast thrown in. ‘You’re on!’ I couldn’t believe it! Our luck seemed to be changing for the better.
Things were looking up at last. Everything was falling into place. We hadn’t spent a penny; we were all intact (in every way, which was surprising!). We had not been formerly charged by the police, we had found ourselves a place to stay, and thanks to the generosity of the big man, we weren’t about to sta
rve.
Ironic though, how we ended up in a chippie…again! How could we go wrong?
BLACKPOOL
SEPTEMBER, SUNDAY NIGHT
After a meal of the best fish and chips I’ve ever tasted, we were shown to our room, ‘It’s all I’ve got, but it’s yours if you want it.’ With the big man straddling the door, the light was shut out and for the first time in my life, I felt claustrophobic, ‘There’s no window.’ I noticed that straightaway, ‘Why is there no window?’
‘It’s a storage room.’ When he eyed me up and down, I was reminded of Anthony Hopkins in that film The Silence of the Lambs. He cooked his victims and, after eating them, finished off with a glass of wine. (I was sure the big man fancied me as a lamb chop.)
I could see Dickie Manse was thinking the same, because he was swallowing convulsively. ‘I would like a window,’ he gulped, ‘I might need to look out.’
What? I might need to escape! Never mind look out!
‘Do you want it or not?’ Cripes! The big fella was licking his lips now!
‘Er…can you just give us a minute…please?’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I’d like to have a little chat with my mate here…if that’s all right?’
‘I haven’t got time for this!’ he bellowed. (I didn’t know he was a bellower, it was really unnerving.) ‘Either you want the room or you don’t…’ he growled, ‘…one way or the other, it makes no difference to me.’
‘A minute…please?’
‘All right then! One minute, and that’s it.’
I waited for him to go, but he stood firm. ‘Right,’ I edged away, taking Dickie Manse with me.
In a lowered tone I asked him what he thought we should do.
‘Get the hell outta here…fast as we can!’ In the flickering half-light, his eyes were like cracked plates.
‘We’ve nowhere else to stay though.’
‘I want to go home.’
‘I’ve already told you…I am not going home!’
Divorced and Deadly Page 12
