Goodmans Hotel

by Alan Keslian

  On Sunday morning, undeterred by more snow, Vincent was keen to head inland to a little town called Pitlochry, and if the road was clear enough to continue up to the mountain pass of Killiecrankie. Part of his reason for wanting to go there was to investigate the area as a potential stopping point for coach excursions from Dunblane, and we were all in favour of an outing of some kind. Snow lay on the roadside verges and surrounding fields, thickening as we drove on towards the mountains, Darren and I following Vincent’s hired car in the van. The sky was clear and the forecast promised a sunny day, but at the Killiecrankie Visitor Centre a keen wind made us shiver as we left the safety and warmth of the vehicles.

  From the car park a footpath, lightly covered with snow, led uphill through some woods. Lizetta and Darren wanted to walk, but on the assumption we would not venture far on foot in such cold weather I had brought only my town shoes and would have to stay behind. In his usual helpful way Vincent offered to keep me company and suggested that he and I take the van to a pub we had passed on the edge of the town, leaving them the car to drive down later. ‘A lot of these country places won’t serve food after two, so we’ll be able to make sure of having a few sandwiches for you when you turn up,’ he suggested.

  Feeling had already gone from my feet by the time we reached the van, and I jiggled them up and down on the floor to restore the circulation before setting off. As Vincent had foreseen the pub did not serve food after two, but the landlady willingly wrapped plates of sandwiches in cling-film for us to eat when we were ready. We settled at a table near the radiator. ‘It is cold,’ he commented. ‘You’re not the outdoor type really, are you?’

  ‘Something of a city boy, that’s true. I’m not that bad, my shoes were the problem, not an aversion to exercise.’

  ‘Walking is a hobby of mine, but I have to confess to an ulterior motive. It gives me an excuse to get away from the family for a few days. For years I’ve met up with a group of old school friends, six or seven of us, to go walking in the countryside. Several of us invent additional outings from time to time and provide each other with alibis so we can get away from home for other purposes. That’s how this weekend was possible. Not that I’m proud of the deception. Things at home have not been easy since my boy with Downs Syndrome was born. My wife has to do most of what’s necessary for him. Her outlook on life has changed; she lost interest in the physical side of our relationship after he was born.’

  ‘Must be very difficult.’

  ‘Zetta’s been marvellous. She never complains about the problem of finding time to be together. I’m sorry about the misunderstanding over the bedroom when you arrived. She left it to me to sort out the upstairs for you. Were you offended?’

  ‘You weren’t to know. You did the sensible thing really. If we were in the habit of sleeping together it would have been pointless to have made up both beds.’

  ‘Thanks. Seeing you and him together I can’t help being envious. My lad can be quite sweet in his own way, but the scientific names of plants will never come tripping off his tongue like they do off Darren’s. You must be very proud of him. He worships you, doesn’t he?’

  ‘He means a lot to me. At least you have children of your own. Thanks for letting him have a go with your camera yesterday. I hope he didn’t use up all the film.’

  ‘He’s welcome to use as much film as he wants. He knew all about shutter speeds and lens apertures already; he’s a bright lad. All of that roll of film has to be used this weekend, or it will have to go into the developer’s partly blank. My wife would start asking awkward questions if she saw any of the shots taken up here. I’m supposed to be in the Lake District.’

  Ten minutes later a call on Vincent’s mobile ’phone interrupted our conversation. Despite his well prepared alibi, he was not to have an uninterrupted break from family responsibilities. His wife was calling to ask him to go back early because one of his daughters was feverish and had to be taken to hospital. He could not expect her to look after a sick daughter and their son on her own. He had to go back. His usual optimistic outlook on life momentarily faltered. He had wanted so much for Lizetta and himself to enjoy a weekend away like any ordinary couple, and felt guilty about letting her down. ‘How much more of this can Zetta be expected to stand? You won’t let this spoil things for you and Darren as well, will you?’

  ‘No, don’t say that. It’s been a good break for us. It has for you, you’ve only lost part of today, you’ve been with Lizetta for the best part of four days. You’re disappointed, naturally.’ We discussed whether she would want to return to London with him, but thought if she was willing it would be best for the three of us to stay on at the cottage for another night. When she and Darren joined us in the pub half an hour later, looking extremely cold, he did not mention the problem until after we had eaten. She was calm, betrayed no sign of jealousy, and said sincerely that she was sorry his little girl was ill and hoped she would be better soon.

  As we drove back the traffic increased, the clear weather bringing people out for the afternoon. He rang the airport from the house to rearrange his flight, packed hurriedly, and left us after holding Lizetta in his arms for several minutes. She hid her disappointment, smiling and laughing as we whiled away the rest of the afternoon talking and playing Scrabble. Between games she asked Darren about how he was doing at West London Tertiary College, and if he had joined the Gay Soc.

  ‘The Gay Soc. is useless. The two people who run it hold a meeting once a month that nobody else goes to. Anyway, I have a boyfriend. Cheung.’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember. Are you in love?’ He blushed and hid his face behind his hands, laughing and embarrassed at the same time.

  ‘They’ve lasted about six months now, so there must be something to it. They see each other – what – a couple of times a week?’

  She could not prise anything more out of him about Cheung, and the conversation drifted onto office politics at Lindler & Haliburton. She was becoming more and more unhappy there, and told me I had been lucky to get out when I did. A kind of civil war had broken out, with Peter and his supporters battling to break the old codgers’ grip on the firm. Staying aloof from the dispute was almost impossible. Antagonism was so deep that simply using the lift had become hazardous: at every stop there was a risk of someone from the opposing side getting in, and people who had known each other for years stood inches away from one another in hostile silence. Sick absences and resignations had more than doubled, putting yet more pressure on those still at work.

  She was thinking of moving on, and had been discussing with Vincent the possibility of working for him. His company was not big enough to need a full-time personnel manager and she would have to take on other consultancy or administrative work as well. ‘At least I’d see a bit more of him. Do you think I’d make a consultant? You got on all right, didn’t you?’

  ‘Except for that incident with the homophobic Scot. No reason why you shouldn’t. I’ve found it a very worthwhile experience. I’m only there one day a week on the Dunblane project, which is probably bigger than most. I think a lot of the assignments are much smaller scale, a few weeks on projects in modest hotels. Full-time, the pace may be wearing, but a mix of consultancy and personnel work might be a good combination for you.’

  For dinner we finished up the odds and ends of food that had accumulated in the fridge, and after watching TV for an hour and a half went upstairs, each of us to our own rooms, all of us probably wishing we did not have to sleep alone.

  Cheerful as ever the next morning Lizetta sat between us in the front of the van on the drive to Edinburgh Airport. She hugged and kissed us both at the boarding gate when we said goodbye, and Darren and I returned to the van to begin our long drive down to London. ‘She really loves him, doesn’t she?’ he said, as we picked up speed to take our place amid the stream of vehicles on the motorway.

  ‘Hard to say. What is all this about being in love?’

  ‘Was the firm like that when you were there?’


  ‘Not as bad. There were clashes – it was a competitive place – people don’t leave their bad habits and problems behind them at the reception desk when they come into work. In any organisation where hundreds of people are thrown together day after day you get little cliques forming, trying to outmanoeuvre each other. Some people seem to thrive on it. Perhaps I did. I’ve changed.’

  Traffic reports on the radio told us that roads south of Edinburgh were clear of snow, and we escaped the motorway for a while by driving down on the A7 to Carlisle. On a quiet stretch I let Darren, who had yet to pass his driving test, take the wheel for about twenty minutes, but traffic built up and when light drizzle near Langholm made visibility difficult, I thought it best to take over from him again.

  In the Midlands we were caught for miles in a long crawling tailback caused by a serious accident. We knew we were close to it when we saw cars in front being directed onto the hard shoulder to pass the blocked carriageways. We turned our heads, as everyone does, to see what we could of the crash. There were three mangled cars, one of them lying on its roof, and a van very similar to our own lying on its side near the central barrier. Fragments of glass, plastic and unrecognisable bits of vehicle littered the tarmac. Paramedics were putting a stretcher covered in a dark red blanket into the rear of an ambulance.

  A few seconds later the carnage was behind us and the road ahead fairly clear. Darren twiddled the controls of the radio, switching from station to station until he found a news report, the announcer saying in a voice of practised concern that a man and a woman were thought to have been killed and a number of people seriously injured. We sped on south, keeping our place in the long lines of traffic stretching ahead and behind, glad to be with the fortunate majority whose journey had not been violently cut short. Darren put in the earpieces from his portable stereo and became absorbed in his music, leaving me to concentrate on the drive.

  My absence from Goodmans Hotel for four days proved that it could operate perfectly well without me. The deputy manager of Housmans Hotel, except for a few hours off during the quiet periods of early afternoon and late evening, had lived in on duty the whole time. He brought me up to date with which rooms were occupied, and showed me a substantial amount of cash that had accumulated in the desk drawer. After we counted this together he said he had one last thing to report, that someone had called to see me, had not wanted to leave his name but said he would call back. He ended his long stint of being on duty with the words: ‘Not complaining, but it will be a relief to be able to go out with a few friends for a quiet drink tonight.’

  On Tuesday morning, as I put out the rubbish for collection, a sweet scent from one of the winter flowering shrubs planted by Darren perfumed the air around the gate. Looking back at the hotel, the paintwork on the facade still fresh, the business again seemed to me to be all that I could have wished it to be.

  This feeling of self-satisfaction lasted until Tom’s brother came up to me outside the newsagent’s a few hours later. He had had his hair cut shorter than ever and I was not sure who he was until he started to speak. ‘Oh good,’ he shouted, ‘lucky I saw you, I called in at the hotel the other day but you was out.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes. What’s happened to Tom? What’s he doing down in Portsmouth?’

  ‘Working, so far as I know.’

  ‘There’s plenty of work for him round here. What’s he doing down there?’

  ‘Don’t know. We’re not seeing each other.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean, not seeing each other?’

  ‘If your brother hasn’t told you, why do you expect me to?’

  He frowned and looked down. ‘You’ve always been a stuck-up bastard. I never had nothing against you, you know.’ He waited for me to speak, but wanting the encounter to end I remained silent.

  ‘What’s happened? Don’t you two like taking each other’s pants down no more?’ With that aggravating remark he turned and swaggered off down the street.

  I paid the paper bill, but the amount of cash still in the desk drawer made a trip to the bank essential. All of the garden centre’s vans were in use that afternoon, and despite a light drizzle I set off hurriedly on foot, with just enough time to get there before the doors closed. The money was clutched under my arm in an old portfolio too tattered and scruffy to look as though it contained anything worth stealing. The quickest route, about twelve minutes’ walk, was to turn left out of the hotel, across the road and through a mews, then along a tree lined avenue leading to the High Street.

  I was striding along beneath the trees when one of the two thugs who had been harassing the garden centre manager crossed over from the other side, moving rapidly towards me. His appearance in the road ahead might conceivably have been a coincidence, and I turned to cross to the other side in the hope he had not recognised me, but the second man was coming up from the opposite direction. Unless someone came out of one of the houses or the parked cars my situation was hopeless. Having reached the opposite pavement I walked close to the house railings and looked at the ground. They ran towards me, and the taller of them pushed me against the railings and grabbed the portfolio whilst the other kept look-out.

  ‘I’ll take that, you fucking queer.’

  Clutching the bag to my side with my left arm I gripped it tightly with both hands. Twisting round with all my strength I succeeded in wrenching myself and the portfolio free, but the second man saw me break loose and ran over, grasped the collar of my coat and punched me in the face. My legs gave way and they dragged me back to the railings, but my grip on the money did not loosen. The first man put his hands around my neck and tightened his fingers until I could hardly breathe.

  ‘I’ve got the bag, there’s money in it, let’s fuck off out of it.’

  ‘He might have something else on him.’

  ‘He won’t have piss all. Smack him and dump him.’ A final blow to my face sent me reeling through a gate and down the steps to a sunken area in front of the house. An excruciating pain shot through my right leg when I tried to get up; my jaw hurt, and when I tried to call for help all that emerged was an incoherent bellow. Light rain continued to fall, wetting me and the unswept concrete on which I lay. After some minutes a red umbrella appeared high above me, and a woman’s face peered down over the railings. ‘Are you all right?’

  Raising myself on one arm, I uttered a desperate groan. ‘Shall I come down?’ She made her way to the steps and was soon kneeling beside me, protecting me from the drizzle with her red umbrella. Dirt on the concrete where I lay was turning to a thin layer of mud. ‘Should I call an ambulance? Or I’ve got my car here, I could drive you to the hospital. What’s the best thing to do? I’ll take you, if you’re up to it.’

  ‘My leg hurts.’

  ‘Can you move your toes?’ She touched my ankle as I wiggled them inside my shoe. ‘Your leg’s not broken, you’ve probably sprained a muscle.’ Taking my arm at first gently, then pulling more firmly she helped me to my feet. She was quite strong, but my lack of co-ordination made it difficult for me to keep upright. ‘You can walk on that leg but keep your weight off it,’ she said, evidently not aware that walking involves shifting your weight from one leg to the other. I wiped my face with my free hand and saw fresh blood on my fingers. ‘Don’t do that,’ she ordered. ‘You’ll make yourself filthy.’

  Somehow she hauled me up the twelve steps, pausing for a second or two on each of them. ‘That’s it. Keep your weight off that leg.’ We were both exhausted when we reached the top, where she propped me up against the railings. ‘Wait here, I’ll fetch the car over.’

  She tried to hand me the umbrella, but somehow it slipped out of my fingers and she took it with her; the cold rain helped to clear my head and I breathed deeply several times. Parked vehicles prevented her from driving right up to the kerb, but she steered me between them to reach the passenger door. She had spread a sheet of polythene over the seat to protect the upholstery. ‘I’m a carer,’
she said as she released the handbrake. ‘Must have been a terrible fall you had, or were you mugged? Use some of those tissues to dab your face.’

  ’Mugged. Yes. Thank you. Thank you very much for helping me. Need to get the police.’ Blood and dirt from my face soaked into two of her fancy lilac tissues.

  ‘Getting you fixed up is the most important thing. Best to get the hospital to ring the police. Afraid I didn’t see anything. Happened to hear you groaning as I walked by. I’ll leave you my telephone number all the same. Did they take much?’

  ‘Some cash. Quite a bit of cash.’

  At the hospital a doctor, having satisfied himself that my pulse was strong and that nothing was burst or broken, a nurse cleaned and dressed my wounds, lent me a crutch and sent me to sit down to wait for the police. Keeping my pact with the garden centre manager, when they arrived I said nothing about Jamie and his gambling debts, and told them only that I had seen the two men hanging around in the neighbourhood and that they might have noticed me coming and going from the hotel. The two officers were obviously pressed for time, and after contacting Darren to arrange for him to collect me they left, promising someone would be in touch.