Goodmans Hotel by Alan Keslian - HTML preview

People hardly ever come to the hotel without having made a booking, but expensive bags and new leather jackets gave the impression that the two men had money. My little dial-up unit for checking credit cards had cleared the one they proffered as valid. Nothing about them made me suspicious. The police would no doubt check and discover that the credit card had been stolen, and that the names and addresses they gave were false. A few hundred pounds’ worth of damage was unlikely to merit much of an investigation. Like the men who had abused Darren, they would go unpunished, free to gloat over their actions.

Two officers arrived an hour and a half later, a man and a woman. They spent about twenty minutes in the hotel examining the wreckage and making a few notes. Having a police car outside and officers in the hotel was not likely to encourage business, and at first they put me on edge by looking at the rack of leaflets and cards for gay clubs and organisations in the hall. The female officer asked with what looked to be a forced smile how many people had been staying last night, and if the hotel guests were exclusively male. At first I feared prejudice and was expecting hostile questions about the nature of the business, but she reassured me by saying that the hotel was in the right area, in easy reach of quite a few gay pubs and clubs.

The male officer used his radio to check the credit card number and the address the two vandals had given, and minutes later received confirmation that they were fraudulent. They asked me not to clean any glass surfaces, cups or similar objects until the fingerprint specialist had come, and said they would send me a letter with an incident number for my insurers as proof that the crime had been reported.

After the police left, the prospect of going back up to the vandalised room for a fourth time that day was too unpleasant. The best thing would have been for me to have gone out for an hour to walk in the park or do some shopping, but as the fingerprint expert was on his way I had to wait in. As the cleaner was off duty his chores fell to me, but unable to face doing the rooms I moped around in the kitchen.

The fingerprint specialist arrived shortly before mid-day with his little case of equipment, but he found no prints that could definitely be identified as belonging to the wreckers. Presumably thinking already of another more important case, as he was leaving he asked if any cars had been stolen in the area recently, giving me the impression there was little chance of my pair of vandals ever being caught.

Tom came over at lunchtime as soon as he picked up my message, and ran ahead of me up the stairs to see the damage. The earlier overpowering stench had gone, but even with the windows open the room smelt of urine. He carefully inspected the wreckage, asking rhetorically several times, ‘How on earth could anyone do something like this?’ He hugged me protectively and said, ‘You must feel as if you’ve been punched in the face. If I get hold of them I’ll tie them to the back of the van and drag them round the streets.’

Although the room looked a complete wreck, he thought most things could probably be repaired or replaced reasonably quickly, and pointed out that the effects could have been worse if they had ripped out bathroom fittings and caused a flood, or smashed the windows or knocked holes in the partition walls. He suggested fixing the things that could be done quickly first, and then when he had worked for about an hour would break for a cup of tea and assess what remained to be done.

Leaving him to repair the damage, I found the energy to make a start on the hotel rooms, having to skimp because there was so little of the day left. After an energetic hour I went down to the kitchen, switched on the kettle and put some raspberries with vanilla ice-cream into three little glass dishes.

When Darren came back from work he joined Tom and me for this little treat, after which we all went up to the vandalised room. It already looked much better than before. Tom had removed the pieces of broken mirror and righted the dressing table so that its angles were square again. He had put the beds back in place and rehung the door. The remaining obvious signs of damage were the graffiti, still obscenely prominent, and a light fitting which was too twisted out of shape to repair. He had removed the broken television to a cupboard on the landing.

‘I’ll paint over that obscenity on the wall, but I’m not sure what to do about the carpet.’ ‘I suppose I’ll have throw it out.’
Darren offered to try to clean it. ‘It’s only a bit of weewee. If we get it down into the

garden, I’ll give it a good hosing down and use carpet shampoo on it. You shouldn’t have to throw it away.’

‘You’re an expert on cleaning carpets now are you?’ I asked. ‘How long do you think it’s going to take to dry?’
‘It’s worth trying.’
He and Tom rolled it up while I went for two black plastic sacks to put over the ends so they would be able to carry it without getting urine on their clothes. On my way back to the room I noticed the window on the stairs was open. ‘I hope you’re not intending to put it out through there.’
‘No, of course we’re not. We wanted some fresh air.’
They slid the bags into place and began to manoeuvre the carpet down the first flight of steps, Tom going first, having to walk down backwards. Darren followed him looking as though he might collapse under the weight. Seeing him struggle I tried to help by supporting the middle. When Tom reached the open window he said: ‘Right, one, two, three, now!’
He heaved his end up and out, while Darren ran towards me shouting, ‘Look out Mark.’ Tom energetically shoved the carpet through the window until the force of gravity took over and it plummeted out of sight, hitting the ground with a loud thud. I looked down at the two of them in exasperation as they leaned out to see how it had landed.
‘Yeah, wow!’
Tom turned to look at me. ‘Wonder how that happened,’ he said in mock innocence.
‘What if it hit something, or someone, on the way down?’
‘I made sure the area was clear before we let it go. If we pushed hard enough it was bound to fall clear of the house. It’s flattened a bit of grass on the lawn, that’s all.’
Darren ran off down the stairs, and we watched him unroll the carpet onto the concrete outside the kitchen. He uncoiled the garden hose and began drenching it thoroughly. In the room Tom showed me where he had glued together the split wood of the door frame, explaining that he had used longer screws than before to make sure the hinges would hold. Then he tested the door to show that it would open and close properly. ‘You try it,’ he suggested.
I stepped forward, turned the handle, opened the door wide, then gently shut it again, letting my hand rest on the handle. ‘Seems to be okay.’ He was standing directly behind me, very close, smelling faintly of aftershave or cologne. He reached forward and put his hand over mine, pressing downwards until the latch clicked; in concert we opened and closed the door again. Our shoulders touched, and the side of his chin brushed against my cheek as he leaned against me. I turned round in his arms to see that his face, like mine, was full of smiles. There was something we could do together to purge the room of the desecration it had suffered. We locked the door in case Darren came upstairs looking for us.

CHAPTER 11

Darren and I were to meet Lizetta at a Belgian-style mussels and chips restaurant near Blackfriars Bridge. To make a good impression on her he wore the new suit Andrew had bought him and a shirt and tie. He did not have to dress up for lunch with Lizetta, but this was his first opportunity to show off his new clothes.

He looked different; his long bones did not seem nearly as knobbly as they did in his usual jeans and T-shirt. Nobody seeing him now would assume he was doomed to a lifetime of clearing tables in a fast food outlet; the impression he gave was of being a young man with prospects.

He was nervous, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, evidence that he was taking this opportunity seriously. I glanced at him now and again as we waited for the bus to Blackfriars, trying to accustom myself to his changed appearance. ‘Do I look all right?’ he asked.

‘Yes. You look good in that packaging.’
‘Is my hair all right?’
‘You’re fine. We’re going for a friendly chat over lunch. It won’t be like an interview. You

can relax – well don’t be too relaxed – you know what I mean.’
‘What is she going to ask me?’
‘The things that we’ve talked about. She’ll need to know what subjects you were doing at

school, what’s happened since, what you’re interested in. Talk to her naturally, as though you were speaking to Andrew or me, you’ll be fine.’

During the past few weeks Andrew had been pressing him ever more strongly to return to his studies. He had been over to Biddulph Mansions half a dozen times to talk about catching up on the exams he had missed and what kind of career in horticulture he should aim for. The possibility of giving up the burger bar to work part-time at the hotel had yet to be mentioned to him, but as Andrew anticipated my reluctance had dwindled away and I began to think it might work out quite well, making me less dependant on casual staff and freeing me from some of the routine work. Andrew gently nudged us into a closer friendship, asking for my opinion about how his future might develop, and deflecting some of the questions Darren asked him, for instance about how long a college course was likely to last, onto me. The boy became more anxious to please me than ever. When he was not on morning shift at the burger bar he would help clear up in the breakfast room and kitchen, and he had begun learning how to key in data for the hotel’s accounts. There was no doubt that, working for me part-time, he would be a great help.

We travelled into central London on the upper floor of a bus, something I had not done for years and years, although it would have been quicker to ask Andrew to have one of his staff drive us up. The presence of other passengers made it difficult to talk, and a drab day made London’s streets look their least attractive, but in those early months of being indoors in the hotel for so much of my time any opportunity to get out and do something different was enjoyable.

Lizetta was sitting at the restaurant bar sipping a Campari. She smiled warmly when I introduced her to Darren, and when we took our places for the meal I sat beside her so that they were facing each other. ‘Have you been to this type of restaurant before?’ she asked.

‘No. First time.’ His voice wavered slightly and for a few moments I was worried that he would panic and, struggling to find something to say, would launch into one of his revolting tales from work about hypodermic needles being found in a staff locker or maggots wriggling around in the rubbish bins. His brow furrowed as he looked at the menu. I asked, ‘See anything that appeals to you?’

‘I don’t really know what to choose.’

Lizetta said, ‘Have the Moules Marinière with chips. I love them. You’ll be able to say you’ve eaten the classic Belgian mussels dish once, even if you never come here again.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I’ll have. Will it be all right if I have mineral water to drink?’ He looked up; his face, far from showing panic, was full of youthful innocence, as though to drink anything other than mother’s milk was an adventure for him. I gave him a reassuring smile and hoped Lizetta would not think he was putting on an act.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I think we deserve a glass of wine each. We’ll have a bottle of water too. I’m sorry, Mark, I ought to let you decide.’
As she was doing me a favour by seeing him, the meal was to be my treat. A waitress keyed our order into a little hand-held unit and pointed it towards an infra-red receiver in the ceiling, sending the details electronically to the kitchen. While we waited for our food Lizetta explained a little about her job as personnel manager, saying that she quite often arranged courses for new recruits in the firm.
She mentioned West London Tertiary College, where she knew some of the staff, and thought some of the courses might suit him. As though everything was settled he said, ‘Yeah, is it fairly easy to get to? Would I be able to cycle there?’
‘Possibly, but first of all we need to look at the prospectus to see if it’s right for you. They have a selection procedure you would have to go through. We may need to consider other colleges as well. WLTC do run a course approved by the Royal Horticultural Society, that was partly why I mentioned them. You would have to finish your school exams and get good grades to get a place on it though. You’re interested in gardening, Mark tells me?’
‘Yes. At the hotel I planted out the gardens and some containers for the porch. Andrew, who runs the local garden centre, has taught me loads. He lends me his books, he’s got hundreds of them.’
‘Have you had practical experience apart from the gardens and containers at the hotel?’
He said he had learned at home from his father, where they had grown vegetables as well as ornamental plants. Our waitress interrupted with three large bowls of mussels in their shells and golden chips on side plates, leaving hardly any space for glasses of water or wine on our compact table. As we began to eat, to impress us he told us the two palm trees in tubs on either side of the restaurant entrance had the botanical name Trachycarpus fortunei, that they were hardy outdoors in sheltered places in England, and that the palm tree whose name he liked even more was Phoenix dactylifera, the date palm, but it could not withstand frost and needed to be grown in a greenhouse. He spoke of work being done at the Buckinghamshire nursery on crossbreeding plants to produce new hybrids with a bigger range of flower colours and to improve disease resistance.
When he and Andrew lapsed into discussions about plants my mind tended to switch to other things, but listening to him in the restaurant articulating multi-syllabic botanical terms he seemed to be really knowledgeable. Lizetta asked him about house plants, which ones would be best in bright positions and which in shade. He thought for a few moments before answering, recommended half a dozen for each situation, and offered to photocopy a list from one of Andrew’s books for her. ‘Thank you, that would be really useful. Would you like to go into the same line of work as Andrew?’
‘Andrew might give me a start, but there are botanical gardens with full-time employees doing scientific work. They may not pay all that well, but if something interests you, that’s more important, isn’t it?’
All the while the ill-constructed pile of empty mussel shells on his plate was growing and beginning to look as though it might collapse over the table. Lizetta, who had been neatly sliding one empty shell into another as she ate, rescued him by scooping the top of his stack onto her own plate. He looked towards me for reassurance, and as he was a slow eater and might start to worry about falling behind I said, ‘You seem to be getting on well with those, Darren. Take your time, we’re not in any hurry.’
For dessert we ordered ice cream, and he informed us that vanilla flavouring comes from the dried seed pods of the orchid Vanilla planifolia, a native of Mexico.
Lizetta said, ‘Many people find it hard to get a start in their chosen career. You think Andrew might take you on at the garden centre when you finish your course? That might be a good way to start.’
‘He would employ me now if I really wanted, but if you want to be a botanist you need qualifications. Working in the garden centre would be all right, but I’d like to do something more scientific if it’s possible. Andrew told me not to expect too much in case things didn’t work out, but that I had to try.’
‘That’s good advice.’
She promised to send him a prospectus from WLTC, and for the last quarter of an hour we let him relax while she brought me up to date with news of Peter’s impending return from the US. She feared he had not forgiven the old codgers for excluding him from their inner circle, and was worried he would return intent on making trouble. Again she spoke of being unhappy with Lindler & Haliburton, saying that the ever increasing demand for cost-cutting left people feeling that their best was never good enough.
My image of the firm had changed completely over the last few years. More than six months had passed since my escape. My eight years work there had provided money and management skills which were essential to me in setting up the hotel, but there was nothing from that world that I missed, and that so much of my life had passed in that environment now seemed strange.
We left the restaurant and walked across Blackfriars Bridge to the underground station, where Lizetta caught a train back to the building that was once so familiar to me. Darren and I caught the bus home. He asked me if I thought he had made a good impression. ‘You presented yourself very well. I’ve been under-estimating you. What made you ask about cycling to college?’
‘I won’t have much money if I’m only working part time. I could pick up a second-hand bike and save on bus or train fares.’
‘That’s good thinking.’ The price of the meal the three of us had eaten would probably be enough to pay for a second-hand bike. If he started at WLTC, I could give him a bike as a present. Tom would be able to find out what sort to get him, and for once I would have arranged something for him without having to be prompted by Andrew. ‘Did you have a bike when you were at home?’
‘Yeah. It was my brother’s really; he let me have it for ages, but he sold it eventually because he needed the money.’
‘I didn’t even know you had a brother. You ought to go back home, one day; let everyone see that you’re all right.’
‘I have written to them. Maybe I’ll go if I pass my exams, if I’m doing well, I’ll go to see them for tea or something, just to show them. You know why I had to leave, don’t you?’
‘Not really. Tom said something about a school friend making trouble for you.’
He confirmed, giving a lot more detail, what Tom had told me. The other boy had been his best friend, who he often sat next to in school, their shoulders or legs lightly touching. Some of his friends had talked about secretively ‘doing things’ together, and when Darren was invited to his best friend’s house to watch a film on television and stay overnight, he was expecting them to experiment. However when he put his arms around his friend in the bedroom the boy pulled away and caused an uproar.
The lad’s father had rung Darren’s home and he was taken back in shame. His parents made his life unbearable. They would not let him go out on his own except to school and made him go to their Evangelical meetings, which he hated. The minister there told him to pray for forgiveness, and when he refused his father asked the family doctor to make an appointment for him with a psychiatrist. His friend told other lads at school what had happened, and on his way home one evening a group of three bullies lay in wait, pinned him to the ground for half an hour, punched him in the face, blacked his eyes and cut his lip.
His parents did not even ask how his injuries had come about. A concerned teacher did, but Darren was too ashamed to tell the truth and said he had been walking along the top of a wall by the railway and fallen off. The bruises from the attack had not fully healed when a row with his father escalated into a fight. He was knocked to the floor and his father, having won this contest, gave him an ultimatum: see the psychiatrist or leave the house. A few days later he packed a bag, withdrew what little savings he had and left for London.
He stayed in a cheap bed and breakfast place for a few days, saw an advert for the room at Goodmans Villa in the estate agent’s window and took it because it was the cheapest he could find. A day or two later he passed the hamburger bar and saw their notice advertising for staff, went inside and started work straight away. Until he met Andrew, Tom and me, coincidence and misadventure had become the determining influences in his life.

Lizetta rang me the day after the meal to say she had spoken to one of the lecturers at West London Tertiary College and had arranged an interview for him. ‘He’s lovely, isn’t he?’ she said. ‘You’re so lucky. The gorgeous Tom and him, it isn’t fair.’

‘My relationship with Tom and my relationship with Darren are completely different.’ ‘I know that, silly. He adores you though, doesn’t he?’
‘Does he?’
‘Of course he does. He was glancing across at you hoping for signs of approval all the time.

He worships you.’
‘It’s cupboard love. How’s Vincent?’
‘He’s fine. We manage to see each other almost every week. Only for lunch sometimes, but

we see each other.’
‘He doesn’t deserve you.’
‘I wish you’d tell him that.’
When Vincent and I last spoke he mentioned the possibility of me advising him about

upgrading his company’s computer system. That had been weeks ago, but what with the hotel being busy and sorting out Darren’s future I had not been in touch with him since. With Darren helping at the hotel fitting in a few days at his offices might be practicable, and I suggested she bring Vincent to the hotel for a meal one day.

‘Thanks, that would be nice, but you know how difficult things are, when we have an opportunity to be together we need to take full advantage of it.’

‘You’ve never actually seen the hotel, have you? You could retire to one of the hotel rooms after we’ve eaten.’ The thought of making love to Vincent in one of Goodmans Hotel’s rooms appealed to her, and she agreed to speak to him.

They came a couple of weeks later, and as I was hoping he asked again about upgrading his office systems, and rang a few days later to fix a date for me to come to assess what would be entailed. Indirectly their visit to the hotel led to something else that was less welcome. Not only did Vincent book me to look at his company’s systems, but he also asked Tom if he would do some work on his family home in Amersham. He had a builder putting up an extension, and wanted Tom to keep an eye on the work at the same time as boarding the floor of the loft and repairing some dilapidated fences.

At first Tom balked at the long journey, but Vincent talked him round. ‘Come up and have a look. It’s all a question of money, isn’t it? All we need to do is agree a price that makes it worth your while to put up with the travelling.’

Their arrangement brought about the first significant disruption to my new pattern of life at Goodmans Hotel. One of the labourers working on Vincent’s extension told Tom about a major building project in Portsmouth town centre. As when he had gone to work in Manchester, electricians were wanted urgently and premium rates of pay were offered. The lure of extra money was difficult for him to resist, but for me his absence would be hard, not only because he would not be around when something needed fixing in the hotel, but because being with him meant so much to me.

Hoping that Andrew would sympathise and might be able to talk him out of going, I arranged to call at Biddulph Mansions on the pretext of discussing the arrangements we were making for Darren, who by this time was working for me at the hotel and shortly to begin his studies at WLTC.

The flat had been redecorated since my last visit, and in place of an illuminated glass showcase of orchids at one side of the chimney breast was a Victorian bureau with marquetry decorations and inlaid brass borders. ‘Something of an impulse buy,’ he said. ‘It fills the space nicely.’

‘What happened to the orchids?’
‘Oh, they’re up at the nursery. A display like that needs a certain amount of looking after, and I’m supposed to be easing up. The hospital have decided my priorities now are a low fat diet and light exercise.’
We talked about how Darren would cope with being in a classroom after such a long break, and how to organise his time so that he could tackle the curriculum. The plan was that he would relieve me by taking on hotel chores for twenty hours a week, as well as providing cover at reception during some quiet periods. In return he would be paid the going hourly rate for the twenty hours, and for the rest would have his room and food provided free. If this proved too demanding for him, Andrew would reimburse me the cost of bringing in staff from Housmans Hotel or other local part-timers to take over some of the work.
Before I was able to turn the conversation to Tom’s impending departure, Andrew surprised me with a completely unexpected announcement: ‘I had another reason for asking you to come over. This is bad timing, but putting it off won’t make things any easier. The doctor is insisting that I cut my activities drastically, reduce my workload to the bare essentials. The trouble is while I’m here with the garden centre on my doorstep, staff ring me up all the time. Whenever a gardening magazine or a seed catalogue comes through the letter box I can’t resist comparing products and prices. Passing an office block makes me wonder if there might be a chance of business for Ferns and Foliage. I need to get away, to take a long holiday, without a mobile ’phone bringing me queries about some special offer or other from one of the wholesalers. What I wanted to ask is this: would you be able to keep an eye on things for me, much as you did while I was in hospital that time?’
‘There wasn’t much for me to do except bring you a few papers, and presumably you won’t want that. Without meaning to be rude, I’m sure your businesses will run well enough if you go away on a week or a fortnight’s holiday.’
‘I’m thinking of taking quite a long break. I’ve relatives in New Zealand on my mother’s side. There was a cousin – elderly now of course – who I saw quite a lot of when I was a child. She has heart trouble, has been quite ill. It would be nice for me to see her again, while there is still time. You can get airline tickets that allow you to make intermediate stops, and I may as well use it as an opportunity to see a bit more of the world.’
‘So how long are we talking about, a month or more?’
‘Hard for me to say at the moment. I’ve never even met some of the younger family members, they were born out there. Depends how we all get on. You might need to give, say, one day a week on average to my affairs. You won’t have to do any of the day-to-day management, there are competent people doing all of that. What I need is someone to keep a check on everything, make sure the takings are going into the bank and the stock is not going missing, that sort of thing. We can come to a similar financial arrangement to the one we agreed for Darren. You can charge me for the cost of any staff you have to bring in because my interests are keeping you from the hotel, and I expect to pay you something for your services, of course.’
His intention to be away at the same time as Tom worried me much more than the financial arrangements. He was my main source of advice about all kinds of things connected with the hotel and my personal life. This was the first time, as far as I could remember, that he had ever mentioned any family, and definitely never relatives in New Zealand.
‘If it will do you good, of course you should go. Not a good time from my viewpoint, but nobody could argue that you don’t deserve a really good break. I’m honoured you’ve asked me to look after things while you’re away. Of course I will help out. Delighted to.’
‘Sleep on it. Let me know if you feel it’s too much to take on.’
‘How have you been lately? You’ve been looking okay.’
‘Not bad. My blood pressure’s still high, but nothing that can’t be managed if I’m sensible – by which they seem to mean eating dull food and accepting retirement. I can’t sit around doing nothing. Maybe this trip will be the answer, for a while.’ My guess was that he was holding something back, and if he was seriously ill to whine to him about Tom’s planned absence would be inconsiderate.
Tom was the first to leave. He said he would miss me, promised to keep in touch at least once a week, and we talked about him returning to London for a few days if the work lasted for more than a fortnight, and of me travelling down to Portsmouth if the hotel allowed. Leaving Darren in charge, I went to Waterloo Station to see him onto his train, and waved to him through the window while walking along the platform to keep him in sight for as long as possible as the train pulled out.

On the evening before Andrew was due to set off on his trip he took me to a fashionable new restaurant in a converted building which had previously been a fire station. In the enormous room where the fire engines had once been garaged, dozens of miniature spotlights now shone from chrome fittings suspended below the dark ceiling, the white table cloths and cutlery gleaming brilliantly under their light. Waiters in maroon waistcoats and white aprons scurried back and forth between the tables and the long marble topped bar, behind which could be glimpsed the bright fluorescent lights of the kitchen.

We were shown to a table beside a wall of half-mirrored glass installed where the old fire station doors must have been. All of this fashionable restaurant’s waiters were good-looking young men, two of whom took turns at attending to us, pulling our chairs out, unfolding and handing us our napkins, and opening out the menu folders before us with an open palmed gesture of encouragement as though, otherwise, we might have sat staring blankly into space.