gunge runs down the front of his pyjamas. With typical Lea restraint I pretend that I have not noticed this distasteful incident.
‘I was thinking,’ says Sid, scraping the remains of the grape off his chest with a dirty teaspoon, ‘that you might be able to do yourself a bit of good by coming in with me.’
He leans back against the bed like a satisfied dog owner who has just given his pet a new brand of worm powder.
‘I remember you saying something like that to me before,’ I say. ‘On a couple of occasions. First time I ended up losing the bird I was thinking of getting spliced to and the second–well, I’m not exactly loaded down with gelt, am I?’
‘Money isn’t everything, Timmo,’ says my crafty old brother-in-law. ‘You got some wonderful experience on both occasions–wonderful experiences too. You mustn’t try and rush at things. You can’t get rich overnight, you know.’
‘You haven’t done too bad, Sid.’
‘I’ve had the rub of the green, mate. I’d be the first to admit it. But hard graft has played its part.’
‘Well graft, anyway.’
‘I’ll pretend I don’t understand you. Look, Timmo, I respect you; you’ve got talent, I need you. Let me put it like that. I’ve got a feeling the Cromby–’
‘The what?!’
‘The Cromby–that’s the name of the hotel–could be a real bonanza.’
‘Not with a name like that, it can’t.’
‘I agree. How about the Hoverton Country Club?’
‘I thought it was on the sea front?’
‘Yeah, well it is, but the public gardens are just round the corner.’
‘Come off it, Sid. That isn’t going to fool anybody twice.’
‘How about the Ritz-Carlton?’
‘No, Sid.’
‘The Hoverton Hilton?’
‘Sid!’
‘The Noggett?’
‘Do me a favour. I prefer the Cromby to that.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s not really important. We can worry about the name later. What I want to find out is whether you’re interested or not.’
‘I thought I had a wonderful future mapped out for me with Funfrall?’
‘You did as long as I was there. I’d have seen you alright, Timmo. Like I always try to do. But I have to take the broader view. I weighed everything up and I reckoned that this was the right time to make a move. With a hotel we can concentrate on the right section of the holiday trade–the bleeders with money. You could get old before your time running round those chalets all day.’
‘You’re right there, Sid.’
‘Of course I’m right. Look, I tell you what, Timmo. If you help me make a go of this place, I’ll put you in as manager when we buy another one. How about that? That’s handsome, isn’t it?’
‘Very handsome, Sid. Alright, I’m on.’
‘Good thinking, Timmo, you won’t regret it.’
‘I’ll remember you saying that, Sid.’
‘You do that, you do that. Well, I suppose I’d better try and get a little rest now. Tell Mum I fancy a spot of that chicken broth, will you?’
‘She’s standing on her head in the front room.’
‘Oh, well, Rosie then.’
‘Was it serious, Sid?’
‘What? Oh, my injury you mean? No, Timmo, none of my moving parts. Nothing that Rosie has missed yet. I reckon a spot of sea air is just what I need to convalesce.’ The way he winks at me makes me think that Sid is becoming more like his old self again.
I pad downstairs to find Dad standing in the hall. As he sees me, his face splits into a broad scowl.
‘You back then, are you?’ he grunts.
‘Right in one, Dad. Nothing wrong with your eyes.’
‘Don’t take the micky out of me, sonny Jim. How long are you staying for? This place isn’t a bleeding hotel, you know.’
‘I would never have noticed if it hadn’t been for the length of time it took me to get room service. Come off it Dad, this is my home, you know. I’m entitled to a few days in the bosom of my family.’
‘Don’t talk dirty. Your mother’s in the next room.’
‘Still standing on her head, is she? You want to watch it. If all the blood runs out of her feet she’ll have to walk on her knees.’
‘Bleeding Sidney as well. I thought we’d got rid of you lot when the window cleaning business broke up.’
‘Well, you never know your luck do you? I’m surprised to hear you say that about Sidney after that smashing holiday he organised for you.’
‘Smashing holiday? I don’t call that no smashing holiday. I’ve only just got my stomach straight again.’
‘That must have been very difficult, Dad.’
‘Don’t take the piss. You always did have too much lip. All that wog food. Dirty bastards they are. I had enough of that during the war. Nearly killed me.’
‘Well, Mum enjoyed it, Dad.’
‘Don’t talk to me about that, neither. It turned your mother crackers. It was the sun done that. Melted her brain. Bloody Yogi.’
‘Yoga, Dad.’
‘I don’t care what it is. It’s not right. Woman of her age. Disgusting.’
‘Everyody needs an interest in life, Dad.’
‘She’s got me. I’m her interest in life.’
‘Maybe she’s meditating about you now, Dad.’
‘I want my supper, not bleeding meditation.’
That reminds me that Sid wants his chicken broth so I push into the kitchen where Rosie is helping little Jason to feed himself. The sight of all those little tins of vomit being smeared round his cakehole is so disgusting that it even surpasses the horror of Mum’s scarlet mush when she staggers through the door. She looks like a hollowed-out turnip with a two-hundred watt bulb inside it.
All in all, I am more than relieved when a few days later, I find myself sitting in the passenger seat of Sidney’s Rover 2000 as we purr along the seafront of Hoverton. As ardent fans will know, I am no stranger to seaside resorts,
