hotel boy by john trythall

7/29/2019 Hotel Boy by John Trythall

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Hotel Boy


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The Author has been a teacher of French all his adult life, a

head teacher, and a Principal of a college teaching English

to foreign students.


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R o b e r t H e n l e y

Hotel Boy


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Copyright R o b e r t H e n l e y

The right of Robert Henley to be identified as author of

this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the

publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this

publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims

for damages.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any

resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British

Library.

ISBN 978 1 84963 202 7

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2013)Austin & Macauley Publishers Ltd.

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LB

Printed & Bound in Great Britain


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D e d i c a t e d t o m y M o t h e r


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A c k n o w l e d g e m e n t s

I would like to thank Diana Swinton who was my typist,

and Samantha Taylor and Robert Trythall, my son, withoutwhose encouragement this novel might never have been

published.


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C h a p t e r 1

Outside, the storms of war blow, and the lands may be lashed

with the fury of the gales, but in our hearts this Sunday morning

there is a peace.

(Churchill: House of Commons, September 3rd. 1939)

Michael hung back miserably. This was a black moment, like so

many miserable moments since Daddy had died. Mother seemed

to sense the depths of his despair.

Come on, dear, she said gently. It wont be so bad once

weve settled in.

They went through the main entrance of the hotel that led

straight into a lounge; the entrance hall and the lounge were one

and the same place. It had dark panelling, except for the red brick

surround of the fireplace. The room was cool after the warmth

outside, and their exertions.

In the far corner, away from the entrance door, sat a large

lady with big jowls and full lips, enhanced by bright red lipstick.

Obesity was rare in wartime; maybe hers was a medical condition.

She was perhaps in her early forties, for she had an unlined face.

She lounged in a comfortable armchair like a floundering

porpoise. She smiled welcomingly.

I do apologise intruding, Mother said politely. May I speak

to Mr. Bayne?

Are you Mrs Treloar? countered the fat lady.


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Mother nodded.

Im Mrs Bayne. She did not rise, but held out a limp hand.

Mother stepped forward hesitantly and shook hands.

Michael was intrigued by a large, brown door markedBAR. Hed never seen a bar before and wondered what lay

behind that stout-looking door. His parents were Baptists; they

never talked about such places, let alone visited them, though

Michael had a suspicion that Daddy visited a bar at the golf club.

As far as he could make out from Baptists, and particularly from

his grandparents on his mothers side, bars were dens of iniquity

though he wasnt quite sure what iniquity meant.And you are Michael? queried Mrs Bayne.

Dimly he realised he was being spoken to. He gave a

reluctant half-smile of acknowledgement, then hastily looked

away, embarrassed by her size. Her dress revealed cleavage

dividing a heavy bosom. He had an urge to giggle, mindful of the

jingle hed heard at school:

O fat white woman who nobody loves,Why do you walk through the field in gloves?

Missing so much and so much.

He sensed she might not be a bad sort. At least she made no

inane remarks about how much he looked like his mother, or what

a big strong lad he was.

Mr. Bayne is out; Im sorry. He was expecting you earlier.

He should be back this evening. Mrs Bayne smiled. She didnt

mean to be rude.

Im so sorry were late, Mother hastened to say. Getting

ready took longer than expected.

Mrs Bayne dismissed her apologies with a smile. Ill get

somebody to show you to your rooms. She struggled to sit up.

Lorna, she called. Lorna! A more imperative summons!

Coming.

A soft voice came from the passage by the side of the bar, to

be followed by a lovely young woman. Michael goggled at her.

Attractive ladies did not often come his way. He never had a


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sister, only a lousy brother. While he despised girls of his own

age, on the surface at least, he was beginning to be susceptible to

more mature femininity. Lorna was like some vision from the

cinema, slim in a pleated grey skirt and soft white jumper, withshiny, tightly curled hair like Rita Hayworth, and a fresh and rosy

skin.

Meet my daughter, Mrs Bayne proudly said.

He was surprised, as was Mother, somebody so slender

should be the offspring of somebody so fat. Tentatively they

shook hands. Lornas hand felt cool, and so small, smaller than

Michaels.So, youre the boy sleeping in my parlour, Lorna

exclaimed, smiling delightfully.

Michael looked puzzled. Sleeping arrangements had never

been discussed.

Miss Bayne has a hairdressing parlour, explained Mother

quickly, trying to sound as if it was a reasonable arrangement.

Michael sighed. As always Mother had neglected to explainadequately future plans. She always seemed to avoid awkward

problems, hoping they would go away. But such a policy only

served to annoy.

Im to sleep there? he asked doubtfully.

Mother nodded, looking anxious.

He almost grimaced. He thought miserably of his room at

home, with the cherished Meccano and Hornby train set. A further

tide of gloom engulfed him.

Never mind, Mrs Bayne said, seeing his dismay, her thick

lips smiling. Your mother will be nearby.

It seemed poor comfort. He was beginning to get even more

upset with Mother for the way things were turning out.

Lorna invited them to follow her. They went through a

second larger lounge, along a narrow, dark corridor, and up some

twisting stairs.

Wheres your luggage? Lorna asked politely.


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Oh, its outside, in the porch, Mother hastened to explain.

She sounded as if she felt a little ashamed of the battered trunk,

and didnt want Lorna to see it.

Dadll help you when hes back, she explained.Oh, I wouldnt want to bother him. Michael and I can

manage.

Michael groaned inwardly. That trunk was heavy, as he had

found out to his cost at home. One of the hand straps was broken,

and the sharp edges of the trunk made it difficult to lift. Mother

had the unfortunate habit of not wanting to bother other people,

often at his expense. Lorna looked at him assessingly.He seems a strong boy.

Oh, he is, agreed Mother, glad of the compliment.

Michael just wanted to pull a grumpy face, but wisely

refrained.

Here we are. This is your room, explained Lorna to Mother,

opening a door on the left of the corridor.

The room was small and poky, nothing like his parentsbedroom at home. There was just enough room for a single bed, a

small chest of drawers, a tiny wardrobe, and a washbasin. He

glanced out of the window. The view was a dismal one of the

back of the hotel a chaotic line of dustbins, scraggy, sun-

deprived hedges, and a forlorn allotment, a familiar wartime sight.

Michael had his own tiny allotment at home and another at school

that he shared. Dig For Victory was a favourite wartime saying.

My dad looks after that, explained Lorna, moving to the

window. Michael felt embarrassed by her fragrance, much more

delightful than any perfume Mother might use.

Come on, Michael, Ill show you your room.

Lorna went out, turned right, and took him along another

corridor, just as dark and narrow.

There is a light, she explained, but we dont put it on

during the day. Saves electricity!

It made sense. There was a constant government plea to save

energy.


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This is where youll be.

Lorna opened a door on the right and ushered him in. The

room was much larger and more exotic than Mothers, with a

deep wash-basin; shelves along one wall covered with bottles, ahairdressers chair, and a hooded hairdryer on an adjustable stand

on wheels. At the far end was a divan; covered by flowered

cushions and a vari-coloured counterpane. Down one length were

two separate windows that made the room much brighter than

Mothers. It was the same view outside; except to the left one

could just see a chicken house and some hens pecking at the

ground inside a wire enclosure.Its nice, he said lamely. In reality it depressed him. It was

a room unlike any other hed occupied before. A boy sleeping in a

womens hairdressing parlour! It looked young and feminine, the

embodiment of Lorna herself. It smelt of her perfume. It reminded

him of a rich American film stars room, as shown on the cinema

screen, all drapes and bright colours. It was certainly not the kind

of room he could invite school friends to, a thought making himeven more gloomy! But the big problem was the smell, an

indefinable smell: the headachy odour of the lotion hairdressers

put on womens hair. Setting lotion he thought it was called. Hed

have to ask Mother.

Dont touch anything, Lorna said, indicating the

hairdressing paraphernalia. I dont want any fiddlesome little

boys.

The tone of Lornas voice upset him. It was an order, not a

request. The little was bad enough; the fiddlesome was even

worse. He would have done anything to please Lorna; her beauty

had badly affected him. He was hurt.

What little remained of the morning dragged miserably.

Mother, for some reason, did not want to lunch in the hotel dining

room. Shed brought some sandwiches and a sponge cake with

jam in the middle, the last of her home cooking.


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Together, Mother and he, entering by a side door, heaved the

cumbersome trunk up the narrow stairs, taking care not to bang

the paintwork. They unpacked mostly in silence; there seemed

little to say.Youll have to keep your things here, dear, Mother

explained. There are no available cupboards in the parlour.

Oh, Mother, where do I play?

I dont know, dear. There must be somewhere in the hotel.

As ever, Mother was acting vague. Michael felt just

wretched.

Here, dear, here are your pyjamas. Take them along to yourroom and hide them under a cushion.

He wandered dismally along to the alien parlour. He sat on

the divan. Slowly tears welled up in his eyes, and coursed down

his cheeks.

Nothing would be the same againever!

He didnt realise, or didnt think in his young selfishness,

that his mother too was forlornly shedding a tear in her lonely, sadlittle room.

* * *


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C h a p t e r 2

The news from France is very bad and I grieve for the gallant

French people who have fallen into this terrible misfortune.Nothing will alter our feelings towards them or our

faith that the genius of France will rise again.

(Broadcast on June 17th 1940)

During the afternoon, while Mother finished unpacking, Michael

wandered down to the promenade. He was in a strange mood,

nostalgic, unhappy, resentful above all that he should be uprooted

from home. Mother said it was the misfortunes of war; he

couldnt see what the war had to do with it. Why should they

leave the home they loved because of Hitler?

The promenade was a part of Forbury hed so much enjoyed

in times of peace. But it was not the same now, no way was it the

same. Rolls of barbed wire covered the area where not much more

than a year ago hed run about, laughed and met his friends. He

came to the pier, where a mid-section had been removed to hinder

enemy landing. Hed once fished off the end of the pier, his sole

attempt at such a sport. Hed got his line in a tangle, but was

saved by his brother, Nigel, coming along and condescendingly

unravelling it. He caught no fish, not one, and felt disappointed.

He hadnt the patience for fishing.

Further along the road which ran by the promenade, he

passed opposite the bandstand where hed sung Hands, Knees

and Boomps-a-daisy with Joan, the fair-haired girl next door. At


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the Boomp they bumped bottoms. They won a prize as best

performers, a stick each of pink Forbury rock. It took hours of

sucking, and probably did their teeth no good. They then rushed

back to Joans home and told her parents. After that they decidedto play the game of going to the lavatory together. Joan discreetly

arranged her skirts so he could see nothing; he felt vaguely

disappointed; she saw more of his bits than anything he saw of

her mysteries. She was a nice girl, full of fun and a bit tomboyish,

but she had terribly old parents. She was an only child. When

the parents heard of their communal visits to the lavatory, they

were firmly forbidden. He thought it a pity; he had no sisters andJoan no brothers.

Friends in a seaside town were often ephemeral. As soon as

war began Joan moved away, sadly an evacuee. An R.A.F.

aerodrome was near Forbury, sure to be a target for German

bombers.

Continuing his walk, Michael came to the stretch of beach on

which hed built sandcastles in the summer of 1939, only a monthor so before war was declared. Part of the attraction of Forbury

Regis was the marvellous stretch of clean, slightly greyish sand.

On some days there were competitions for the best sandcastles.

He had never won a prize until one day a lad called Peter offered

to help. They achieved runners-up, building a magnificent

sandcastle with a moat and stout keep. Sadly, the incoming tide

quickly washed it away.

Peter was an older boy who had dug with tremendous

energy. After they had received their prize, another stick of

Forbury rock, Michael took Peter home to tea. Mother looked

down on him as a bit common. Michael adored Peter and his

tremendous vitality. After tea they went into the garden, and Peter

climbed the tree in the far corner, almost to the top branches.

When Daddy came back from work, he too admired Peter, though

anxiously in case he fell. Michael watched with envy; hed never

been able to climb beyond the lower branches.


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Dont worry, Daddy said cheerfully, in a year or two

youll be up where he is.

Peter was on holiday. After one more week he disappeared

back to a strange city called Brum. Michael never saw himagain, nor did they keep in contact. Boys dont write letters. The

memory of Peter made him sad. So many friendly people came to

Forbury for a few days and then went, never to be seen again.

At the end of the promenade the road turned inland, past a

guesthouse called The Haven where Mother and he stayed in

January, 1940, just after Dad was posted abroad to France. It had

been the first of the hotel wanderings of his mother. She may havebeen lonely but Michael could never understand her.

He couldnt help looking sadly at The Haven. It was now a

ruin, a dark, pathetic, blackened skeleton of its former

comfortable presence. He had been happy there.

The Haven had been flattened by a single bomb which a

Jerry plane had jettisoned in panic as it screamed out to sea,

chased by a chattering Hurricane that shot the German down inthe waters of the English Channel, to the accompaniment of

cheers from the few people that watched from the shore.

Luckily Mother and he had been away at home when the

bomb fell. Their return home coincided with the school Easter

holidays, and Nigels return from boarding school. He was some

seven years older, very much the big brother.

All but one at the guesthouse were killed Mrs Rosewood,

the proprietor, and all the guests, including Mr Gordon, the

elderly, thoughtful maths teacher with a North country accent,

spectacles on the end of his nose. He had been called back from

retirement when War began, to cover for so many men who had

been called up. He helped Michael from time to time with his

homework, or at least it was conditional help.

Picking mbrains, are yer, mlad, he would exclaim

jovially. Then hed go on to say, Theres only one teacher in life,

and thats yerself. Have a go, think for yerself, and then come

back tme with yer answer. Then mebbe Ill help yer.


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Michael got nothing out of Mr. Gordon without working for

it. It was a valuable lesson, though he did not always appreciate it.

Mrs Rosewood was not such a comfortable character, with

her dark glasses and henna-dyed hair. She ran the guesthouse witha rod of iron, despite her small size. To Michael she seemed like a

witch, a fearsome woman who spoke sharply, and expected him to

behave.

Wipe your shoes, she would bark when he came back from

school.

Having wiped them, he would have to take them off before

stepping off the mat. Oddly she would then offer him a tin ofbiscuits to take two only. Shed mutter he was a growing lad and

she supposed he ought to be fed. She was basically a kind woman

beneath the bark.

Sad, two such memorable people should die so tragically.

The only person who had survived the bomb had been Rosie

Thwaites, the little kitchen maid, brown-eyed, olive-skinned and

smelling as sweet as a berry, her body, even at fifteen, was ripeperfection. She was cheeky and often quite naughty. She used to

look after Michael when Mother was out playing the organ or

giving one of her piano lessons. Rosie would lie beside him when

he was ready for bed, and tell him stories, stories out of her own

imagination, of love, of brave knights in armour, of gentle

maidens rescued from the jaws of death. Soppy stories to a nine-

year-old boy! But they were memorable none the less; she was a

real romantic. Then, making certain nobody was about, she would

undo the buttons of her blouse and skirt, invite him to play with

her breasts. They were soft and squelchy, with little red nipples,

wrinkled and perky. Once she told him she was bleeding and he

couldnt touch her. He couldnt understand what bleeding had to

do with her breasts; he imagined blood oozing out of those little

red nipples. She did try to explain, his first lesson in the mystery

of sex and birth. His mother was coy on the subject, like many

women born in the time of Queen Victoria. He thought Dad might

have been more forthcoming, had he lived. Michael was


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disappointed, not being able to touch those breasts and that soft

skin, like a small child who was deprived of his toy.

But shed been fun, the nearest hed ever had to a sister, far

nearer than Joan, whose body had remained a cautious mystery.There was constant war between Rosie and Mrs Rosewood.

Shes a gypsy slut, Mrs Rosewood would exclaim, loud

enough for Mr. Gordon and Michael himself to hear. Shell go

after anyone in trousers, concluded Mrs Rosewood. To which

Mr. Gordon expressed cheerfully the wish that she could go after

him; he wore trousers! This only provoked a snort of disgust from

Mrs Rosewood.Whats a slut? Michael asked Mother later.

She, as per usual, escaped into vagueness.

Well, dear, she offered after a pause, its somebody not

very nice. Mother forgot her dislike of the word nice.

But Rosies nice. I like her, Michael asserted.

That was as far as the definition went. He never told Mother

of his innocent sessions with Rosie when babysitting.The final laugh was on Rosie, if one could call such a

tragedy a laugh. When the bomb fell she was in the garden shed,

pursuing her favourite hobby with a young man in trousers, or

more precisely without them. Neither of them was badly injured,

though shaken by the blast and the shed partially collapsing.

He never saw Rosie again. Like Peter and Joan she became

one of his happier memories, of a girl who treated him as an

equal, and not just as a fiddlesome little boy. He thought of her as

a free spirit, somebody who wanted a little more from life than

just the drab routine of a maid, and the restrictions of being a

woman in a male-dominated war.

Its hard to describe his feelings during that afternoon walk.

They were a mixture of nostalgia for the freedom and enjoyment

of past summers, of sadness at all the tragic signs of war, of

resentment at leaving home, and of deep misery at the loss of

Dad. It seemed he had to cope on his own, and he didnt feel he

was able.


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When he got back to the hotel, Mother was chatting to Mrs

Bayne in the hall lounge. He unobtrusively slipped upstairs and

slumped on Mothers bed to read a book.

When Mother joined him, sometime later, she looked happierthan for some time.

Im feeling a little tipsy, dear. Mrs Bayne gave me a small

sherry; it went to my head.

She smiled at him, swaying slightly on her feet. He didnt

smile back. Hed never known Mother drink before; Baptists

didnt drink.

Mrs Bayne likes to talk, dear. She says it gives her anexcuse to sit down.

She giggled a little at her attempt at humour. He continued to

read, voicing a silent protest about their present situation.

I should hurry up, dear, get washed and tidied up. Dinnerll

be ready soon.

He didnt look up from his book.

Go along to your room, theres a dear. I must change.But he continued his silent resentment.

Please, dear, she begged. The gongll be going any

moment.

He read on.

Please, dear. Then she added as an afterthought, you read

far too much. Its bad for your dear eyes.

What else is there to do? he grumbled, putting his book

down reluctantly.

Mother looked hurt at the implied criticism, but chose to

ignore it. As always, she tried to avoid any confrontation with all

her three men: her husband and her two sons; it only made matters

worse.

At dinner she tentatively asked:

Whereve you been, dear?

Oh, along the front, nearly as far as Pelham.


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Why, dear, thats over a mile, more than two miles there and

back.

He nodded. The family were all very conscious of distance

because of their pre-war walking trips. Mother was a reluctantwalker. Dad used to put his head into the middle of her back and

push her along.

Did you meet anyone?

Er, no, he muttered into his soup, only soldiers.

Speak up, dear. You must speak up.

Mother was struggling to keep up appearances on their first

night, wanting to portray a happy relationship.Michael looked round the dining room; there was nobody

young. He thought last summer the hotel must have been crowded

with holidaymakers, families, children, all alive and excited.

Nearly all the residents now were elderly ladies, with knitting

bags that they put down on a nearby chair or the ground beside

them. Michael wondered why they all sat by themselves on little

individual tables, never speaking, rarely looking up from theirfood, except to peer with lacklustre eyes at some passing incident.

Mother and her son caused a momentary flutter upon entering, but

then their eyes dropped, as if too tired for sustained interest.

There was a hushed silence during the meal, only broken by

the voices of the two maids as they took orders and served the

food. Even mother and son began to talk in whispers. As dinner

drew to a close, Mrs Bayne entered, at last detached from her

comfortable chair, followed by somebody who must be Mr.

Bayne, accompanied by their daughter, Lorna, and a handsome,

smug-looking R.A.F. officer, deeply attentive to her charms.

Michael would discover later that the Baynes always ate after the

residents.

So that their better food was not seen, one of the maids

would explain later, with a trace of sarcasm. Rationing was

prevalent, and all the residents had to hand in their ration books.

Michael found the food more suitable for elderly ladies than for

growing boys.


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Mr. Bayne detached himself from the group, and came over

to greet Mother. Michael didnt know why but he felt an

unreasoning and instinctive dislike. He saw a small, slight man, a

slightness that explained the origin of Lornas slimness. He had anarrow, sunburnt face, crowned by black hair, which barely

covered the signs of eminent baldness. It was the brilliantined

hair, smoothed back like the American actor, Edward G.

Robinson, that Michael took an aversion to, plus the way Mr.

Bayne shimmied along, like some suave ballroom dancer.

Michaels prep school upbringing made him react against the

impression of what he felt was smarminess.He ruffled Michaels hair, and referred to him

condescendingly as a good-looking young man.

Ugh!

Oh, Mrs Treloar, how very nice youre looking. Im so very,

very sorry I wasnt here to greet you. Have you settled in well?

Michael noticed his mothers personality change to what, if

hed been older, he would have described as her sweet little, lostwidows smile, something she put on when she wanted something

badly, such as reduced charges in a residential hotel. Michaels

use of the hairdressing parlour, which had become his bedroom,

was a much-appreciated saving.

It had never occurred to Michael that Mother might be nice-

looking. He supposed she was, really, in that tatty blue dress she

put on for the evening. Dad called all her best dresses tatty, with

a twinkle in his eyes.

Oh, fine, fine, thank you, Mr. Bayne, she replied, a smile

on her lips.

Good, good! If I can help you in any way, please let me

know in any way, he emphasised.

Michael almost grimaced as he thought of that heavy trunk,

and the help so badly needed that morning when they arrived.

Mr. Bayne moved away. He was a restless man. His speech

reflected that lack of stillness, coming out in jerky remarks. He

stopped to greet one or two of the elderly residents, with a


22/26

patronising Lord of the Manor graciousness. He was tactile,

particularly with women, and those present were nearly all

women, save a couple of married pairs. A pat on the hand or arm,

a more familiar stroke of the shoulder were the order of the day.Nice to see you looking so well, he told one hunched up old

lady, caressing her thin, gnarled arm that looked like a piece of

wood, the skin having lost any semblance of pink flesh. The air

of Forbury is doing you good.

He moved on before the poor dear could gather her wits to

reply.

Thats Mr. Bayne, that is, dear, Mother told Michaelunnecessarily. You must be very good, show him what a nice boy

you are, please, dear.

There was an air of anxious pleading in Mothers face, as if

she doubted his willingness to be good. Mother had pronounced

antennae, frighteningly so at times; she knew her sons tendency,

as also Dads, of being rude to people they didnt care for.

Such a kind man, Mother emphasised wistfully, as Mr.Bayne, like Uriah Heep, edged his way unctuously down the

length of the dining room.

Ugh, Michael thought again.

After dinner all the elderly residents adjourned to the larger

lounge to have tea or coffee, and later to listen to the nine oclock

news on the radio, an important daily event, even a vital one.

Mother told him that most of the residents had grandsons or close

relatives involved in the War.

On their way out of the dining room, mother and son passed

by the small bar lounge, the door now open. It was overflowing

into the hall lounge with noisy, cheerful young R.A.F. men from

the nearby Fordinghead fighter plane aerodrome.

The boys come whenever they can, Mrs Bayne explained.

It gets very crowded.

The attraction was Lorna, like working bees to a queen bee.

Michael wondered why Mrs Bayne called them the boys when

they were fully grown men.


23/26

My fresh-faced babes, she called them at a later date, with a

maternal glint in her eyes. Mother too came to regard them with

the same affection.

Theyre so young, she once said, with a faraway look onher face, so very young to die! Wars such a waste, such a

waste!

Then she added slowly: They say fighter pilots have a life

expectancy of only two weeks. You know, those young men who

fly Spitfires and Hurricanes. Theyre only in their twenties!

She shook her head in sadness, thinking of her own loss.

Michael really thought she was going to cry.As mother and son passed the bar door, a deep voice boomed

out:

By Jove, youre the young lad sleeping in Lornas parlour!

A loud, masculine, beery guffaw followed this remark.

By gum, youre a handsome lad! the voice continued,

followed by another roar of laughter.

At first Michael did not realise the remarks were referring tohim. A tall, broad-shouldered, middle-aged man emerged from the

crowd. Bald of head, an enormous paunch, he towered over

Michael from a six-foot advantage.

Never mind, young man, the voice continued to roar, you

must forgive our little jokes. Then he added more gravely, How

do? Im Uncle Bill.

Mother and Michael looked puzzled.

Lucys brother.

They still didnt cotton on.

You know, Mrs Baynes brother.

They realised then who he was. They shook hands. Uncle

Bills seemed huge, enveloping Michaels hand.

Pretty mother youve got, young man, Uncle Bill roared.

Look after her, wont you? Youre the man of the family now.

It seemed a slightly tactless remark, given Daddys death, but

he was unaware hed said anything wrong.


24/26

Michael wasnt really the man of the family. His lousy

brother was, but he was away at boarding school.

Mother dragged him away as soon as she politely could. She

seemed offended by the brute commonness of Uncle Bill. Michaelwanted to stay; he was intrigued by the young R.A.F. men in blue

uniform. He would like to have known them better, the modern

day, heroic knights of the sky.

How Rosie Thwaites would have loved them!

As they left there was another outburst of Uncle Bills

guffawing, and laughter from the blue servicemen. Michael didnt

hear what was said, and was intrigued because Mother blushed.Hed never known her blush before.

In the main lounge Michaels heart sank. All the old biddies,

as the old ladies were often referred to, were sitting round an

electric fire in a large semi-circle. The electric fire was on, with

both elements, even though it was a warm evening. The ladies

were knitting, hardly talking at all. They did not seem to notice

the room was suffocatingly warm. Mother and her son went to sitin a corner as far away from the fire as possible. The sleepy

contrast to the noisy rowdiness of the bar made Michael feel as if

he had entered a different world!

Find a book, theres a dear, Mother whispered as she

helped herself to coffee.

He went upstairs to fetch his Just William book by Richmal

Crompton. He adored her books and wanted, though he didnt

succeed, to model himself on the William defiance of adults and

girls, especially girls! Well, some girls!

At nine oclock, the wireless was switched on. The chimes of

Westminster were heard after it had warmed up. Everybody

listened attentively, nodded sadly. The news was not good.

Then a frail, grey-haired lady tottered shakily to her feet,

tried to gather up her needles and wool, but only succeeded in

dropping them.

Quick, dear, help her, pleaded Mother.


25/26

He shot forward and untidily scooped the knitting into her

bag. The poor soul then seemed to have difficulty in holding the

bag in her arthritic hands. Michael had a sudden inspiration.

May I carry your bag?That would be most kind. Her voice quavered.

He took the bag, held open the heavy door for her to pass

into the entrance lounge. He followed her slowly up the wide

stairs that bordered the noisy, crowded room. Even more R.A.F.

men had arrived.

Ho, ho! guffawed a familiar voice. Another Sir Galahad, I

see.Michael grinned self-consciously, but didnt look round. He

understood the reference.

When they reached the ladys room, she fumbled in her bag

for a moment, then tried the door. It wasnt locked. Hotel rooms

were rarely locked.

Come in, come in, quavered the old dear.

He entered hesitantly. She seemed very rich. Her room wasthree times the size of Mothers and much better furnished, with

an ostentatious double bed. Why she had a double bed Michael

didnt like to ask. He reflected there were two parts to the hotel:

his Mothers, with the tiny room and the narrow staircase and the

old ladys, with the wide staircase and the big double room

encased in fine panelling. Mr. Bayne must have charged a fortune.

Wait a minute, quavered the old lady.

She opened a drawer and fumbled about for a moment.

Eventually she produced a barley sugar and a silver sixpence.

For a good little boy, she said, trying awkwardly to pat his

hand.

He didnt like the good little boy bit, but the sixpence was

manna from heaven. Mother only gave him tuppence per week

pocket money, just about enough to buy a comic like the Beano.

Thank you very much, he said in his best prep school

accent.

The sixpence reminded him of the music hall jingle;


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Ive got sixpence,

Jolly, jolly sixpence.

Ive got sixpenceTo last me all my life.

Ive got tuppence to spend,

And tuppence to lend

And tuppence to send

Home to my wife.

He departed hurriedly downstairs, overjoyed, and hastenedthrough the entrance lounge before Uncle Bill could guffaw at

him again. Mother smiled maternally; she seemed pleased. He

showed her the barley sugar, but not the sixpence, afraid he might

not get his usual pocket money.

Dont suck it tonight, dear. Bad for the teeth. Time for bed

now; youre late already.

He got up to go to the smelly hairdressing parlour.Say goodnight, dear, called Mother, as he reached the far

door leading to the less plush end of the hotel. He remembered his

manners and bade everybody a polite goodnight, a bit ugh-

making.

Sleep well, they all responded. Sweet dreams.

As he disappeared through the door he heard one elderly lady

remark:

Such a polite little boy.

Cripes, Ill never be William! he remarked to himself. He

sensed rather than saw the pride swelling up in his mothers

breast. He hastily shut the door. He preferred to dwell on plans for

spending his precious sixpence.

It went some way to relieve his earlier unhappiness.

* * *

hotel boy by john trythall

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