Sex, Lies & Crazy People. John Hickman

glared. “Put a cemetery next door to the church and it could be a wheel-barrow job.”

      Dad staved off her negativity with a cheery smile. “What’s a church if not for lost

      causes, Mother?”

      He turned to me. “Had I known how well you’d turn out, Son, I’d have been nicer to you when you were a child.”

      I beamed with pleasure.

      The property owners were shrewd Jewish businessmen. They refused to negotiate with me because I was under twenty-one years of age but agreed to meet Dad on site.

      I felt crushed with disappointment at being left out at the final stage but met their realtor

      instead. He had good teeth, a well-cut suit and a convincing line in bullshit. The only man in London with a suntan; I noticed it was beginning to smudge the collar of his custom-made shirt.

      “The landlords are prepared to commit to a new twenty-year lease,” he gushed with his campaign poster smile.

      I ticked another pre-selection box. I’d found a lease.

      The hit by the Seekers, I’ll Never Find another You was on the wireless. I wandered about not wanting to get too excited should Dad’s project fall through.

      When the landlords waived money upfront in lieu of £2000 per annum rental, payable six months in advance instead of twelve, I ticked my final pre-selection box.

      I’d found a hotel Dad could buy—without any money!

      Chapter 3

      Dad’s Simple Plan

      I returned to the present as Gran, Gramps, and my sister Pamela joined us at the breakfast table. Mum had nicknamed my sibling Pandy when she was about a year old because her jerky movements resembled a puppet called Andy Pandy in a children’s show on television.

      I could sense her pain this being the thirtieth morning in a row that Mum hadn’t been alive to see.

      Dad’s smile resembled a reptile about to devour its dinner when he said, “The key to success, family, is to attract more cashed-up old farts. And to do that, I’ve decided we’ll tart the place up—cheap.”

      Gramps grinned. “It could do with a bit of a clean-up.”

      “My guaranteed formula for success is to offer permanent residents a deal they can’t

      refuse,” Dad paused, to take a light puff on his pipe, “with just a little bit extra for only £3 more a week.”

      Gran looked concerned. “What little bit extra?”

      “A room resplendent with fresh white paint of course, Mother. Better quality of

      furniture, a telephone and a colour TV in each room.”

      Gran looked overwhelmed. “I don’t see anything wrong with black and white telly?

      We watched that Russian cosmonaut on ours. He looked all right in black and white.”

      “Aleksei Leonov, Mother. He was the first man to walk in space but everything does look more spectacular in colour.”

      Gran sniffed. “Black and white’s all right, it’s early colour that’s faded, that’s all.”

      Gramps chewed his lip. “Trouble is colour sets are new and expensive, Son.”

      “I’ve crunched the numbers, Dad, and it’s doable if I lease them.”

      Gramps fidgeted. “Well, if you’re sure. They’ll be a novelty, I suppose.”

      Dad puffed again, more deeply on his pipe. “And a little extra food wise. You have to admit those sub-standard meals of theirs hardly commemorate their day.”

      Gran wore a pained expression. “Do you mean better meals?”

      “Yes, Mother. What they get now is lukewarm slops from tins.”

      Gramps appeared impervious to Gran’s concerns. “Yesterday’s lukewarm muck was a diluted tinned soup, reheated, Girl, with not even a sprig of parsley dog-paddling in it to cheer it up. As for their mains, their meat looks like rat-turds. And their beans look more like soggy green twigs.”

      “Yes, that’s all good and well,” Gran cautioned, “but soft-textured dishes suit us old folk, especially without our teeth.”

      “Yuk,” said Pandy, her innocent round eyes shining like alien moons, and then as she saw the hurt on Dad’s face, she muttered, “I mean, even I could do that.”

      Momentarily, we went quiet, each privy to their own thoughts. The discussion about food reminded me how Gran always overcooked hers, whereas when Mum was alive she’d prepared meals more al dente.

      Dad picked up the pace. “You’ll provide their home cooked meals, Mother.”

      Gran lapsed into a pained silence.

      “Don’t fret, Mother. Nothing fancy is required. Surely there’s nothing wrong with that?”

      Gran went into meltdown.

      Dad changed tactics and moved on. “All rooms have hand basins with hot and cold

      running water. We’ll convert a few to include en suite bathrooms. Then we can charge extra for those discerning guests who are cashed up and want toilet suites.” He positively beamed. “What about that?”

      “Toilet sweets. What do they taste like?” Gramps deadpanned.

      Dad ignored him. He resumed, “According to John’s research accommodation rates for permanent residents bottoms out at £6 a week and rises up to £12. A smaller private hotel nearby is full at £10 with a wait list.”

      Gramps wrinkled his nose. “Some call it their death list.”

      “I’ve decided our niche will be £9 a week. The middle is a good place to be.” Dad’s eyes were hungry as he looked for my support. I nodded my head like Noddy in Toyland.

      “From your lips to God’s ear,” Gramps chortled.

      I noticed a sparkle in the depths of his pale blue eyes. It was almost a mischievous type of exuberance, that I’d not seen before.

      Dad gave an approving smile as befitted the leader of our pack. It was a Moses and burning bush moment for me.

      Gran remained quiet.

      Gramps slapped me enthusiastically on the shoulder. “Your Dad’s plan seems

      faultless.”

      “Sounds all right to me. If push comes to shove, even I can follow a plan.”

      Gran threw her hands up in a helpless gesture, like someone who knows they’ve

      become a bore. “Oh well, all we can do is get up in the morning to do our best. I suppose. Nothing much else matters now. Not with Alice gone.”

      Chapter 4

      The Agreement

      Such was the intensity of our excitement neither Dad nor I could sleep either side of

      midnight.

      “Trouble is,” Gran said at breakfast the next day, “your dad has never been handy with tools. He might be a DIY enthusiast, but let’s face it, he isn’t any good at it.”

      “None of that matters, Gran. We’ve got a secret weapon—Gramps. He’s our man with tools, the knower of so much stuff.”

      “You’d better make sure you tell him then, because after that debacle in the Ealing house before your sister was born, you know the one I mean?”

      “How