Sex, Lies & Crazy People

By John Hickman

John tells the bittersweet true story about his family's involvement in the
Harewood Hotel, Royal Tunbridge Wells, Kent in England during the 1960s, interspersed with self deprecating reminisces.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9780987094599

John Hickman

John Hickman was born in the UK at the end of WWII. He grew up in the shadow of his war hero father, Bill. Attending numerous schools due to the family moving for Bill's work, John learned quickly to enjoy the most of the moment, and to not take life too seriously. His books are a glimpse into his world and the imagination that has grown from those life experiences. After specialising in global pest control, fumigation, and timber preservation, John and his family diversified into farming Javan Rusa deer, in the South Burnett. After retirement in 2003 and unable to play golf, he discovered a latent passion for writing. John's first book 'Reluctant Hero' is about his Dad, Bill, who survived as a Lancaster bomber pilot in WW2. John's second book 'Tripping Over' depicts the humorous side of life in post war England. It provides a comic foil to his 'Reluctant Hero' reminiscent of a true life 'Diary Of A Wimpish Kid' during the 1950s and 1960s. 'Sex, Lies & Crazy People' is the follow on from 'Tripping Over'. John tells the Bittersweet true story about his family's involvement in the Harewood Hotel, Royal Tunbridge Wells, Kent in England during the 1960s interspersed with self-deprecating reminisces. Best described as a true life Fawlty Towers – but without Basil. Unlike Fawlty Towers John's are all true stories. 'Living Upside Down' is John's debut novel to feature the adventures of Sue and Roger, after writing three true stories this novel was inspired in part by the author's thirty-five years of experience in the global pest control industry, life in the Archipelago, and migrating as ten pound poms. Given the gift of LIFE - other books may follow about how not to run a Deer farm, and after retirement his life at the pointy end of the queue in a Happy Valley resort.

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CHAPTER 1

FACT OR FANTASY—1965

Dad was seated at the breakfast table reading the News of the World. I glanced at the headline; US troops in Vietnam.

Pleased I’m not there, I said.

Talking of Vietnam, have you noticed our grass is long enough to hide the Vietcong?

I’ll get onto it. I drained my cup. This week’s been a bit hectic.

He reloaded his pipe. His voice became sensitive like an undertaker helping a grieving relative to select a coffin.

You and I are about to build an empire together. He paused to strike a Swan Vestas match to his pipe. Big things have small beginnings; he said between puffs, we’ll be an unstoppable team, you and I.

I nodded. But the boy king’s immediate problem was getting the cellophane wrapper off a new packet of cigarettes. As I lit up my first tipped stick of the day I cast my mind back:

A lot had happened since Mum was taken by cancer at only thirty-nine years of age. Dad had worked his way through the shock of her death until one evening after dinner he dropped a bombshell.

I’ve decided to give up my job to start a new business—a hotel.

There was a stunned silence before Gramps asked, Is it my imagination or is the cutlery particularly deafening here tonight?

Dad looked to me. A hotel business will enable me to work at home. I’ll be able to help your sister through the loss of her mum. He paused to relight his pipe.

The bloody thing was always going out. I want you to find a hotel I can buy—without any money.

There was another black hole of silence, this time less cordial.

Gran glared at Dad unable to keep protest from her voice. What kind of crazy person expects to buy something without money?

You tell him, Girl. Gramps often called Gran, ‘Girl.’

Dad’s directive could not have been clearer if Moses himself had brought it down on a tablet from Mount Sinai. It sounded ridiculous but I knew I had to help him.

Gramps dismissed his hotel idea. Your idea might work, Son, he smirked, as he cast a sideways look at Gran, but only if the stars remain in proper alignment.

I’d always had a blind faith in Dad’s abilities that any idea of his would rise to the top.

Dad continued, If you’re interested, Son, you could join me.

I didn’t hesitate, I’m in!

Not only an opportunity to help Dad but this could be a wonderful new career for me.

Dad became conciliatory as Gran cleared our table. Look I realise I know nothing about running hotels but it can’t be that difficult. I’ve stayed in plenty when Alice was alive. He paused. I’ve managed other people’s businesses successfully for years. Now with her gone, he shrugged, what better time for a change?

Gramps had another sideways glance at Gran. He cleared his throat. True, you’ve managed other people’s businesses, but you’ve been responsible to directors, boards, and owners.

The left-hand side of Gramp’s face often quivered from his nervous tic. Some called it Tourette Syndrome. Stress and anxiety significantly increased the frequency of his condition. Gramps raised his hands in a helpless gesture while his face trembled.

If Alice was alive she’d never have approved of you embarking on such a rash project.

I thought that unfair. Had Mum been alive Dad wouldn’t need to work from home. And I agree with him. I don’t see that running a hotel without previous experience is that big a risk.

Gran and Gramps exchanged sullen looks.

Dad continued, I’ll remain at my job paying the mortgage and putting food on the table while John’s assigned to scout out hotels.

As a young man of nineteen, and without a current girlfriend to consider, my sex life was like a Ferrari. I didn’t have a Ferrari. Suddenly I felt like a kid with keys to the Magic Kingdom.

Dad’s pipe had gone dead. He stared into the bowl, frowned, and tried to relight it. Freehold’s out unless lenders are prepared to advance the majority of the purchase price, which on commercial propositions they won’t. And banks, always laws unto themselves, will only loan less than half of their own scaled down valuations.

My task had become more difficult.

But, Dad, surely on any established business a lease is nearly as valuable as its freehold.

My plan can only work, Son, if the hotel you find is rundown enough for me to negotiate favourable terms.

Very favourable terms, echoed Gran from the kitchen.

I’d always wanted Dad to be proud of me. Our plan before Mum died was for me to become a barrister, like Boyd QC a popular television show that starred Michael Denison in the title role. That proved difficult enough. Now I sagged like a bent coat hanger as Dad’s words spiralled up my spine.

Find a hotel I can buy—without any money!

CHAPTER 2

ACE OR JOKER?

As born and bred Londoners, we tried to maintain sunny dispositions. My initial search was close to home but dense populations, racial tensions, and riots soon led to a lost elegance.

I told Dad. "London resembles the quality of newspaper left out too long in the sun. Sought-after leafy suburbs like Kensington and Bayswater are too pricey. Brixton and Notting Hill, although less expensive, are not places where white people want to be."

Reluctantly Dad agreed. You’ll have to look further afield.

I’d found a few possibilities dotted around Kent and Sussex. Neglected country pubs with a few bedrooms to rent. Dad soon shot me down in flames. They’re just not big enough, Son. We’d take up too many rooms ourselves.

Drowning in the task he’d given me I paced the room trailing cigarette smoke like a steam engine. But everything any good is too expensive, and anything affordable is too small, or somewhere you don’t like.

After another diatribe from Dad I spotted a smaller advertisement for a private hotel in London Road, Royal Tunbridge Wells, Kent.

He reacted well. "Could be our ideal world. No riots, no gangs of white thugs and no black people."

The sort of place where if you wear a loud shirt you’ll be labelled a revolutionary, Gramps added.

Situated between a church and a pub, the hotel was the biggest I’d seen. As a bonus it had its own large car park out front. An impressive four stories high it looked dowdy.

The upper floor window frames were painted a hideous red, which didn’t match the rest of the building. Overall it looked unloved and uncared for.

Inside was worse, but spacious with more than thirty bedrooms.

A few elderly tenants were living out their twilight years in what could only be described as cheap, cold comfort.

I ticked another box.

In the basement were disused staff quarters. An old fashioned kitchen sported equipment that had been there since Queen Victoria was a girl. Cooked food moved to the ground floor dining room in an antiquated pulley operated dumb waiter. Nearby, at its heart stood another antiquity. A coal-fired boiler that creaked, groaned and rattled like a ship in its death-throws. I half expected Vincent Price to turn up any minute.

Upstairs, appalling grunge accumulated over the years disguised underfoot what once had been grand Axminster carpets. I poked at blackened sludge with the toe of my shoe, and thought, incontinence here a distinct possibility.

This was more like a Dickensian doss house than a private hotel. Its sash windows hadn’t been opened in years, which was a shame because this decrepit Victorian edifice had once been a Grand Duchess. Now it was as if she was waiting for something dramatic to happen—a match perhaps?

If the building had a pulse it was barely alive but had I achieved the impossible? Knowing that Dad wanted a hotel rundown enough to negotiate favourable terms, then how good was this?

I hurried home.

Gramps was semi-supportive. Between a church and a pub, you say, he grinned. Most bases are covered then.

Gran 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 softtextured 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 can I forget. I groaned. Dad used six inch nails in the fuse box and hung the fleur-de-lis wallpaper upside down in the lounge.

Gran smirked. That’s the one.

I’ll handle it, Gran. Day after day I dream of counting our cash, breaking out the champagne and letting the good times roll. And what could be better than being guided to my first million pounds by Dad?

Gran nodded. You should keep thinking that way. The hard work will not only be fun for you and your gramps, but it’ll help take all of our minds off losing Alice.

Next day an enormous surprise. Gran and Gramps wanted in.

Why the change of heart? I asked.

They exchanged knowing looks before nodding their approval. "It’s better than sitting in our little Barlby Road flat gumming on a Gingernut biscuit, Gran sighed, and I suppose everybody needs something to do while they’re waiting for death at the pointy end of the queue."

Gramps lit another cigarette. We can’t help thinking this crazy enterprise of your dad’s might just work out. And we want to be part of it, don’t we, Girl.

Gran nodded.

The following day when Dad asked for their life savings and pension in they went without hesitation. Dad offered Gramps a written agreement up-front.

He and Gran exchanged another knowing look after which Gramps shook his head. No. If I can’t trust my own son to do the right thing, who can I trust?

Pandy continued to be whiney about everything.

Gran sighed her deepest sigh. We’ll have to make allowances. She is after all only a typical nine year old. And she’s lost her mum.

Dad tried to compensate as any parent should. He took time out to buy Pandy’s clothes. Gran helped him with sizes and after school they were laid out on her bed as a big surprise.

I get up each morning hoping things will turn out better than yesterday, Gran said with a sigh. I’ll continue to look after Pandy and you three men as best I can.

We were as optimistic as salmon swimming upstream.

CHAPTER 5

BEAU NASH

We’d inherited an old man with the hotel lease. His official title was Kitchen Porter and because of his age the landlords had requested Dad keep him on.

"He reminds me of Mr Potato Head," Pandy giggled.

He’s a shuffling little basement dweller with wayward eyebrows, Dad smiled.

Age wise he looks like he’s about ready to celebrate his centenary birthday.

Even with the assistance of his sturdy walking cane he’s slower moving than a glacier, I commented. Rarely does he venture from his basement haven to our brightening improvements upstairs.

And when he does, have you noticed? He’s got pieces of toilet paper adorning his shaving mishaps, Gramps added.

Dad smiled. He conducts his ablutions in a bucket rather than use a bathroom, but aside from his alarming lack of personal hygiene, I suspect he’s been down there since the days of Beau Nash.

Who’s Beau Nash? Gramps asked.

I knew this one, I piped in. About two hundred years ago, when Tunbridge Wells had its Georgian period of elegance, Beau Nash was a famous dandy who organised their social scene.

Gramps shared my light, then between puffs I continued. It was a time when gentlemen were responsible for their own rules of social behaviour.

Gramps grinned. Regrettably, none of the grandeur of yesteryear has rubbed off on our small basement dweller. But as a nickname, I suppose Beau Nash fits him well; especially as inside his room looks like the bottom of a whore’s handbag.

I wonder if he’s found Amelia Earhart down there, yet? Gran asked, with a rare smile.

Pandy laughed. She was laid on the floor doing her homework. She called out, He’s where flies go to die, you can see their feet dangling down his nose. She then rolled on the floor and continued laughing at herself.

Dad smiled at Pandy. Be benevolent family, he doesn’t eat much, gets paid sweet fuck-all, and in return for his board he stokes the coal-fired boiler for the hot water system.

When he remembers, Gramps reminded us with a shiver. There are a few too many times when hot water is not available.

I agree. Often I leave the tap on in the vain hope that hot water will eventually appear. Too often it doesn’t.

Oh, and he says he’ll peel potatoes when asked, Dad added.

Provided we give him about a week’s notice, Gran sighed, but fresh potatoes should never be peeled, only scraped because they taste better.

That’s not going to happen, Gran, I cut in.

Why not?

Because scraping takes too long. Like it or lump it, you with a fifty pound bag of spuds in your lap, paring knife in hand, isn’t our best solution.

Silence.

Beau Nash is amazing, Pandy announced, almost as if she’d sensed a change of subject was called for. He reads tea cups.

Him reading tea leaves? How come, if he’s clairvoyant, he doesn’t know when he’s about to let our boiler go out? Gran sneered.

We came to learn that Beau had a penchant for repeating tired, old jokes. Later that evening he gave Gramps some advice.

When you reach my age, governor, never ever walk past a urinal, never waste an erection, and never, ever trust a fart. And if you do get an opportunity, he winked, if you know what I mean. Don’t pass it by.

Aren’t you afraid of having sex at your age?

There was a long pause.

If she dies, she dies, Beau replied, before lumbering away.

CHAPTER 6

HAREWOOD HOTEL

Gramps lit a cigarette. Most of your permanent resident guests have departed, Son.

Gran nodded. There’s only one couple prepared to tolerate all the noisy disruptions, and only then for drastically decreased rent.

Oh well, family, maybe it’s a blessing in disguise, Dad said. But he sounded as tentative as a tightrope walker in a stiff breeze.

How come? Gramps asked.

Now we can push ahead without concerning ourselves with the comfort of guests.

Gran was thoughtful. Why not have a grand debut of your new bedroom especially for them? That is if they’re still here, they get first pick.

Good idea, Girl. When word gets around about the bright new rooms and modern facilities they’ll all want to come back.

Dad inserted his empty pipe into his tobacco pouch and began to fill the bowl. That’s a splendid idea you two, and agreed, what better way to spread the word.

Gran and Gramps beamed with pride.

Within a week our feature bedroom was ready boasting clean white paint, brighter light bulbs, pristine carpet, a colour television set and the best of furniture.

On cue our remaining couple appeared, his wife holding his left arm. Old school, I thought. He keeps her on his left to maintain his sword arm free.

He was a tall, hollow-cheeked man with narrow, wizened hands and tidy, slicked-down hair. He wore a charcoal grey chalk stripe suit that had seen better days with a colourful clip on bow tie. He looked as gaunt and melancholy as a scarecrow.

His wife was a frumpy, bespectacled woman wearing a faded pleated skirt and woollen twin-set. They entered our refurbished bedroom, hesitant, faltering and unsure.

He took a long, hard look around the room.

We stood back positively beaming with pride at our efforts.

After a short pause, he cleared his throat and announced. No! We don’t like it!

Absolute silence.

Were they demented! What wasn’t there to like?

We must have looked as dumb as potted plants.

Hollow-cheeked man explained. It’s too white.

Too white? How can white be too white? Bastards!

Too bright, added his wife, through half closed eyes.

Too bright? It’s clean is what it is, with a decent size electric light bulb! Bitch!

We don’t like the brightness. She raised an arm as if to shield her eyes, Dazzling, white paint hurts our eyes.

My god they actually preferred gloomy as in multiple shades of brown.

And you can take that blasted thing away, hollow-cheeked man pointed at the brand new colour television set in pride of place. We don’t like that thing.

With their faces pinched as if a sewer pipe had burst under their noses they left returning to their dismal brown room.

Dad struck a match to ignite his pipe. He was visibly shaken.

They don’t like colour television, I added, neither BBC nor ITV. Incredible.

And they’ve not the slightest inclination to change, Dad groaned. "Whatever happened to Welcome to Television."

Tears filled Pandy’s eyes, her lower lip trembled. How could anyone not like TV? Daddy, surely everyone loves television.

Gran rallied. "They obviously don’t follow Ena Sharples on Coronation Street, that’s all I’ll say."

More likely they don’t want to pay £9 a week, Girl.

Gran was thoughtful. You’re probably right you know. £6 or less is what they expect to pay. It’s not really that they prefer the old styles.

We were deflated.

Gran exhaled heavily and then said to no one in particular. Well, that was fun.

We Gotta Get Out Of This Place by the group the Animals was playing softly in the background on the wireless.

Oh well. Time for a cuppa, Gran suggested. Most of the world’s problems can be solved over a cup of tea.

Dad puffed more deeply on his pipe. He looked irritated. It appears we’ve snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.

Gramps crushed out his unfiltered cigarette stub in the ashtray, along with his three other stubs already there. They resembled bullets waiting to be loaded into a gun. He lit his fifth cigarette.

We sat in silence sipping our tea. Distracted Gramps had put enough sugar into his to make his spoon stand up.

The Animals were followed by Ken Dodd on the wireless singing Tears.

Dad poured himself a stiff Scotch. Worry reflected in his face.

What are you doing, Son? Gramps asked.

I’m having a whisky, Father.

Why are you drinking at this hour?

Because I’m annoyed with myself. I didn’t think I’d missed anything. I was so sure that the gamble of clean rooms and a better standard of living for just a little extra money each week would win them over.

Gramps was unsympathetic. Pour me one. I’m annoyed with you too. Maybe because back when I went to school that’s not just a little extra.

Dad’s monumental blunder had culminated into an unmitigated disaster with the ink barely dry on his lease.

The day drifted on as days do when bad news needs to be digested. Gran and Gramps set about preparing our evening meal. Pandy played, and I spent time with her but I felt like a lost lamb in an abattoir.

It was late afternoon when Dad called us together his table covered in pages of calculations. His eyes glistened with excitement, as much as with alcohol.

"Plan B, family. I’ve crunched the figures, joined the dots again, and have come up with an alternative. We’ll fill this place by competing with the Castle Hotel next door."

CHAPTER 7

DAD’S PLAN B

Dad wrung his hands together as if he were Macbeth. His cheeks were red and he blinked several times before he took a deep breath and plunged on.

I realise they’re a Trust House and powerful opposition. They’ve got a star rating and a licensed restaurant but I’ve got it all figured out. We’ll soon have them against the ropes.

What about your guaranteed formula for success offering permanent residents a deal they can’t refuse? Gramps sounded testy.

Gran sighed