by Craig Melvin
Success tasted rather sweet to Franco. He swung on the barstool next to Larry.
‘I had my chance and I took it. Look at all this, Larry. Belle Hotel. Enough to make an old man die happy.’
Old men? They were only knocking seventy, decades in them both yet. Larry, high on the success of his World at War voiceovers was regaling Franco with tales from his latest Hollywood stint filming Marathon Man. Larry slapped Franco with his Times on the punchlines.
‘So I said to him, Dustin, my good fellow, there really is no need to stay up for three nights. Why not try acting, dear, it’s much easier? Eh, Franco, why not try acting? Talk about madness in the method. Well, old chap, how about a toast to Belle Hotel’s continued success. More champagne?’
Janet tramped wearily down to the cellar. At thirty, she was already getting the gait of a middle-aged woman. What were most girls her age up to this time of night? At home with their feet up watching Last of the Summer Wine, not serving it to these two old farts. Are You Being Served? By Janet? Some Mothers Do ’Ave Em. Johnny, the once charming bellboy from The Grand, had become a miserable mute under Franco’s dictatorship. More like being married to a ghost. At least she had Charlie to make it all worthwhile. The boy spent most of his time running around after Franco, while she lugged crates of Schweppes up from the cellar. What a carry on. How could she forget the year before when Franco had invited the entire cast of Carry on London down for the night after their sell-out theatre run in London? Janet saw things that night that made her eyes pop out of her head. She thought after a working life in the catering trade that nothing could shock her, but one night of capers with Sid James and Barbara Windsor put paid to that.
They belted out bawdy music hall numbers into the small hours and those guests that couldn’t beat them came down to join them in their dressing gowns for a knees-up and a night cap. Money makes the world go round, sung to the sound of cash crossing the counter. Not that she or Johnny saw any of it. Franco paid them every Friday, the same wage as they had received at The Grand, with a kiss for Janet and slap on the back for his son.
Johnny’s back was still smarting; he reversed the Granada into the last remaining space at the cash and carry, pulled on the handbrake and sat in silence as the engine wheezed itself to death.
He very slowly lowered his head to the steering wheel and let it rest there for a few moments before lifting it up and letting it fall with a crack. Fizal Moondi, the Ship Street newsagent, tapped on the Granada’s window. Johnny tried to ignore him, then relented and wound the window down.
‘You all right, mate? Don’t let the bastards grind you down. Some bloke behind me in the queue just thumped me for being a slow Paki. Cheer up, it could be worse. You could be me.’
‘It is worse. I am me. At least you’re your own boss.’
‘Hey, look out for the snack aisle special offers, I got me half a ton of pork scratchings for a tenner. Reckon they’d go down well in your bar.’
Johnny shook his head.
‘Franco’s given me a list. I deviate under pain of death.’
Fizal wobbled his head and winked, his own Ango-Indian trademark, and wheeled the packets of pigskin to his clapped-out Maxi. Johnny let out the longest sigh of defeat and made to wind the window back up. The handle came off in his hand.
Franco’s food was getting him noticed. Belle Hotel Restaurant was now the must-eat place on the conference circuit and politicians of all stripes had dined off its stolen cutlery. Franco was storing his menus, just to make sure he didn’t repeat himself on someone important. His recipes and receipts were scattered over the floor every time goods were delivered. There were only so many times he could yell, ‘Door!’ at the top of his voice then call for Janet to come pick up and chronologically sort the scraps of card and paper that contained the secrets of his success. Something would have to be done about it.
Charlie was growing up. Before long it would be time for him to start playgroup. Mondays had already become something of a family institution, sitting down for a late lunch after service and some quality time together. This Monday in July 1976 was hot. So hot the tarmac had turned to sauce outside the open windows of Belle Hotel Restaurant.
Franco was hot, bothered and feeling his full sixty-six years. He’d built Belle Hotel out of nothing but a boot full of national treasure and a recipe for chocolate torte.
‘What do you think of the trifle? Better with Madeira, or do you prefer the sherry?’
Janet looked like she was thinking about it. Johnny, a snoozing Charlie balanced on his knee, sat staring into space.
Franco lifted up, then cracked down the ashtray on the hard edge of the table, the place he knew would hurt the most. Charlie stirred and began to cry. Johnny’s pretty-vacant stare vacillated towards a what-the-fuck-d’you-do-that-for glare.
‘Glad to have your attention.’ Franco couldn’t have made the speech looked more prepared if he’d read it. ‘I’ve decided to take some time off from arduous kitchen duties and am in need of a replacement. Janet, love, your hands are more than full with the bar and your housekeeping duties. Johnny, you ponce about front of house as if you own the place, which you don’t. I’ve decided it’s time to teach you the craft. You are going to learn how to cook. Fanny taught me and now I will teach you. Make yourself useful. I can’t go on for ever. I’m sixty-six, you know.’
Johnny held his son tight and looked at his father. Sixty-six, can’t go on for ever… Don’t make me laugh. You’ll carry on for years, you bastard. Making my life a misery. So it’s cooking, now, is it? Not good enough that I work out front, you’ve got to drag me back there and really turn the heat up. God help us both, you steely old sod.
Johnny completed his silent speech, nodded meekly and mumbled, ‘Yes, Dad.’
Janet and Franco could barely hear that.
‘We can barely hear you, lad. Speak up.’
‘I said yes, Dad.’
One day a young man in a cheap suit came knocking at the kitchen door, fighting his way past three weeks’ worth of uncollected rubbish. Roger Hardman had the gift of the gab and kept Franco chatting long enough to burn his meringues.
‘Your boy, is he? Oh, your grandson. Lovely age. I’ve one of my own about the same age. Lulu. We lost her mum, my wife, in childbirth. Tragic. Still, life must go on. Do you want to take a look at the Axminsters?’
Franco, unsure what to do with this information, busied himself with shag piles and paisleys. Roger rabbited on.
‘I’m just starting out on my own in carpets. Need all the help I can get. Tell you what,’ Franco’s eyes and finger-backs lingered over red Marrakesh, ‘hundred per cent wool. I’ll do the whole place for five grand.’
Franco sucked his teeth and narrowed his eyes.
‘I tell you what, son. I’m about to be clobbered again by the tax man. You need some help starting out in life. What say we come to a little arrangement?’
Invoice
Hardman Carpets
Axminster Marrakesh carpet with underlay throughout Belle Hotel Stairs, Landings and Bedrooms £10,000
The invoice was punched and slipped into the leather binder that Larry had bought Franco to stop his life falling about his feet every time some bugger opened the back door. It sat behind the recipe for hollandaise sauce that Franco had hand-typed on his old Remington, hole-punched at the front desk and clasped through swing doors to the kitchen. Roger paid back the five-grand loan in fifty-quid instalments, slipping it behind the cash he spent at Belle Hotel bar with his prospective customers as they touched pile and stroked weft on Franco’s stools while perusing the full Hardman Carpets selection.
Janet had solved two problems for Roger. They’d been friendly for a while, met when Roger fitted the carpets for her former employer, The Grand, and he’d chatted Janet up. They’d dated a couple of times before Janet married Johnny. Roger was one of the rent-a-crowd Janet and Johnny had invited to the Belle Hotel’s opening night. The crowd that Franco slung out for bei
ng rat-arsed. It was Janet who’d suggested Roger tap up Franco for work and it was Janet who solved the problem of what to do with his daughter, Lulu, on those nights he did business at the Belle Hotel bar.
‘Bring her over to play with Charlie. I can as easily neglect two children as one. They can be playmates.’
And play they did. Like brother and sister. Charlie stealing Lulu’s dolls and throwing them down the laundry chute. Lulu screaming the place down and pulling Charlie into the bar by his hair. Most guests mistook them for siblings. As much as they argued, they were as often to be found sprawled out on the floor of the restaurant of a quiet afternoon colouring the backs of menus. Franco clamped one special picture they’d drawn into his book. It was the two of them at the door of a wonky Belle Hotel. Smiling sun and Charlie neatly drawn by Lulu; lashing rain and Lulu shoddily scrawled by Charlie. Their favourite place to hide was the cubbyhole behind reception. There was just enough space for the two of them to squeeze in and Franco took a snap of their faces peeking out from an oval hole in the wood.
‘Come with me, you two. I want to take a snap of you in my big cooking pot. Look sharp, yer mum’ll be back from the laundry in a bit. There’s a Curly Wurly in it for you both.’
Franco had splashed out on a tri-fold brochure not long after he’d opened Belle Hotel. He’d had his British Rail colleagues hand out the brochure until all ten thousand copies were gone and every seaside visitor with the cash to travel first class was the proud owner of a full colour shot of Belle with her red-and-white rock-striped awnings out. Franco got a quote for another load of brochures and binned it when he saw the greedy printers had doubled their prices. Sod it, he’d ditch the print and go for it big time.
Pearl & Dean Cinema Advertising
Invoice for Belle Hotel Advert
‘Only a hundred yards from this cinema.’
£850
Franco made Johnny take Charlie and Lulu out to the Palace Pier for duration of the filming. Said they’d only get in the way. Made sure that Janet had her shortest dress on, he did. Treated himself to a nice white polo neck from John Smedley just for the occasion.
‘And, cut. Mr Sheridan, can we just do that one more time and, er, try to act natural.’
‘What do you mean natural? This is natural.’
The cameras rolled for the umpteenth time that morning and Franco’s cronies, press-ganged into being extras with the promise of a free lunch, did their best to keep straight faces while the old man fluffed his lines.
By noon, the director had given up, muttering to the cameraman something about the floor not being the only wooden thing in shot and calling it a wrap before sitting down to a prawn cocktail on the house.
The Belle Hotel advert amused cinema-goers for years. The crackly film and jumpy editing perfectly suited Franco’s stilted delivery. Franco’s catch-phrase, ‘Goes down well at the Belle’, and his wink became something of a local legend. For Brightonians it was up there with national TV favourites like ‘I’m a secret Lemonade drinker… R. Whites. R. Whites. R. Whites Lemonaaaaaade’, much copied, much loved and much good it did Belle’s takings, too. Larry, when pressed by Franco after he’d seen it before The Spy Who Loved Me, had to admit that it had been… very well lit.
Hollandaise Sauce
8 crushed peppercorns
20 large egg yolks
¼ pint lemon juice
¼ pint vinegar
40 oz butter
Place the peppercorns and vinegar in a small sauteuse and reduce to one-third. Add 3 tbsp cold water, allow to cool. Mix the yolks in with a whisk. Return to gentle heat and whisk continuously cook to a sabayon (like cream, sufficient to show the mark of the whisk). Remove from heat and cool slightly. Whisk in gradually the warm melted butter until thoroughly combines. Correct the seasoning. Pass through a fine chinoise. NOTE: Cause of hollandaise sauce curdling is either butter added too quickly, or because of excess heat which will cause the albumen in the eggs to harden, shrink and separate from the liquid. First attempt at hollandaise will almost certainly fail. Try again. Should sauce curdle, place a teaspoon of boiling water in a clean sauteuse and gradually whisk in the curdled sauce. If this fails to reconstitute the sauce then place an egg yolk in a clean sauteuse with a dessertspoon of water. Whisk lightly over a gentle heat until slightly thickened. Remove from heat and gradually add the curdled sauce whisking continuously. To stabilise during service, add béchamel before straining.
1 May 1979
The day Franco gave Johnny his first and last cookery lesson made a lasting impression on a watchful Charlie. At nearly six, Charlie could just see through the portholes of the kitchen door from the safe vantage point of the cubbyhole behind reception. Franco, having spent the morning up at his allotment, now had his book down from its place above the pass and was taking Johnny through the finer points of hollandaise sauce. He failed to mention the first attempt fail rate. It was not going well.
‘Useless.’
Grandad shouting at Daddy. Charlie hearing, though not seeing, the thrown pan.
‘Look at it, man. It is a sodding sauce, not a cunting custard. What is wrong with you?’
‘What’s wrong with me? I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me. You lied to me, kept me in the dark, and now—’
‘Now what, young man, now what?’
‘Dad, you lied to me to save face and you’ve been punishing me for finding out the truth ever since. And, for your information, I’m a father myself now, so you can cut the young man talk. Save it for your staff. Your staff, Franco, you bastard, and I, from this moment on, am not one of them. And I’ll tell you another thing—’
Charlie could neither see nor hear Daddy. Franco’s roar covered Johnny’s parting shot. The back door of the kitchen doused the porthole with sunlight and suddenly Daddy was gone.
Franco took his time putting the recipe back in its rightful place. Chefs scuttled about him clearing up the mess, wiping down the walls, putting pan, spoon and gloop in the sink. Franco scrubbed his hands at the small sink by the door, using the nail brush to work out any remaining specks of dirt. He raised his wet hands and was given a clean hand towel that was then picked up from the floor once he’d made his way through the swing doors.
Franco placed a hand on Charlie’s shoulder, spoke two words softly to the boy and then bellowed the rest up four flights of stairs.
‘He’s gone. Janet, love, can you come down. He’s gone.’
Janet joined them at the reception desk, duster in hand and Franco initiated the family hug. Charlie, still dazzled by the sunlight, clung to his mother and grandfather. Soft drops of salty water plopped onto his unbrushed hair. Janet shuddered and pulled away from Franco, taking Charlie into her arms. Just the two of them. Franco was left standing slightly apart, slowly shaking his head.
‘He’s gone. Janet, do you want to go with him? No, I thought not. Charlie, he’s gone. It’s just the three of us now. Family. He’s gone.’
Charlie looked at Franco and wanted to go to him, but he didn’t want to leave his mum. And he didn’t understand why Daddy had had to go. But he knew that he wasn’t coming back. An ache settled in the middle of his ribs. Charlie pulled away from Mummy and looked towards the kitchen. He let himself have a small cry, then wiped his eyes and snotty nose on his sleeve. Belle Hotel was silent, but for the tick-tock of Franco’s clock and the creak of the floorboard under the foot of Charlie’s scuffed shoes. He liked the sound and rocked back and forth faster and harder until he could forget the fact that his daddy had just left. Then Franco gave him a clip round the ear to stop it and the world fell silent. The three of them looked at one another as if to say, now what?
Franco’s clock struck noon and the old man tightened his apron strings and looked towards his kitchen. Lunch wasn’t going to cook itself and there was still the hollandaise to be made.
Janet twisted the duster between her fists and stared for the longest tick-tock at Charlie. Shaking her head she set off up the stairs t
o get a Mogadon and carry on with her housekeeping duties, using the duster’s dirty yellow softness to dab her eyes.
Franco patted Charlie on the head.
‘Now then, that’s enough of all that. We Sheridans don’t cry for long now, do we? Work to be done. Work to be done.’
And with that, Franco turned and walked slowly back to the kitchen to start his ten-year shift, counting off the years that he’d need to man the stoves before he could foist it on to Charlie, with each step.
Charlie, blissfully unaware of his birth duty, soon bored of kicking his legs against the reception desk and set off upstairs to get under his mum’s feet. The ache in his chest pulling with every step.
Lulu was invited over to stay that weekend to take Charlie’s mind off things. Franco watched in wonder as the two of them played chef and restaurant manager, aping the grown-ups. It made the old bastard smile, seeing Charlie pass imaginary plates to Lulu and her taking them to the table with a hello and thank you and enjoy your meal. With Johnny gone, maybe the next generation would ensure his legacy, win him that Michelin star, do Larry proud, make him the talk of the Guild. Franco gave the two of them a ten-pence tip for their hard imaginary work and sent them off to the newsagent for a Racing Post for him and a tin of pop for the two of them.
Tock-tick. Tick-tock. Everyone’s paying on the knock. Franco paid off his clock and vowed never to borrow or lend again. He let a shifty arty type stay a week without taking any cash upfront, then surprised himself when he let the fella off paying, skint he’d said, and accepted a portrait of himself, Janet and a cat in lieu of payment. Charlie and Lulu started off in the frame, but had to be painted out as they kept giggling and dashing out on a chase around the bar and back. Janet had to set them up with crayons and old menus. Listening to them talking while she was being painted gave Janet nothing to smile about and it showed.