Queenie Malone’s Paradise Hotel

by Ruth Hogan

  We were moving Joseph Geronimo’s things into the flat above the café. Daniel lives with me now; no, we live together in my mother’s old flat – me, Daniel and Eli. Joseph Geronimo and Daniel were downstairs unloading the van. I was upstairs surrounded by boxes. Eli had been restless all morning, pacing up and down and endlessly fretting. He sniffed each box frantically when it was brought upstairs and finally found what he was searching for. He grabbed a cardboard corner and shook his box of choice violently. I heard breaking noises. He stopped and looked at me to see if I had got the message. Apparently not. The barking began, urgent, insistent and demanding. Even Daniel heard it. I opened the box and the barking stopped. As I knelt down, his black face appeared a whisker away from my cheek. I picked the shards of glass from the front of a photograph in the top of the box and a ghost stared back at me. Joseph Geronimo and a few friends stood in front of a bar with glasses raised, but the man serving the drinks was Stevie; the landlord who drove his customers crazy playing ‘Black Velvet Band’. Eli barked one more time. I had found what he wanted me to. All that time, without knowing it, Joseph Geronimo held the key.

  It didn’t take much to track down the man himself after that. The pub was still there and so was the jukebox. The dark interior was hushed by heavy curtains and a burgundy carpet patterned to hide the spills that the stale, beery odour betrayed. The old men drinking in the back bar were pleased to have someone new to talk to. Cradling half-pints of Guinness in purple hands knotted and gnarled by old age and arthritis, some of them even still alive, they told me all about my dad. He had been the landlord here until he had retired, and some of them were his friends. They visited him when they could. They told me that he talked about me, that he had never forgotten me. Their pale eyes watered and their cold bony fingers clutched at my arm as they smiled and said how pleased he would be that I had come back. They even told me where he was, right down to the postcode and the telephone number – ridiculously easy after all these years.

  ‘It’s Tilda, isn’t it? I’m Mrs Parsons, but everyone calls me Pat.’ The woman striding across the lawn is younger than I expected. She offers her hand and her condolences. ‘I see you’ve found him then?’ My hand is still resting on the simple brass plaque attached to one of the fence posts, which marks the place where my dad’s ashes were buried just six weeks ago. ‘Your father loved this view,’ she says, shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight with one hand and gazing at the band of water that shimmers on the horizon. She goes on to tell me how popular Stevie was with the other residents – a bright spark, full of life right until the end. I know that she is trying to be kind, but her words are like pebbles falling down a deep, dark well. I am too late. Sensing that silence is what I really need, Pat turns back towards the house. Her perfume is overpowering and seems to trail in her wake as she follows the stripes across the grass. The scent remains, growing stronger if anything, and my mistake becomes clear. Chanel No. 5. Perhaps my mother has made her peace with Stevie now, as well as me.

  The soft clut of the letterbox is shortly followed by Daniel dropping a small package into my lap on his way to the kitchen to make me toast clouds for breakfast. I can see by the postmark that it is from the Sea View Care Home. It’s a letter from Pat Parsons with some forms for me to check and sign in order to be able to collect what remains of Stevie’s belongings. Apparently he had asked her to keep them safe. Just in case. I don’t want to think about it now. Those precious scraps are all that remains of him, but I would trade every last one of them just to be certain that he knew, even at the moment of his death, how much I loved him. That I have eked out every memory of our six short years together to keep our bond secure throughout the rest of my life without him. That he has always been and will always be my dad.

  I shove the forms back into the padded envelope, but the wad of papers resists. There is something at the bottom that I have missed. A small red and white Woolworths paper bag, grubby and tattered, with its top folded over and stuck down with a scrap of tape turned brittle and yellow with age. I check Pat’s letter again and it’s there in the final paragraph.

  This may seem a little strange, but when your father was dying he insisted that you would, one day, come back to find him. His belief in this was unshakeable. He told me that I should make sure, above all else, that you receive the enclosed package as soon as possible. I meant to give it to you on the day you came to visit, but you left before I had the chance. He was so insistent about the urgent nature of his request that I felt I had to send it to you straight away. His exact words were, ‘A promise is a promise and she’s waited long enough’.

  Inside the bag is a black velvet band.

  Acknowledgements

  Wow! Book three – who’d have thought it?

  My first acknowledgement this time is not of a person, but a place. I’d like to thank Brighton. Thank you for your splendid pavilion, your fabulous pier and your magical carousel of galloping horses. Thank you for your madness, tolerance and sheer exuberance. You are my happy place and invaluable inspiration for my writing. Brighton – I love you!

  Thank you to my brilliant agent and friend, Laura Macdougall, for always having my back, telling it like it is, for being an all-round excellent human being and an absolute privilege to work with. Thanks also to the whole team at United Agents for all their hard work.

  Thank you to the wonderful Lisa Highton for her gentle but firm editing hand, her patience and humour, and for shepherding me safely through airports and the perils of public transport. Thanks also to all the team at Two Roads, particularly Alice Herbert, Jess Kim, Emma Petfield, Kat Burdon, Sarah Clay and Megan Schaffer. Thank you to Amber Burlinson for doing a damn fine job of the copyediting (again!), and to Diana Beltran Herrera and Sarah Christie for producing yet another truly exquisite cover.

  Thank you to my readers all over the world for buying my books and for all your wonderful messages of support and encouragement. And, of course, for all the photos of your dogs – you know the way to my heart!

  Heartfelt thanks to all the booksellers and book bloggers who help my readers to find my books, and particularly Nina Pottell and Dave Wilde for their unstinting support and early quotes.

  Thank you to my parents for telling everyone about ‘Their daughter, the author’ (although, to be honest, they’re getting a bit blasé about it now), for their joy and pride each time I have something published or get mentioned on the radio, and thanks, Dad, for press-ganging everyone you meet to attend my local book events.

  Thank you to all my friends (you know who you are) who share my highs and lows and also keep my feet on the ground and stop me from getting too big for my (admittedly rather fabulous) boots.

  Peter at The Eagle Bookshop still hasn’t finished one of his own books but continues to be my writing buddy and offer invaluable support and advice. And tea. Thank you.

  A big shout-out to Ajda Vucicevic. Finally, Tilly and Queenie will be unleashed into the world. You never lost faith – and you were right. Bless you.

  Lastly, I should like to thank my husband, Paul, and my beloved dogs Squadron Leader Timothy Bear and Zachariah Popov. (Zach – you scared the bejesus out of me, but you were absolutely worth it) You guys are home.

  P.S. Tilda and Joseph Geronimo both smoke cigarettes on the pier. It’s not big and it’s not clever – it’s fiction. Smoking on The Palace Pier is strictly forbidden.

  About the Author

  Ruth Hogan was brought up in a house full of books and grew up with a passion for reading and writing. She loved dogs and ponies, seaside piers, snow globes and cemeteries. As a child she considered becoming a vet, show jumper, Eskimo, gravedigger and once, very briefly, a nun.

  She studied English and Drama at Goldsmiths College, University of London where she hennaed her hair, wore dungarees and aspired to be the fourth member of Bananarama. After graduating, she foolishly got a proper job and for ten years had a successful if uninspiring career in local government before a car accident le
ft her unable to work full-time and was the kick up the butt she needed to start writing seriously.

  It was all going well, but then in 2012 she got cancer, which was bloody inconvenient but precipitated an exciting hair journey from bald to a peroxide blonde Annie Lennox crop. When chemo kept her up all night. she passed the time writing and the eventual result was her debut novel The Keeper of Lost Things.

  She lives in a chaotic Victorian house with an assortment of rescue dogs and her long-suffering husband. She describes herself as a magpie; always collecting treasures (or ‘junk’ depending on your point of view) and a huge John Betjeman fan. She still loves seaside piers, particularly The Palace Pier at Brighton and would very much like a full-size galloping horses carousel in her back garden.

  Want more from Ruth Hogan?

  Read the stunning first novel from the Queen of Up-Lit

  Buy The Keeper of Lost Things now