Page 52 of Too Busy for Love

‘It used to be the most marvellous place.’ The man sighs. ‘But times change, don’t they? We’re in tune, The Mermaid and me. She was at her best when I was in my prime, and now we’re both old and worn out.’

‘The Mermaid?’

‘That’s what it was called. You can still see the name at the top if you look carefully. The last lot never bothered to remove the sign, just stuck the board with their logo over it.’

I look up, and he’s right. At the very top of the building is a large slab, into which the wordsMermaid Hotelhave been carved.

‘There was the most beautiful mosaic of a mermaid in the lobby,’ the man continues, lost in his thoughts. ‘We were trained never to walk across it, but always around the edge. Different days, eh?’

‘You worked here?’

‘Oh yes. I started as a pot washer when I left school and worked my way up to doorman. I even met my wife here; she was a housekeeper.’

‘I’m trying to picture what it must have looked like back then.’

‘Oh, she was beautiful.’

‘Are you talking about your wife or The Mermaid?’

‘Both,’ he says wistfully. ‘We had our wedding reception here. Happiest day of my life. Every time I walk past, I can see myAnnie in her dress, even after all these years. Of course, we could never have afforded it normally, but it was hotel policy to offer employees a free reception if they wanted it.’

‘Wow.’ I’m trying to picture him as a young man with his bride but I’m struggling. ‘I don’t mean to sound pushy,’ I say after a moment, ‘and please feel free to say no, but I don’t suppose you have any photos from back then, do you?’

‘Lots.’ He laughs. ‘I’d be happy to show them to you if you have time. I’m Reginald, by the way.’

‘Beatrice.’

‘What a lovely name. Delighted to meet you, Beatrice. I live in the retirement home a little further up if you’re happy to follow me and don’t mind listening to the nostalgic ramblings of an old man.’

‘I’d love that. Thank you.’

When Reginald said ‘a little further up’, he really meant it. His retirement home is almost next door to The Mermaid so, despite his slow shuffle, supported heavily by his walking frame, it only takes us a couple of minutes to reach it.

‘If the warden asks, you’re my great-niece,’ he tells me conspiratorially as he holds his pass up to the holder next to the front door. ‘They mean well, but they can be a little over-protective.’

The heat when we get inside is almost stifling, but I follow him past the front desk and down a long corridor with doors on either side.

‘This is me,’ he says, holding his pass against a door lock on the left, which beeps and clicks open. I follow him in and find myself in a bright, airy room with a bed on one side and a sitting area on the other.

‘Take off your coat and make yourself comfortable,’ Reginald says, indicating an overstuffed sofa. ‘I never sit there any more. I can get in it, but then I have to get someone to help me out.I sit there, in my whizzy chair.’ He points to a very ordinary-looking armchair by the window. ‘Would you like a cup of tea or anything?’

‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’ Although he’s abandoned the frame now he’s indoors, he’s still terribly frail and I can see he has a tremor in his hands. Making tea would be a big effort for him.

‘It’s no trouble.’ He laughs. ‘I just phone the kitchen and someone brings it.’

‘In that case, tea would be lovely, thank you.’

He places the order, adding chocolate digestives for good measure, and then crosses to a glass display cabinet, which has various ornaments in the top half, and drawers underneath.

‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he says. ‘The albums are in the bottom drawer, but I can’t get down there. Would you mind?’

‘Not at all. Tell me what I’m looking for.’ I bend down, open the drawer and, after I’ve moved a few things out of the way, Reginald instructs me to bring out a large leatherbound book. It’s heavy and a little unwieldy, but I’ve soon freed it and laid it on the sofa. Reginald lowers himself carefully into his ‘whizzy’ chair and closes his eyes. For a moment, I’m worried he’s gone to sleep, but then he says, ‘Open it. I know every picture in there like the back of my hand.’

The first picture is of a young woman in a simple white dress, smiling shyly at the camera.

‘That’s my Annie,’ he says without opening his eyes. ‘January the fifteenth, 1953. I was twenty and she was seventeen. We were married for sixty blissful years before she passed away. Cancer.’

‘She’s beautiful,’ I tell him sincerely.

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