(published ‘Dementia 13’ 1991)
The sea-front hotel, white smooth turrets, bosomy bay windows, a facade boned clean by the salt in the air, centred in upon its revolving entrance, where an ex-army man in razor-sharp tunic trousers and brimmed cap, saluted all those who came and went. That seemed to be his only job... saluting.
The pier stretched its limb into the sea, not far away down the prom. Even here, outside the hotel, you could discern the shrieks of the dodgems, the clunkc1ick of the amusements, the ratcheting of the big wheel betokening broken necks, or maybe, at best, broken hearts.
Within the hotel, the residents sat at seperate tables in the dining-room. These rich widows, done up in the finery accumulated from centuries of haberdashers (including the one round the corner that catered for ‘elegant ladies’), are a dying breed.
The monied classes are not quite what they used to be.
In any event, the hotel manager is currently considering turning their rooms into a business conference suite.
He does not actually gnaw his knees in concern at their eventual petering out as hotel residents.
* * * *
The widow lady sat bolt upright in her bed. The night had long been in place. The residual noises from the pier fed only ghosts into her system...
She thought Horror was coming in at her from the eight corners of the room. These were memories of he who had first caused her widowhood.
The first was the husband she remembered from the well-thumbed photo album…and moped over. The next was the troublous husband who had aches, pains and a weak nature. Each memory vision grew worse...weak bladder, cancer of the bowel, brain lost (flushed accidently down that loo she recalled so well.) The last vision was a ghost-train monster, actually more supremely horrific by virtue of being the husband she thought she had loved with all her heart.
It ate her soul up as if it were candy floss.
****
Some morning, the hotel manager smiled at the widows crawling out of their beds towards a civilised breakfast for which they had no appetite. He knew that yet another denizen of a separate table had snuffed it. Soon, his conscience would not need to be pricked at all.
The pier stretched its limb into the sea, not far away down the prom. Even here, outside the hotel, you could discern the shrieks of the dodgems, the clunkc1ick of the amusements, the ratcheting of the big wheel betokening broken necks, or maybe, at best, broken hearts.
Within the hotel, the residents sat at seperate tables in the dining-room. These rich widows, done up in the finery accumulated from centuries of haberdashers (including the one round the corner that catered for ‘elegant ladies’), are a dying breed.
The monied classes are not quite what they used to be.
In any event, the hotel manager is currently considering turning their rooms into a business conference suite.
He does not actually gnaw his knees in concern at their eventual petering out as hotel residents.
* * * *
The widow lady sat bolt upright in her bed. The night had long been in place. The residual noises from the pier fed only ghosts into her system...
She thought Horror was coming in at her from the eight corners of the room. These were memories of he who had first caused her widowhood.
The first was the husband she remembered from the well-thumbed photo album…and moped over. The next was the troublous husband who had aches, pains and a weak nature. Each memory vision grew worse...weak bladder, cancer of the bowel, brain lost (flushed accidently down that loo she recalled so well.) The last vision was a ghost-train monster, actually more supremely horrific by virtue of being the husband she thought she had loved with all her heart.
It ate her soul up as if it were candy floss.
****
Some morning, the hotel manager smiled at the widows crawling out of their beds towards a civilised breakfast for which they had no appetite. He knew that yet another denizen of a separate table had snuffed it. Soon, his conscience would not need to be pricked at all.
Posted by weirdtongue
at 10:42 AM EDT
