The Terms Are Personal

WARNING: Since I’ve finally worked out how to add it, this story does contain (weird) imagery… enjoy

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Lloyd had always said that a Nissan was a sensible car. He said it at barbecues, in petrol stations, and once to a man trying to sell him a folding ladder. At twenty to midnight, on a wet country road forty miles from home, the Nissan Primera made a low grumbling sound and stopped with a great deal of finality.

Lloyd turned the key three times. On the fourth turn, he held it there for too long and stared through the windscreen as though the car might be embarrassed into starting. Kath sat beside him with her holiday cardigan on her lap and said nothing until the engine made a single polite click.

“That was the car saying no,” she said.

“We’ve got petrol,” Lloyd said.

“I didn’t say we hadn’t.”

They had been homeward-bound after a week near the coast, where the weather had been poor but the breakfasts had been enormous. Lloyd had eaten fried eggs every day because he believed a hotel buffet was a competition against unseen opponents.

The road was narrow, black with rain, and bordered by hedges so tall they seemed to have been planted to hide things. Lloyd checked his phone. Kath checked hers. Neither had a signal, a bar, a dot, or even that little spinning circle which at least suggests a phone is trying its best.

“Walk up the road,” Lloyd said. “There’ll be a farmhouse.”

“There’ll be a scarecrow with a headlamp and a dog called Clinker.”

“Farmers have phones.”

“So do we,” Kath said. “In theory.”

They took the torch from the emergency bag and began walking. Lloyd pulled their suitcase behind him while Kath carried the bag, which contained a blanket, three unused fuses, a flat packet of digestive biscuits, and a small flask full of cold water that smelled faintly of soup.

After ten minutes, they found a wooden sign leaning at an angle beside a gateway. The letters were painted in flaking cream.

THE DE PASCOE HOTEL
VACANCIES — LIMITED SPACE

Kath read it twice.

“Why would a hotel need to tell us it’s got limited space?” she asked.

“Then it’s probably doing well,” Lloyd said, which was one of the least convincing things he had ever said.

⸻

The hotel stood at the end of a long, muddy drive. It was a narrow three-storey building with yellow light glowing behind lace curtains, a roof like wet biscuit, and a car park containing one old Volvo, a broken birdbath and a wheelbarrow full of plastic ferns.

Lloyd pressed the brass bell. Somewhere inside, a bell rang once, then twice, then a third time much later, as though it had wandered off to think about it. The door opened to reveal a thin man in a green cardigan with pale eyebrows and a moustache that looked like it had been drawn on by a rodent.

“Evening,” he said. “Or morning, depending on how you treat time.”

Lloyd explained the breakdown and asked whether they might use a telephone. The man listened without moving, his head slightly tilted, like a man assessing a questionable melon. When Lloyd had finished, he held out one long hand.

“Sid de Pascoe,” he said. “Proprietor, breakfast manager and former amateur badminton official.”

“I’m Lloyd. This is my wife, Kath.”

Sid smiled at Kath for a second too long. “You may use the telephone. Though I should warn you, it sometimes gets anxious after rain.”

The phone in the office did not work. Sid lifted the receiver, tapped it twice, listened, and said that it had “gone inward.” He told them the nearest garage would not open until the morning, then offered them a room for the night.

“You can settle the bill tomorrow,” he said. “No need for awkwardness. We are all guests of the road eventually.”

“That’s very kind,” said Kath.

Sid placed a form on the desk, along with a blunt black pen.

“Insurance purposes,” he said. “Names, address, vehicle registration. If somebody falls down the stairs or breaks a lampshade, it helps us know who to telephone.”

Lloyd signed immediately. He had always been comforted by forms, particularly ones which had boxes. Kath signed after him, barely reading beyond the heading: GUEST ACCOMMODATION AGREEMENT.

Sid folded the paper neatly and placed it beneath the reception desk.

“Excellent,” he said. “You are now insured against almost everything.”

“Almost?” Lloyd asked.

“Don’t worry about it.”

⸻

Their room was on the second floor. It had two narrow beds pushed together beneath a floral coverlet, a wardrobe with one wooden hanger, and a framed painting of a crab wearing a red bow tie. A bowl of orange boiled sweets sat on the dressing table.

Kath looked around.

“It’s clean,” she said.

“It smells of old raincoats,” Lloyd replied.

“That isn’t necessarily dirty.”

“No. It’s worse. It’s history.”

Sid knocked ten minutes later and offered them cheese sandwiches. Lloyd said yes before Kath had answered. Downstairs, the dining room contained three tables, a clock that was twenty minutes slow, and a long shelf full of homemade teddy bears.

The sandwiches were enormous: white bread, serious butter, and thick slabs of mature cheddar. Lloyd took one bite and nodded gravely.

“This is a proper sandwich,” he said.

Sid sat at the next table with a mug of tea. “I use cheese from a farm nearby. The cows are respectful animals.”

Kath had noticed some teddy bears. There were perhaps forty of them, all with different clothes and expressions. One wore a small knitted football shirt; another had a tartan scarf; one had a tiny false moustache sewn above its mouth.

“Did you make all these?” she asked.

Sid looked pleased. “Every one. They are made in honour of former guests.”

Lloyd leaned closer to a large bear with dark brown stuffing poking out of one ear.

“What’s that made of?” he asked.

“Memories,” Sid said.

Kath waited. “Is that it? Memories?”

“Mostly,” he added. “Some wool. A little old hosiery where necessary. And maybe one other thing.” He said, trying not to snigger.

Lloyd put down his sandwich.

“One other thing?”

“People tend to leave something behind,” Sid said. “A token. It makes the bear personal.”

Kath smiled politely, but she did not look at the shelf again. They finished their sandwiches in silence, except for Lloyd asking whether the butter was salted and Sid saying that all butter had secrets.

⸻

That night, Lloyd slept badly. He had a dream that the crab in the painting climbed out of its frame and tried to sell him a small hat. Kath lay awake listening to the wind scrape along the outside walls and wondering why every bear on the shelf had seemed slightly alarmed.

At seven, she showered in the cramped bathroom. When she came out, her hair was washed and brushed loose around her shoulders. Lloyd had cut himself shaving and was pressing a piece of toilet paper beneath his chin.

“Ready?” Kath asked.

“No,” said Lloyd.

They went downstairs and found Sid behind the reception desk. The green cardigan had been replaced by a brown one with leather elbow patches, but the moustache remained exactly the same. On the desk sat the ledger, the black pen, and a small pair of burgundy clippers with a long coiled lead.

Kath stopped walking.

“How much do we owe you?” Lloyd asked.

Sid closed the ledger with both hands. “No money is required.”

“That’s good,” Lloyd said. “Because we’ve only got thirty-six pounds, a Nectar card and a coupon for a car wash.”

Sid slid the clippers a little closer to Kath.

“The terms are personal,” he said.

Kath looked at him. “What does that mean?”

“Your hair,” Sid said. “All of it. It will settle the account.”

Lloyd laughed once, but it came out high and unhappy. “No. No, it won’t.”

Sid did not seem offended. He reached beneath the counter and brought out the form they had signed the night before. It was unfolded slowly and placed flat on the polished wood.

“That is not the arrangement,” Kath said.

“It is,” Sid replied. “You both agreed.”

He turned the document and placed one pale finger on a paragraph near the bottom. The wording was tightly printed and was placed beneath a heading called Personal Effects and Proprietorial Consideration.

Kath read it. Then she read it again.

In settlement for overnight accommodation, refreshments and telephone access, Mrs Kath Lloyd agrees to the full removal and surrender of all scalp hair, to be retained by the proprietor for commemorative textile purposes.

Lloyd snatched up the paper.

“That wasn’t there.”

“It was there,” said Sid.

“You said it was insurance.”

“It is insurance. It ensures that payment will be made.”

“That isn’t insurance.”

“It is my insurance.”

Kath’s face had gone still. “You tricked us.”

Sid folded his hands. “I provided a room, cheese sandwiches, hot water, and the reasonable expectation of recovery assistance. You signed in good faith.”

“No,” Lloyd said. “We signed because we were cold and you talked about lampshades.”

Sid gave this some thought.

“Lampshades can be distracting,” he agreed.

⸻

Lloyd crumpled the paper in his fist. “We’re leaving.”

“Of course,” Sid said. “But the telephone will remain unavailable, and the garage will remain closed until I choose to contact them. There are no houses nearby. Your car is on a dangerous bend. Your wife has a damp cardigan, and you have a knee which appears to be making its own arrangements.”

Lloyd looked down at his knee. It did hurt. It had been a problem since a charity fun run in 2004 and had never forgiven him for trying.

“You can’t keep us here,” Kath said.

“I am not keeping you,” said Sid. “I am waiting for payment.”

Kath looked through the window. Rain moved across the car park in thin diagonal lines. Beyond it were hedges, darkness and the road where the Nissan sat uselessly.

Then she looked at the clippers.

“You’re a real piece of shit.” she said.

Sid nodded. “That is a normal initial response.”

Lloyd took her hand. “Kath, don’t.”

“What are we going to do?” she asked him. “Walk for hours, in this weather? Sit in the car and wait for someone who might not come?”

“We’ll find a way.”

“We did find a way,” she said. “It was this bloody hotel. That’s the problem.”

She turned back to Sid.

“You call recovery the moment it’s done,” she said. “Lloyd stays beside me. You don’t talk. You don’t make it into some little ceremony.”

Sid’s eyes flickered towards the teddy shelf.

“I will be respectful.”

“You will be silent, you absolute sicko.”

Sid nodded.

Kath sat in the wooden chair beside reception. Lloyd stood next to her, holding her hand. Sid fastened a plain white cloth around her shoulders and carefully brought her hair forward over it.

The clippers began to hum.

Kath closed her eyes as the first long section fell. Lloyd looked at the hair in her lap, then at Sid, then away again. More came down in heavy copper lengths until her neck was bare and the room felt suddenly much colder.

Sid worked steadily and without speaking. That was almost worse than if he had spoken. When the humming stopped, Kath lifted one hand to the close, newly shorn shape of her head and let out a breath she had been holding for too long.

“Well,” she said. “I hope your bear looks dreadful.”

Sid gathered her hair into a brown paper bag marked KATH. Then, true to his word, he walked into the office and made the telephone call.

⸻

The recovery truck arrived just before eleven. The driver was a wide man called Neil who ate a pork pie while inspecting the Nissan and said it was “a bit beyond kindness.” Lloyd loaded their suitcase into the cab, then stood awkwardly beside Kath in the rain.

Sid watched from the hotel doorway. The paper bag was tucked beneath one arm.

Lloyd removed his coat and put it around Kath’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Yes,” Kath replied.

“I should have read the form.”

“Yes you fucking should have.”

“I’ll read every form from now on.”

Kath looked at him. “No, you bloody won’t. That’s you all over isn’t it?”

Lloyd looked down.

“But you will never sign us into a hotel again.”

“That seems fair.”

As the recovery truck pulled away, Kath looked back through the rain. Sid de Pascoe was already inside, standing before his shelf of teddy bears.

At the end, beside Gareth in the football shirt, was an unfinished bear with two black button eyes and a small label tied around one paw.

KATH — PAID IN FULL

 

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Please feel free to let me know in the comments of how much you liked (or despised) it… and yes I know the images are crap 🙂

Ola, Dicecake