Chapter 16: Hotel Barnard

Norm’s hotel was one of those non-descript terraced houses of which the capital has so many. Not far from the King’s Road, it had been a fashionable place in the 1960’s; the haunt of photographers, minor pop stars, fashion models that might almost make it and criminals that almost certainly did. Now it was run down and tired which was just how Norm was feeling.

The woman on the check in-desk acted like she had never seen an Irish passport before. “Where’s your ident card?” she’d asked.

“We don’t have them in Eire,” Norm responded, showing her his passport. She’d looked back barely believing him. “It’s only your English men that need them.”

“Don’t get clever with me.” She slapped a key down on the desk. “Have a nice stay, Mr O’Neill. Oh, and I have a message for you.” She passed across a small envelope.

Norm wondered whether all British women had got more aggressive over the time he’d been away. It certainly seemed that way. The good-hearted camaraderie of the bar in the Pride of Eirrean seemed a way more attractive option than here.

Norm made his way upstairs. A swarthy man with a care-worn expression was pushing a cleaning cart along the corridor. “209?” Norm asked.

“End of the corridor on the right,” the cleaner said, looking startled to have been spoken too.

It was a small room looking out from the back of the hotel. There wasn’t much of a view unless you were a student of dustbins and fire escape stairways. The décor was tired and the towels in the bathroom thin but it was reasonably clean and not too far from the centre of London. Best of all it was nondescript and unlikely to attract anyone’s attention. It would do for the couple of nights that Norm was expecting to stay.

He opened the envelope that the woman at check-in had given him. “267 Vauxhall Bridge Road” was all it said. Norm looked at his watch. It was seven in the evening. He didn’t want to risk being picked up for breaking the curfew. It was probably best to leave it until tomorrow.

He thought about getting some food but decided trying to find a restaurant that allowed unaccompanied males was probably too much of a challenge. He called out on the room’s phone for a pizza. He browsed channels on the TV. The programmes looked duller than those he had become used to in Ireland and there were way too many with politician’s talking for Norm’s taste. Dissatisfied, he flicked the TV off.

He pulled out the pamphlet he had got from the airport. It didn’t look like there were any significant changes to the male control regulations since he had left. The curfew was still in place – although it ran between nine o’clock in the evening and five in the morning now. Not heading out for a meal or going to number 267 had been a good call. He remembered enough about the enthusiasm the MCF had for enforcing the curfew in his home town. He certainly didn’t want to try ignoring it in central London where there would be a whole lot more of them about.