The Hotelier - adapted from “Dick Jones of the Hoylake Horse,” by Michael G Priestley.

Dick and Joan bought a large, red brick, Edwardian house at the top of Dudley Road, in New Brighton. Double-fronted, with its original leaded lights and some fire-places intact, it was a commanding example of its type. It was on the edge of the resort, seven minutes’ walk from the station and ten from the promenade.

Two Merseyrail EMUs at the buffer stops in New Brighton in February 1972.

The “Sandpiper” opened for business in 1972. It was intended that their customers would be businessmen - salesmen, like Dick himself had been. They surprised themselves by attracting the tail end of the regular holiday resort trade, as well.

Always an interesting location at the mouth of the Mersey, New Brighton was on its last legs as a resort by the end of the 60s. Its main fare had become a very seasonal day tripper market. It had struggled to retain its former clientele in the age of the car, the aeroplane and package holidays abroad.

Building fabric was crumbling, the river and sands were polluted, attractions were closing down, new investors could not be found, the local authority was dithering and many residents would have preferred to see that corner of the Wirral consumed by an expansion of the residential suburbs that already surrounded it.

Yet, amazingly, in those rather depressing times in the early 70s, families with young children still came on the train to New Brighton from industrial Northern England, the Midlands and Central Scotland, armed with buckets and spades and a firm intention to hire deckchairs, no matter what. In poor weather, handfuls of bedraggled holiday makers could be seen wandering between vacant units in search of the few greasy spoon cafes and some shabby amusements.

Dick would not entertain criticism of New Brighton. I admired his steadfast defence of all he held dear, in the face of the negativity and increasing public ridicule, which was fast becoming the fashionable way to refer to Merseyside and its problems in the national media.

Dick used other local businesses in his own community wherever he could. Milk was delivered by the milkman long after most people were buying it at the supermarket. The newspaper was delivered from the local newsagent. Parts for failing electrical equipment were obtained from the specialist shop in New Brighton and basic foodstuffs were bought at the local grocers.

Dick held out for the importance of belonging to the place very strongly. Whilst detained in Stalag IVB, he must have longed for the opportunity to go dancing again at the Tower Ballroom, enjoy a pint in the local pub or a stroll along the promenade - just to be back where he came from. It had taken an extraordinary set of circumstances to make home the desperately special place that it was for Dick.  

If the holiday makers were disappointed with what they found on arrival in New Brighton, Dick would do his best to cheer them up. The former prison camp entertainer completely immersed himself in this new role. Ingenuity and war time cooking experience to the fore, Dick was in his element. What the hotel lacked in investment in modern conveniences, was more than amply compensated for by the sideshow he provided.

Breakfast time was pure theatre. To a background of light classical music, Dick would talk everyone through their meal with a mixture of tips about the local hot spots - “bigging up” the Granada Bowl, Fort Perch Rock and Wilkie’s Indoor Fairground - and adding a gentle ribbing of whoever was present.

His customers loved it and they loved him. Many of his visitors returned, time and time again, seduced by his charm and certainly not by the antique state of the electrics, the increasingly dubious “teas-maid” appliance on their bed-side table, or the queue to use the only bathroom.

I loved taking my friends to the “Sandpiper.” As Dick rounded the corner in the hallway he could see his guests through the full-length glass of the interior double doors. He smiled as he planned his opening remarks. They were welcoming in tone but provocatively humorous in content. You needed to be on your guard and ideally have a potential riposte up your sleeve. You felt that he was genuinely pleased to see you and all your friends. They would all get a personal greeting and a firm handshake.

At his New Year’s Eve Party, Dick was in his element. He would get in a crate of bottled pale ale and line up the glasses from the cabinet, giving each one a wipe with a dry tea towel, along the way. Joan would prepare vol-au-vents, cocktail sausages, cheese squares with pineapple chunks on sticks and her speciality, the industrial-sized sherry trifle.

Their friends would arrive; the men in synthetic fibre slacks, sports jackets and ties, the ladies with inflated hair-dos, thick coats, the odd stole and excessive make up. Dick quipped his way round everyone in turn. Rodgers and Hammerstein wafted round the house, courtesy of the speaker extensions.

Business at the Sandpiper ticked over. The kitchen diner performed adequately, given the limited space available for the arrangement. Its greatest advantage had been that Dick could regale his guests whilst he made them their breakfast and that was a master stroke – or maybe, it just happened that way! The showers remained as work in progress until the end, but the bath water was always stinking hot to make up for it.