by Ned Williams
Because of my renewed duties on the racks, it didn’t take too long for me to earn enough money to be able to go and book my trip. At that time the only travel agency capable of catering for such an off–beat holiday was Thomas Cook. I entered this unfamiliar world and went up to the counter which was manned by a serious young man who I had seen in some of the gay clubs. I had never spoken to him even though he was smart and good looking. As he glanced up at his prospective client there was a definite glint of recognition. The initial reaction from Russell, as proclaimed by the label on his lapel, was that he thought my request would be rather too complicated and could he really be bothered to spend so much time on one booking that would involve so much work? Once he registered that I wasn’t making a casual enquiry but was serious in my intentions, his interest changed a little. Although he must have thought me a right Culture Vulture, I had the feeling that I wasn’t being judged although he did make me feel like a right little swot. I don’t think he could understand why anyone would want to go to these weird places when there were Butlin’s, Pontin’s or many other popular holiday resorts in which to stay and get bored. Initially, his first reaction and advice was that, because of the time I could be away, it would be more practical to scale down my rather too ambitious plans. Europe was too big and it would be impossible to travel to each of the places I had hoped to visit and, even if it was possible, I would spend all my time on trains and coaches so there would be no time, whatsoever, to actually see anything except the passing landscapes as viewed through a window. I selected two towns which were fairly near to one another and where it meant I need only stay in one place and use it as my base accommodation. Russell told me that I was being a lot more realistic and that he could now go ahead to see what he could do. He asked for me to return in three days to okay his preliminary ideas and possible arrangements.
Unlike my mother, as soon as Sheba heard about my plans, she gave me her whole hearted support.
“Fantastic!” was her initial response with “I wish I was going with you,” closely following. The difference couldn’t have been more marked.
As I expected, Mickey simply looked at me with an enigmatic stare. Later he came out with, “I s’pose I can do without you for a while.” As with Sheba, I think he would have liked to have accompanied me.
Both my art teacher and fellow students were delighted and jealous of my plans.
“Everyone should experience other collections,” my teacher said to me but aimed it at the class.
Three days later I returned to the Travel Agency with some trepidation. What if they couldn’t manage the arrangements? What if I had to cancel all my cherished plans? As soon as I walked through the door, Russell gave me a wave and beckoned me over to his counter. He was all smiles.
“Well, Russell? Any luck?”
“I’ll tell you what we have so far.”
He then went on to tell me what he thought the best course of action would be and talk over a few things which needed a little more clarification before he could take the next step. This was going to be my first holiday alone and far away from our usual family seaside breaks. Added to this, as I have said, it was also my first time abroad and I was happy, indeed keen, to make the journey as picturesque as possible. Also, I thought I could save a little money by not flying but travelling this slightly cheaper way. First, he suggested I took an early coach to London. Did I want him to book an hotel?
“No, I don’t think so. I will look around and find my own place. There must be the odd cheap hotel I can find.”
“I hate to put a dampener on things, but you’ll be lucky unless you try somewhere off the beaten track – and I wouldn’t recommend those.” Actually, I had the idea of getting to the station from where I was due to cross to the Continent and stay up all night so that I wouldn’t miss my train on the following day. Anyway, it would be nice to view our capital at night. Was it true, as we believed that London never slept? He went on to give a verbal sketch of my week abroad including tickets to some exhibitions. Everything sounded wonderful and it fitted exactly into what I was after. I told him to go ahead with everything and I paid a large deposit. I was now committed to travel.
“Do you have a passport?” asked Russell.
“No, but I’ll get one.”
“That’s good because you’re not going anywhere without it.” Then he gave me the address of a photographer he could personally recommend.
So, it turned out that this particular local branch of Thomas Cook, and especially Russell, were more than happy to put together a package which was tailor made to my requirements. Russell, who had been dubious about taking on my challenge, had now become keenly animated about my wants and took on the task with alacrity. As it turned out, from his initial reticence he had enjoyed putting together the perfect itinerary. I couldn’t have asked for better.
Sheba was also beginning to get as enthusiastic for my trip as was I; in fact, she even insisted on coming along with me when I had my passport photograph taken. The photographer, a middle aged man who was on the effeminate side was instantly recognisable as being gay. Wasn’t there anyone straight around here? Although, because it was Russell who recommended him, I suppose his orientation shouldn’t have come as too much of a surprise. He included Sheba in the whole process. He asked her advice over the selection of my pose and angle of lighting. He was so nice that I think he was being sarcastic but we ignored it. The resulting photographs turned out rather well and Sheba asked for a copy and was duly presented with one by our effete photographer.
The evening following my trip to the photographers, alone, I popped into a quiet coffee bar to enjoy myself in reviewing my holiday arrangements. I couldn’t wait to visit the selected places around Europe noted for their art history. Following Russell’s advice, I was to deliberately avoid Amsterdam, Paris, Rome and the like, because I told him that I wanted a bit of peace and quiet as well as education. I was hoping that it was to be one of those magical events which happen only too rarely. I gave my disinterested mother the details of my proposed itinerary. Going abroad, as far as she was concerned was utter madness and, to make matters even worse, I was going alone. What was the matter, she complained, with a good, old fashioned English seaside holiday? For decades it had been good enough for the family and it should be good enough for me. Was she angling for a holiday for herself which I was to finance? My mother continued her attacks. She tried every argument and gave voice to her own fears to try and stop me travelling. Because she didn’t particularly want to go anywhere herself, she mocked and insulted any desire there might be in any one else who might want to do what she wouldn’t. The furthest she had ever been was a few excursions to London when she was younger. Since then, she had become a hermit in her own little community within the town. She rarely visited the city centre. She thought it was totally ridiculous that I wanted to go on this trip where I would only come across foreigners. I had to keep up the pressure over my trip as I needed her to sign my application for a passport.
“I don’t see how you are going to manage. You don’t know any languages.”
I had studiously followed many opera libretti so I thought I had a rebuttal, “I have a tiny smattering of German and….”
“No you don’t. What a ridiculous thing to say.”
I then gave up. She knew what she thought she knew and nothing would alter that.
To keep the peace I said, “You’re right.”
She was thrilled. “So you’re going to give up this silly idea?”
“No. I just happen to agree with you. It doesn’t mean I am going to cancel.”
Bursting into tears, another of the weapons in her battle bag, she ran from the room.
After many delays, she finally and magnanimously agreed to sign my form for a passport but then either kept on ‘forgetting’ to actually put pen to paper or was ‘too busy to deal with that now.’ Time was moving hastily on and I was getting seriously worried that I would have to cancel my trip through
lack of this vital travel document.
All her similar efforts went for nothing. I was too determined. My biggest fear was that I would end up being a stick–in–the–mud just like her. I saw how bitter she was becoming but I refused to be infected by that same bitterness.
Once more I turned my mind to the forthcoming holiday. I was even looking forward to visiting London, which I hardly knew. The few times I had ever been there, was with someone else. This was going to be different.
Eventually, my mother found time in her empty schedule to scratch her name onto my neglected form and I obtained the Visitor’s Passport which was then available and allowed its holder free access for a limited time to a limited number of countries – my choice being amongst them. It was valid for six months.
Eventually the date of my departure was almost upon me and I went to pay the balance for my trip and to receive my wad of tickets and foreign currency which Russell also arranged and put them all into a cardboard wallet for safe keeping.
“Have a wonderful time – I’m sure you will. It’s been a pleasure helping you.”
“I must thank you for all your dedicated work.”
“You never know, we might meet up socially sometime.”
“I’d like that,” I grinned. Sadly for me, we never did.
A few days later the time came for me to leave. I packed my case and with a peremptory, “Don’t get into any mischief,” from my mother, I took the bus to the Coach Station. My mind went back to that time when I was with a client on the empty bus and watching the people arriving from or departing to exotic places in Britain and wished I was one of them – well; now I was.
I stood in the bus station, waiting for my coach when, totally unexpectedly, Sheba arrived. She had come to see me off.
“Have a fabulous time and I want to hear all about it when you get back. All about it!”
To anyone who might have been watching us, Sheba and I gave a farewell worthy of ‘Casablanca’. She was crying. It wasn’t because she was upset but that she knew how much this holiday meant to me and was overcome with joy on my behalf.
Still tearful, Sheba promised she’d meet me when I came back.
Sitting on the coach, I suddenly felt alone. It wasn’t the same as when I left home to live with Paul. This was something else – a sort of frenzied excitement.
As the coach left the city and sped towards London, I leaned against the headrest and closed my eyes. I made a secret vow that I would enjoy every minute of my holiday. I would turn it into the greatest crusade of all time. I was determined to take full advantage of any and every adventure which might come my way.
In London, coming out of the bus station, I spotted one of those famous red London buses. Dragging my case with me but not knowing the bus’ destination, I boarded it and eventually found myself in Trafalgar Square.
I sat for a while and stared. I looked at the National Gallery. ‘One day,’ I thought. ‘I’ll come up here for a visit and spend a whole week in there.’
I was feeling highly cosmopolitan.
I saw a sign post indicating Piccadilly Circus and I started to follow its direction. It was a hot day and lugging my case around made me stop for a moment and rest.
A short, balding man who must have been well into his fifties came up to me and asked how he could get to The Strand. I had no idea and told him so. As I was sitting on a wall with my case beside me, it must have been fairly easy to guess that he wasn’t speaking to a local. Was I being propositioned within my first hour of arrival?
“You a visitor as well?” Wasn’t it obvious? Although he spoke perfect English, he had a strange accent; mind you, to me, everybody appeared to have strange accents.
It turned out he was from South Africa and a fellow tourist. He was travelling Europe and travelling alone. At the moment, he was on his way to Richmond to attend the Jazz Festival.
“I find it hard to enjoy things like Jazz on my own. You want to come with me?” So, it was a pickup.
“I would but most of my money is in a foreign currency because tomorrow I’m off abroad.”
“Don’t worry about that, I’ll pay for you.”
I remembered the promise to myself about taking on any adventure that might come my way and readily accepted his rather surprising offer.
He had a car parked nearby. Yep, it really was a pickup. As we walked to his parking place he insisted on carrying my case. I didn’t complain.
This was promising to be a satisfying start to my break. On the drive to Richmond, which in my ignorance I thought was a hell of a long way, our conversation was fairly innocuous but he did seem rather interested in my private life. Caution demanded that I didn’t tell him too much. Whilst on our visit, he let me keep my case in the boot of his car. Purely out of habit, I memorised its registration number – just to be on the safe side.
The crowded site and mashed up muddy field hardly made it conducive for a good time – but I was supremely happy that all seemed to be going well on my first holiday adventure but this little excursion hadn’t quite finished with me.
“Let’s get something to eat.” Seeing me looking a little dubious, he added quickly, “I’m paying.”
From a stall, he bought two massive burgers and within half an hour I fell ill – a thing which didn’t happen very often. I don’t think there was anything actually wrong with the food – I can only assume it was the excitement of the trip which caused my stomach to erupt. Despite my protestations, my South African insisted on taking me to the local hospital which was situated just outside the main entrance to the Festival. I was worried that this might be the start of something more serious and I would have to cancel my trip.
“And what is your relationship with this young man?” This somewhat awkward question was asked by the doctor on duty. By his attitude he was obviously thinking that we were first in a vast procession of victims of the Festival.
“He’s my nephew,” was my companion’s instant but rather pathetic explanation.
After a brief examination the doctor said that he could find nothing seriously wrong and simply advised that a good night’s sleep would probably cure whatever ailed me.
As we headed to the car S.A. asked where I was staying and that he would run me there. We had only been to the Festival for about an hour so he had doled out our considerable entrance fee for almost no return.
I admitted to him that I had nowhere booked.
“You can’t spend the night at the station. That’ll be the worst thing you can do. There must be a hotel near here and the stay will be on me.” I was feeling too ill to appreciate the rather ambiguous remark.
After a short drive, he found a local and very expensive hotel. He parked me in the foyer and went up to reception. They were almost full and the only rooms they had left each boasted a double bed – at least that’s what he claimed! To cover the fact that there was an obvious age difference, he thought it better for me to say that I was his son so that no questions would be asked. I didn’t let on that, as far as I was concerned, this ruse was nothing new.
I told him the time of my train on the following morning and he left a wake–up call.
It was very sweet the way he tried to have sex but I wasn’t in the mood. I still felt ill, and besides, I was too excited at the prospect of my holiday. He accepted all this quite well. I let him play around with me for a while but when I called a halt, he didn’t make any trouble.
The following morning I was treated to a large breakfast and he gave me a lift in his car right to the station in the centre of London so that I could catch my train. He even stayed to see me off – and took a photograph – was this to prove to his gay friends in South Africa that he had slept with a teenage Brit?
As this rambling epistle is about my life experiences and not a catalogue of my appreciation of the Arts, I won’t dwell too long on the actual visiting of the many galleries and the joy of finally seeing the original paintings of those artists whose output I mainly knew from p
rints in books. Suffice it to say, I had one whale of a time.
The landlady of my digs dubbed me, ‘Laughing boy’ as, according to her, I had a naturally fixed smile on my face. I slept under a voluminous duvet on an enormous sofa bed. For a small charge, a Continental breakfast was supplied. This offer I took up.
Where I stayed, the town was boasting a short Arts Festival which I willingly attended. There were theatrical events, a small visiting exhibition of paintings as well as the permanent museums and galleries which dolled everything up to give a more festive feel to the exhibits on offer.
After a day or two I decided to explore my immediate environs. It was the first time I had actually taken in the locals and their architecture. To my utter shock it was unexpectedly, very gay. My longish hair and bright colours caused confusion for the strangers. I realised that everyone else was dressed conservatively and I must have looked very strange. I remembered my reaction to the rent boys when I first saw them get off the bus on my first venture to the city centre. Had I come so far? I no longer cared what people thought. I kept laughing like an idiot each time I caught someone staring. I had to stop and look in shop windows to hide my amusement.
When evening came and the daylight began to fade I went for a walk in a local park which I came upon accidentally. It was a pretty place with plenty of trees, benches and low wattage lighting from the occasional lamp post, all of which invited the public to linger for a while in this sylvan oasis. I sat down to enjoy the evening air when I noticed something. In the gathering gloom there were pinpoints of light which flashed rhythmically. I soon twigged that people were signalling to one other by drawing on cigarettes in short, sharp breaths. I got up and moved around. Every time I sat down on one of the benches and looked around it was as if fifty lighthouses had been switched on at the same time. So, I had now identified the local trolling area.
The first person to sit beside me was a youth about my age who began gabbling at me in German.
