by Guy N Smith
‘There are such things as trains and buses,’ she sneered. ‘There’s even a bus depot by the main gate. As to where I’m going, that’s none of your bloody business. To tell you the honest truth, Jeff, I’m sick and tired of you. Wherever we go, whatever we do, you always cock it up. Like now. God, I’m tired of being a bloody jobbing builder’s tagalong! All you think about is extensions and garages and … you make me sick. Now, for the last time, get out of my way!’
He stepped aside, was conscious of how his legs shook as he moved, the dejection and agony of a spurned boyfriend. And those bloody ants had brought everything to a head!
He let her open the door herself; she had to put one of the cases down and pick it up again. The final walkout and she wasn’t looking back. Staggering beneath the weight of her load and clinging to her dignity, head just too far up in the air, walking as fast as she could because perhaps she was afraid that if she lingered she might change her mind and stay. Proud and angry, her own temper had beaten her this time, Jeff decided. He stood there and let her go, did not even bother to close the door. If she wanted to come back, she would; if she didn’t, she wouldn’t. Factors beyond his control and there was no point in getting worked up about it.
That had been on Thursday. It was now Friday and Gemma had not returned. He faced up to the fact that it was all over between them; the ants, the flood had been instrumental up to a point, but Gemma would have gone before long anyway. She had tired of self-employed builders.
For two days he had idled aimlessly around the camp. Numbed and sick with disbelief. Gemma had threatened to walk out on him countless times, she was like a living time bomb threatening to explode without warning. A harmless joke could be interpreted by her as an insult and often an unnecessary apology on his part saved the day. Apologising had become a habit with him, and Gemma had won every round. He had lost his mates, too, because of her and now she had left him in the lurch.
Tuesday night he had not slept at all. By Wednesday afternoon he was experiencing a strange sense of relief and … freedom. She would come running back. No, by Christ, she’d be sent packing if she did. He wondered where she was? Home, probably, explaining to her bitching mother that it was all his fault, that he’d kicked her out and she wasn’t going back. In her own mind she would be a winner.
On Wednesday evening he went to the Jamaica Bar to enjoy a lone celebration drink. Gemma had done him a big favour, done what he had never had the guts to do, finish their relationship. His smouldering memory recalled all the taunts, the lies; the way she had used him, set him up as a scapegoat. Marriage would have been a disaster, he had been spared the cost and trauma of an early divorce.
He was hungry, he had not eaten for over 24 hours. On the way back to the chalet he bought some fish and chips, ate them greedily. Tomorrow he would start to live again. And he would begin with a hearty breakfast in the restaurant, without a companion who complained about every course.
It was after dinner on Wednesday evening that the attractive catering supervisor, dressed in a spotless white overall, her long dark hair tied up in a bun on top of her head, approached Jeff Beebee’s table. An apologetic smile for her intrusion, she pulled back the chair opposite him and lowered herself gracefully into it. He read her name on a blue plastic badge bearing the Paradise motif – ‘Ann Stackhouse’.
‘Are you enjoying your holiday,’ she discreetly consulted a notepad in the palm of her hand, ‘… Mr Beebee?’
‘Thanks … yes.’ He knew he sounded far from enthusiastic.
‘Good. Your companion doesn’t appear to have joined you for dinner tonight. I hope that she isn’t …’
‘She’s fine.’ He hadn’t spoken to anybody since Tuesday and suddenly the desire to talk was overpowering. ‘At least, I hope she is. She walked out on me. She won’t be coming back.’
‘Oh!’ Ann Stackhouse attempted to cover up her embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m not.’ There was a bitterness in his voice now, a festering resentment which had previously been foreign to his nature. ‘She’s a bitch and I’m well rid of her. Now she’s gone I’m going to enjoy myself, something I haven’t done for a very long time. Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be talking like this, it’s just that I’ve been bottling it all up for two days and …’
‘I don’t mind.’ She smiled and he sensed that it wasn’t just out of politeness. ‘Talk if you want to. If it helps.’
He told her everything, went back three years. She was a good listener, made you want to tell her your life story because she was interested; it was as important to her as it was to him. Afterwards he felt embarrassed, drained. But an awful lot better.
‘It sounds, from what you’ve told me, that you’re well rid of her.’ He thought she might have given his hand a comforting squeeze if she had known him better. It was an exciting thought.
‘Sure, and now I’m going to enjoy myself,’ he smiled. ‘After all, it is supposed to be a holiday and you’re meant to have a good time aren’t you?’
‘Of course.’ She looked down at her notepad again. ‘Is the food to your liking? Any complaints?’
‘No, the grub’s absolutely great.’
‘I’m so glad.’ She hesitated. ‘What are your eating tastes, if you don’t mind my asking?’
He pondered, tried to think of something he did not like and failed. ‘I eat just about anything, healthy or junk.’
‘I’d recommend the minced beef which is on tomorrow evening. I tried it last week and it’s absolutely out of this world, take it from me.’
‘I’ll remember that.’ He didn’t want her to go, tried to think of an excuse to detain her but she was already getting up from the table. ‘It’s been nice meeting you … Ann,’ he thought he might be blushing. ‘I hope I’ll see you again.’
‘I’ll check with you tomorrow to see how you liked the minced beef.’ She smiled and their eyes met. ‘See you … Jeff.’
He watched her walk across the room, followed her with his eyes until the kitchen swing doors closed behind her. Stop kidding yourself, boy, she’s probably got a steady boyfriend. She had not been wearing a ring but that did not mean anything these days.
He ordered another coffee, tried to remember everything he had told her about himself. Just about his entire life story, he reflected. She must have been bored out of her mind.
Back in her small office Ann Stackhouse began compiling her notes on Jeff Beebee. Her hand trembled slightly and again her conscience began to trouble her. She would have to have the file typed up for Professor Morton first thing in the morning. She told herself she wouldn’t talk to Jeff Beebee again tomorrow night. It was treachery.
Chapter Four
Alan jay had hitched to the Paradise Holiday Camp all the way from the commune in Herefordshire. It had been a long tiring journey, lines of holiday traffic ignoring the huge young man in tattered cords with an unkempt beard hiding the gaping hole in the front of his T-shirt. He was aware of the expressions of disgust from drivers and passengers as they hurtled past his upraised thumb. Fuck ’em!
At one point there was a snarl-up, a mile of vehicles jammed at a busy junction. As Alan walked along the hold-up car windows were hastily wound up in spite of the stifling heat. Then towards mid-afternoon a lorry slowed, stopped, and the driver signalled to him to clamber aboard.
‘Come far, mate?’ The trucker was obviously in need of company, desperate for somebody to talk to, Alan thought, or else he wouldn’t have picked up the likes of me.
‘A good ton.’
A long pause and then the other asked, ‘Where’re you headed?’
Fuck him, but I suppose I’d better tell him. ‘The holiday camp. What do they call it … Paradise, that’s the one.’
‘Straight up?’ Glancing sideways in amazement, checking that the hitcher hadn’t got any luggage.
‘It’d be a stupid sort of thing to lie about, wouldn’t it?’ A trace of annoyance in the reply. Don’t call me a liar, mate.
‘Sorry, no offence.’ They had to slow down now that they had caught up with the traffic again. It was going to be a long haul from here to Machynlleth and then there would be another big hold-up. Alan remembered it from the days of his boyhood when he used to come on holiday to Borth with his folks. The days before … ‘It’s just that those sort of places aren’t my cuppa tea. Still, everybody to their taste and I hope you have a good time.’
Apology accepted. ‘I won the holiday in a competition.’
‘You don’t say! I mean … Jeez, I never ever met anybody who won one of them things. So they are on the straight, after all.’
‘I found the competition in a local rag spread on the floor at the place I was at last.’ The hippie was relaxing, found talking easier now. The trouble was he hadn’t done enough of it these past few months. ‘I decided to give it a whirl. List in order of preference the five best holidays for a family and then say in not more than twelve words why. I figured that as the competition was run by a holiday camp firm that holiday camps were the obvious choice for number one. I told ’em that they were best ’cause you could get somebody to look after the bleedin’ kids for you whilst you had a good time yourselves. Obviously I was right. I won.’
‘You’re a bleedin’ shrewd one.’ The truck driver gave a throaty laugh. Christ, this bum stinks, I’ll bet he hasn’t had a bath for months. They’ll kick his arse all the way out of the camp when they smell him. ‘You ain’t brought the family, then?’
‘No. I left the missus behind. I want to enjoy myself.’
Alan lapsed into silence as memories of Donna came back to him. She had left the commune three weeks back, gone to visit her folks in Ireland. The arrangement was that they would meet up at the holiday camp. She might come. On the other hand, she might not. Small and pretty with short dark hair, her thing in life was animal rights. Now Alan didn’t go along with those ideas; okay, don’t be cruel to dumb creatures but there’s no need to get obsessed about them. He had been bitten by a dog when he was three and he would never forget it. An Alsatian crossed with a Collie, a big black bastard that played with you one minute, sank its fangs into your hand the next when you tried to feed it a biscuit. The dog had been put down, he would like to have done the job himself.
Donna had gone to London on some damned stupid protest march. She should have been back on the Monday but she hadn’t turned up until Friday. Later it had turned out that she had been having it off with some guy she’d met on the march. Alan had forced it out of her, beaten a confession out of her. Now she was gone again and this time she might not come back in case he beat the hell out of her a second time. You’re a bloody fool, Alan Jay, and you always will be.
After Machynlleth some campers in a rusted old Transit van picked him up. Town kids being taken on a weekend trip to the mountains, courtesy of some Trust. They chattered among themselves and left him alone.
Folks were staring at him as he walked into the Paradise Holiday Camp. A uniformed security guard at the main gate didn’t believe Alan had a pass until he showed it to him. The man pointed out the reception building and Alan saw the queue spilling out of the doors on to the hot tarmac. You queued for everything here, it seemed, and he found himself wishing that he had not won the competition.
People stepped away, gave him space. He heard somebody muttering something, indistinguishable words that brought a ripple of low laughter from those standing around. Well, they would have to get used to him during the next fortnight, like it or lump it. He risked a smoke, he needed to lift his spirits. They surely wouldn’t raid for drugs in a place like this.
A girl receptionist handed him a key with an orange tag and number 24 printed on it. He stared at it, had to force his brain to work. Maybe he should have waited for that smoke. Or maybe it was a combination of tiredness and the heat.
He knew that Donna was in the chalet even before he tried the key, sort of sensed her presence.
‘Hi!’ She stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped round her, deliberately let the top half unfurl. Small firm breasts, they were on show especially for him. Maybe she hadn’t been screwing with anybody else this time. ‘I got here around two.’
‘Good.’ He sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Christ, what a bloody place! This isn’t our scene.’
‘No, but it’s free, the food too, and we’re going to live it up for a whole fortnight, Al.’
‘I’ll take the grub, you can have the rest. By the way, I’m running low on fixes, I’ll be out by tomorrow.’
‘Oh!’ Her smile faded. ‘I was relying on you, Al. Still, there’s bound to be some around in a place like this.’
He nodded, reached into the pocket of his cords and pulled out a roll of grubby five pound notes held together with an elastic band. ‘Holiday pay,’ he laughed. ‘Double wages this week.’
‘Al, you haven’t …’
‘No, I haven’t nicked it.’ His smile was reassuring. ‘The parents were feeling generous, I guess. Proud that their son, who has a degree in physics, can also win a holiday competition!’
Her smile was one of sheer relief. ‘I’ll believe you, Al. I just wish I’d been born with a silver spoon in my mouth instead of a rubber titty to suck. I’ll bet there isn’t a single person on this camp who’d believe that your dad is a county councillor, and a Tory one at that. You bloody old hypocrite!’
‘I don’t care what he is so long as he sends the money regularly,’ Alan winked, ‘because if he didn’t, he knows full well I might just turn up down home in search of a loan, and Dad wouldn’t like his fellow councillors to see me. Degrees count for nothing when you’re a hippy with two drug convictions. Don’t worry, he’ll keep sending the cash as long as I keep away. It’s a bargain.’
‘I call it blackmail.’ She finished towelling herself and began pulling on her denims. ‘Every luxury is ours, Al. Don’t waste a single one.’
‘I won’t.’ He pulled her close and their lips met. And in his own mind he was questioning her fidelity once more. If she ever screwed with another guy again, he’d kill her. That way nobody would have her. In the meantime they’d best get something to eat.
‘I got us some fixes.’ Alan Jay returned to the chalet late the following evening. Outside, not far away, they could hear a bingo caller trying to compete with the music from the amusement arcade. ‘Dead easy. I just hung around and he found me.’
‘You sure it wasn’t a set-up, Al?’ Donna was nervous, he had noticed it during the 24 hours in which they had been together again. Nervousness or guilt? He was suspicious.
‘No, he was genuine enough. His name’s McNee. The original spiv. Uses Brylcreem and stinks of it, you could smell him a mile away. It’s over the odds but it’s regular. Here!’ He tossed her a screwed up envelope and she caught it deftly, eagerly. ‘Let’s get high, baby, and really enjoy ourselves.’
‘I deserve to have indigestion.’ She rolled a cigarette, struck a match and inhaled deeply, gratefully. ‘That trifle was heavenly, kiwi fruit and cream laced with sherry. Like you, I was going to have the Black Forest gateau but then that supervisor woman came along and talked us out of it. She was nice.’
‘Yeah,’ he nodded as he trickled smoke out of his nostrils. ‘Real nice. Everybody else in the restaurant trying to act as though table number 14 was vacant and she walked right up and sat down with us. A real lady.’
‘I think maybe you could get a change of clothes for the holiday.’ She spoke nervously, afraid of his reaction and added hastily. ‘Or, at least, I could cut those cords into a fairly respectable pair of shorts for you, and if this weather keeps up that’s all you need to wear. How’s that for a compromise?’
‘I’ll think about it.’ His voice was sleepy and in the darkness of the chalet all she could see was the glow of his cigarette.
They smoked in silence.
Alan Jay had difficulty working out just where he was. He lay there on the coverlet of the double bed staring at the square of window which
illuminated the small stuffy room with an orange glow. Street lamps outside, passers-by hurrying, laughing. A blare of music not too far away that had to be a fairground. Late evening obviously, it could not have been dark long.
A glance showed him a girl lying asleep at his side. At least, she appeared to be asleep, her naked bosom rising and falling rhythmically. Just a pair of briefs broke up the outline of her body as though she had been overcome by modesty at bedtime and had left them on. Now who the hell was she? Some tart he had picked up, obviously. This place wasn’t the commune, he knew that much. A dosshouse then, where they allowed women to sleep with men.
God, his head was splitting like he had a migraine. He closed his eyes but the pain was worse, if anything. Jesus Christ! Trying to work out how long it was since he’d left the commune; a jumble of distorted memories, working on the produce patch day-in, day-out for weeks, having to milk that bad-tempered goat that wouldn’t stand still and usually trod in the bucket and kicked it over. Knackered at the end of each day. And the girl, Donna, making demands upon him which he could not fulfil. The little bitch had left, bloody good riddance!
He groped in the dark for cigarette papers and tobacco, found them and fumbled with the makings, spilling dry tobacco dust on to the bed. His fingers shook as he struck a match, a shower of sparks as the flame crackled on the cigarette. Stifling the glowing sparks on the bed, burning minute holes in the sheet. He drew deeply on the crumpled paper, took the smoke right down into his lungs and held it there for a second or two before expelling it slowly.
Snatches of remembrance that came and went just as quickly, brief sunshine trying to pierce a thick fog. The commune, there had been some bother there. Over a girl, he could not recall her name but if he couldn’t have her then nobody else was going to. He’d thought about killing her, strangling her, beating her head to pulp and then slashing his own wrists. No, he hadn’t done that, he was sure of it. Momentary panic in case he had. No, no, he hadn’t done her in. Maybe this was her lying by his side.
