by Tom Bale
‘Wanna see the gun!’ Dylan cries, and does a convincing impression of automatic fire: czhczhczhczhczh. The soldier twitches at the noise, his grip on the rifle seeming to tighten.
Then Sam grabs his son, heaving him up to shoulder height. ‘Come on, Dyl.’
‘Daddy put me down!’
‘Nope. We’ve gotta go inside.’ Aware that the soldier is watching them closely, Sam backs away. He takes out his phone, intending to head off a tantrum with a couple of photos. But as he starts to frame the shot, there’s a shout from behind him.
‘Wouldn’t do that if I were you.’
It’s a young man in the queue. He has the carefree look of a student: long hair and a scruffy beard, lots of beads and leather wristbands. His girlfriend has braids in her hair and braces on her teeth. They’re probably only three or four years younger than Sam and Jody, and yet he’s struck by the gulf that separates them: a whole great ocean of experience, hardship, responsibility.
‘Won’t hurt, will it?’ Sam wonders if this skinny kid is trying to pick a fight with him.
‘It’s prohibited to photograph anything military,’ the girl explains. ‘They get, like, really uptight about it.’
‘Yeah?’ Scowling, Sam carries Dylan over to Jody and Grace, who are queuing just ahead of the students.
‘It’s a police state, is what it is,’ the skinny kid says. ‘One wrong move and you’ll wake up in a cell with electrodes strapped to your b–’
‘Ssh!’ the girl hisses. ‘Not in front of their kids!’
She laughs apologetically. Sam realises he is still glaring at the couple, and Jody gives him a warning glance: Cool it.
So Sam relaxes. Or pretends to, at least.
3
Sam finds it odd to greet the chill of an air-conditioned building with pleasure. For most of his life he’s associated cold rooms with draughty windows, poor insulation and a lack of money for proper heating. Even in their current home, which has double glazing and a modern boiler (and costs them eleven hundred quid a month in rent), the heating has to be rationed in winter: an hour in the morning, two hours at night.
‘It’s not too cold for Dylan?’ he asks.
Jody meets his eye. ‘Dylan is absolutely fine. Aren’t you, kiddo?’
The boy shrugs. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘We’ll get something soon, once we’re through this bit. We have to show the men our passports first. Look.’
They do look, which is probably a mistake. The queue is long and messy, splitting competitively into three channels at the security kiosks. Some travellers are waved through almost immediately; others are kept for two or three long minutes. Trevor Smug and his wife are way ahead, of course.
A sudden rattle of applause catches Sam’s attention. It’s coming from a small crowd clustered round a doorway at the far side of the hall. Is someone famous passing through, he wonders – maybe from that private jet?
He goes on tiptoe to get a better view, then realises he’s drawn the attention of one of the grim-faced men in the kiosks. Sam quickly turns away.
It occurs to him that all the staff are men, and many are vaguely similar in appearance: short and stocky, with black hair and dark stubble; lots of moustaches but no beards. It’s a look that reminds him of TV clips from the olden days – dodgy adverts for aftershave and cigars. What’s odd is that he can tell they’re foreign. But how?
Further down the room there’s a glass partition, and beyond that another sprawling queue of arrivals. Again he’s pretty sure they’re not British: probably German or maybe Swedish, something like that. He wonders if those people can tell he’s English just from his face, and thinks they probably can.
And do they also get a feel for his background, what social class he’s from? Can they tell that he’s from somewhere near the bottom?
His own view is that he has battled his way on to the first rung of the ladder and now has the second rung in sight. He and Jody are both twenty-six. After more than ten years together they’ve got two kids, the eldest already at junior school, and yet they don’t own a home and they have no chance of getting a mortgage or saving up for a deposit – not when there’s the crippling rent to find every month.
So a holiday like this one – high season, all-inclusive – it feels like they’re broadcasting to the world that there’s loads of cash kicking about. And there isn’t.
I virtually gave up smoking for this, he reminds himself. No new trainers for over a year. Two Fridays in three he didn’t go to the pub after work, and Jody gave up even more than that, as well as working all the extra hours she could at the shoe shop. No new clothes, cheap make-up rather than the nice stuff from Boots, walking instead of taking the bus.
Three years of scrimping and saving (he’s used the phrase many times but still has no idea what ‘scrimping’ means) and this time next week it’ll be over, just like that. Two thousand, seven hundred and fifty-eight pounds: gone.
It scares him, if he’s honest. He doesn’t see how this holiday can ever live up to their expectations, or justify the money they’ve spent. Jody disagrees. She says it’s about giving the kids an experience they’ll be able to treasure for the rest of their lives. And as she keeps reminding him, after what they went through with Dylan, they all deserve something a bit special.
It takes another hour to clear passport control and retrieve their luggage from the baggage area, which has become a bear pit containing over a thousand weary, irritable holidaymakers from four different flights. At Jody’s urging, Sam fights his way through the crush and returns with both of their cases, hard shell Samsonites borrowed from Jody’s parents. They load them on to a trolley, endure a mini-tantrum from Dylan when he’s prevented from clambering on top, and make their way to the arrivals hall.
Jody spots a couple of English girls from their tour operator, Sheldon Travel. After a clipboard consultation they’re directed to the main car park: coach number fourteen.
Outside, it’s even hotter than it felt when they got off the plane. They stop on a wide marble concourse and Jody shields her eyes with her hand, surveying row after row of coaches.
‘There’s Eleven,’ Sam murmurs, and then Grace says, ‘Fourteen! Over there, look!’
This lifts their spirits until Dylan starts crying again. ‘Mummy, I wanted to find it!’
‘You did, in a way. And you’re helping now, by being such a good boy.’
That doesn’t work as well as Jody hopes, so she rummages in Sam’s rucksack for the emergency stash of Haribo. Smiles on the kids’ faces at last.
Crossing one of the access roads, there’s a bus swinging round towards them but they’re looking right instead of left. Sam has stepped off the kerb when Grace grabs his arm. ‘Dad!’
He jumps back, standing completely still until the bus has thundered past. There’s a familiar blankness to his gaze. Jody is only too aware that Sam’s way of coping with stress is to withdraw into himself, and although he doesn’t intend for his reaction to make everyone tense, it nearly always has that effect.
For a second, nobody moves or speaks. Then, to Jody’s relief, Sam breathes out slowly and summons a grin for the kids. ‘Looks like you two had better teach me how to cross the road.’
The coach driver is short and stocky, with greying hair and a moustache. He wants the name of their hotel but Sam’s mind has gone blank. He has to call Jody back just as she’s trying to herd the kids aboard.
‘The Adriana Beach,’ she says, a bit tetchily.
‘Sorry.’ Sam starts to repeat it but the driver has already snatched up a case, which he slings into the luggage bay with an impatient sigh.
Hurrying the trolley back to the terminal building, Sam feels disorientated, not just because the traffic’s on the wrong side, or because of the heat, or the unfamiliarity of his surroundings. It’s more to do with a suspicion that everyone else knows the rules – what to do, where to go, how to behave – as though there’s a set of instructions that was handed out t
o them but withheld from him.
The signs don’t help. He knew the country had its own language, but he hadn’t imagined that the writing would look so different. The meaningless squiggles bring back painful memories of all the years he struggled with reading, feeling like he was shut out of everything. There was talk of dyslexia, but his mum never did anything about getting him tested.
He still burns at the memory of the humiliation, having to attend remedial classes in the first year of secondary school. That’s when the truancy got out of hand and his life so nearly went off the rails, just as it had done with his brother a few years before. But whereas Carl had been beyond help from the start, in Sam’s case his uncle Paul had stepped in to save him.
Jody and the children are at the back of the coach. Sam settles next to Dylan and takes a fistful of Haribo to share. The driver’s got the engine running, thank God, so the aircon is working.
Dylan is chewing on the gooey sweets while chattering away, and Sam feels guilty when his eyes keep drifting shut. Each time it’s a tougher challenge to open them again, and suddenly he’s in the middle of a weird kind of waking dream. They’re on the plane as it falls into the sea, but it doesn’t break apart. People gather at the windows, pointing at the exotic foreign fish as the plane slowly sinks towards the bottom. Sam is sure they’ll all die once the oxygen runs out but no one else seems the slightest bit worried.
Then Jody says, ‘Isn’t that your friends?’
Sam rubs his eyes, leans forward and spots Trevor Smug and his wife wheeling a trolley in their direction.
‘Oh, ff–’
‘Ssh. They weren’t that bad, were they?’
Sam pulls a face. ‘Really up ’emselves.’
‘Did they say where they’re staying?’
‘I didn’t ask. Won’t be at ours, though. We’re only three star.’
Jody looks hurt. ‘Don’t say “only”. On TripAdvisor it’s voted the number two hotel in our resort.’
‘I know. But a bloke like that’ll want number one.’
The middle-aged couple climb aboard with a lot of huffing and puffing, making it plain that they’re furious about the ‘disgraceful inefficiency’ of the airport. Both of them notice Sam but pretend they haven’t, dropping their gaze as they shuffle into the nearest available seats. Jody wonders if they resent the fact that she and Sam made it on to the coach ahead of them.
Thankfully a Sheldon rep turns up, introduces herself as ‘Gabby’ and announces, to a few sarcastic cheers, that their departure is imminent. She sounds friendly and enthusiastic, speaking in a warm accent that Jody thinks might be from Leicester or somewhere like that. After running through a quick headcount, Gabby signals to the driver who shuts the door and eases the coach on to the access road.
Before settling back, Jody conducts a quick ‘family assessment’. Grace has her head against the window and is almost dozing. Sam, bless him, has come back to life and is earnestly discussing missiles and tanks with Dylan. Now Jody can stare straight ahead and focus on nothing...
Except the rep, Gabby, is coming along the aisle, summoned by the middle-aged grumps. She’s in her early twenties, pretty in an over-made-up way. Long blonde hair in a side parting, which swirls as she turns her head, resting in a spray on her shoulder. She’s wearing the Sheldon uniform of a patterned shirt (white with red and blue palm trees) and a plain blue pencil skirt; nothing particularly fashionable, but close-fitting enough to see that she has a very good body.
It can’t have escaped Sam’s attention, either, and yet he doesn’t seem to give the woman more than the briefest of glances.
The middle-aged couple start to protest about the time it took to retrieve their luggage. The man appears to be talking directly to the rep’s chest. She seems well aware of this, leaning closer as if to make it easier for him to perv. Within seconds he’s nodding and smiling, thank you for listening, not your fault at all, blah blah blah...
Jody sighs, hoping Sam is right about their choice of hotel.
4
The five-star resort is their first stop, about twenty minutes in, and the only people to disembark are two elderly women in large sunhats. Sam starts to think he’s tempted fate.
Another ten minutes till the next stop, then two more in quick succession, by which time there are only three groups left on the coach, including the Smugs and Sam and Jody.
‘Okay,’ says the rep, ‘Adriana Beach is next, and then the Sunrise is our last drop-off today.’
Jody beams at him. ‘Us next, thank God.’
On the first part of the journey they learned a bit about the island – though it was a struggle to stop Dylan from talking over the rep. It’s sixty kilometres end to end and fifteen kilometres at the widest point, the second largest of some twenty-odd islands in a… here the rep used a word that sounded like ‘archie-pele-go’; then she giggled and admitted she could never pronounce it properly.
The part they’re in is the south-west corner, which has some of the best beaches and the larger resorts. The island is notable for its limestone, olive trees and pine forests. Other than that it’s mostly the scrubland he noticed as the plane came down. Small trees and rocks, a lot of mud and dust: nothing like the rich greens and rolling hills of Sussex.
Still, it’s the beaches that matter. And the climate. Gabby jokingly agreed to guarantee them temperatures of around thirty degrees over the next week, no rain unless they’re really unlucky – ‘Even then it’s likely to be a quick thunderstorm at night; the lightning’s incredible here sometimes!’
There’s a bit of history, stuff like when the island was first inhabited, and then Sam has to focus on keeping Dylan distracted, pointing out of the window at the rocky landscape and wondering if there could be any soldiers hiding out there.
‘Are there, Dad?’
‘Might be. This is probably the kind of place they use for training.’
‘Oh, wow!’ Dylan gets up on his knees, nose pressed against the glass. Jody goes to say something but Sam shakes his head. He’s just bought them some peace and quiet – not to be sniffed at, now the Haribos have gone.
Jody’s first impression of the hotel is far from encouraging. After driving past an orchard of sickly looking trees, they see a sign for the Adriana Beach and take a sharp turn into the approach road. The grounds are fenced off with barbed wire, enclosing yet more scrubland. They pass a dilapidated building that resembles a lock-up garage. The area around it is strewn with discarded equipment: rusting patio umbrellas and broken sun loungers; a coil of red hose pipe like a sleeping snake.
Then over a slight ridge, and the main building comes into sight. Five storeys high, dull grey in colour, at first it reminds Jody of a block of council flats. This isn’t a view that appeared on the website. Her whole body seems to crumple with disappointment, not just for herself but because she’s anticipating how Sam will react.
Gabby the rep is leaning forward in her seat, murmuring to the driver. Jody wonders what the woman will do if they refuse to get off the coach. This isn’t good enough. We paid a lot of money and we deserve something better.
Jody’s mouth goes dry as she imagines saying the words. If a complaint is needed, she knows she will be the one to make it. Sam has no stomach for dealing with authority, even in the form of a holiday rep barely out of her teens.
Earlier, when Gabby invited questions at the end of her introduction, there was some general grumbling about the chaos in baggage reclaim. Then a woman asked about the landing. Gabby didn’t seem to understand the question, and a man with a strong Lancashire accent chipped in: ‘No problems with our flight.’
‘This was from Gatwick,’ the woman said. ‘Third year running we’ve come here, and today we’re all set to land when the plane suddenly swerves and goes round to the far end of the runway. I think it was because a private jet had come past and got permission to land before us.’
‘Overtook you, like?’ the Lancastrian joked, and someone else muttered, ‘Boy
racers!’
Gabby continued to look baffled. ‘I’m sure there was never any danger, but I’ll see if I can find out any more...’ The way she trailed off made Jody think she wouldn’t be trying too hard.
Now, taking a deep breath, Jody summons the strength for what might be a vigorous argument. Then a gasp from her daughter: ‘I saw the pool!’
‘What?’
‘Between the buildings. It looks really nice!’
The coach eases into a layby directly outside the hotel entrance. Hanging baskets offer a splash of colour, and there are potted palm trees spaced at intervals like a guard of honour. Jody can see movement within the lobby: a waiter carrying drinks on a tray. She spots a long bar glinting with optics, comfortable sofas and attractive lighting. Perhaps it’s cowardly, but she decides not to say anything, at least until they’ve had a look around.
The middle-aged couple are already on their feet, their flight cases blocking the aisle. The rep ticks their names off the list, then beams at Jody as she leads Grace forward.
‘Happy holidays! Don’t forget the welcome meeting this evening!’
Once they’ve assembled on the pavement, Sam heads round to fetch the cases. Dylan wants to go with him and has to be restrained. His frustrated cry draws a wince from the middle-aged woman. Her husband appears, wheeling his cases, and sneaks a glance at Jody’s body. Sam comes up behind them, wearing a sheepish grin meant only for her: Look who we’ve been lumbered with.
As the coach moves away, the woman’s gaze drifts from her husband to Jody as she says, ‘Are we set? Got all your stuff?’
The questions are delivered as if they’re together in a single group, and the woman is treating her like a child. But Jody makes the effort to smile politely. After all, it’s not this woman’s fault that she and Sam had kids too young, or that they still react badly to any suggestion that they can’t cope.
Jody is well aware that they’re both far too prickly about it, the result of feeling for years that they have been unfairly judged, looked down on, for the bad luck and mistakes of their youth.
