by Timothy Lea
It is in this way that I come upon Avril who is flashing a lovely pair of knockers that look as if they are trying to climb out of her dress. As I draw near her table, she crosses her legs and reveals a pair of matching thighs, one of which is adorned with a black garter with a rose attached to it.
“Been picking flowers, have you?” I say, which is an indication of the standard of repartee I have been indulging in.
“Yes, do you like it?” Her eyes work over me fast like a farmer weighing up meat at a fat-stock auction.
“I like the whole costume. You stand a good chance of a prize.”
“Ooh, did you hear that, ’Reen?”
’Reen is thin and mousey and the kind of bird you go on holiday with because she makes you look so attractive. She is also giving me an eye-bashing.
“Yeah. Perhaps he can pull a few strings if you make it worth his while.”
“Ooh, you cheeky thing. Did you hear what she said, Timmy?”
Identifying me is no problem because my name has been lettered onto the heart on my breast pocket.
“I’m not a judge, so there’s nothing I can do,” I simper.
“Couldn’t you give her a consolation prize?” says ’Reen.
“What do you suggest?”
“Ooh, well, I don’t know about that. What do you think, Avril?”
They both collapse into fits of giggles and it is all I can do to hold a smile on my mug. Avril is definitely a looker, though, and she has been in the sun because I can see a thin white line across her breasts where they edge over the top of her bra. If it was not for ’Reen and the warnings from Sid and Francis, I would be breaking over her like a tidal wave.
“Well, I’ll come back if I think of something,” I say, showing how persistently unfunny I can be when I really try. I deliver another dollop of warm, friendly smile and move on to the next table where a woman terrifies me by leaping to her feet and shouting “Bingo” just as I am about to open my mouth in greeting. It is obviously the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to her because she flings her arms round my neck and nearly hugs the life out of me to the accompaniment of shouts of “Watch it, Bertha!” “There’s no holding her when she’s had a few” “Save some for me!” and the like.
With so much good cheer about I have obviously got to join the party for a drink and in no time at all I am well on the way to being pissed. In this condition, I applaud loudly when the results of the fancy dress competition are announced and Avril wins a prize. More bingo follows and then Holiday Host Billington entertains us with his accordion, one foot resting sensually on a convenient chair. Such all-time favourites as “Roll Out the Barrel”, “Goodnight Irene” and “My Old Man’s a Dustman” find everyone in good voice and I am perilously near enjoying myself when I feel a light kiss on the cheek. I turn round expecting to discover Janet has devoured Ted and come in search of fresh prey, but instead find my nose wedged between a couple of Bristols that could only belong to Avril – or three other birds packed one on top of the other.
“I just thought I’d give you a little kiss to say thank you,” she says. “I’m so happy. It’s the first time I’ve ever won anything.”
“It wasn’t anything to do with me,” I mumble. “What did you get, anyway, I can’t remember?”
“I got an L.P. voucher. I’m never going to cash it, though. I’ll always keep it.”
“Why not get a record and keep that?”
“No, it wouldn’t be the same. My kid brother would borrow it and I’d never see it again.”
“Yes, you’ve got a point there.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
It’s not the kind of stuff to give Sir Terence Rattigan sleepless nights, is it? But I don’t have to dig any deeper into my fund of small talk because Avril lowers her boobs and starts to tell me her problem.
“Do you know anything about electricity?”
“Not much,” I say, sensing that my powers of self-control are about to be tested.
“I’m certain it’s only a little thing, but the bedside light in our chalet keeps flickering.”
“Probably the wires in the socket have worked loose.”
Avril looks at me as if I have just discovered penicillin.
“Do you think that’s it? Is it difficult to fix?”
“No, it’ll only take a couple of minutes with a screwdriver.”
Avril’s breasts jut out in such a fashion that the pendant she is wearing, thwarted in its attempt to hang beween them, rests on top, much as it would do on the palm of your hand. Little things like that mean a lot to a man.
“Would you like me to take a look at it?” I mean, it can’t do any harm, can it? ’Reen will be there and it is part of my job to cope with this kind of thing. I am certain Mr. Francis would approve. And Sid? Yes, I think I know what Sid would do in this situation.
“Oh, would you? You’re sure it’s not too much trouble?”
“No trouble at all,” I say, turning on to full beam. “Do it right away if you like. I think they’ll be packing up here in a minute.”
This observation is unlikely to be disputed by the lady on my left who is now snoring loudly with her head in a pool of light ale.
“Ooh, lovely. I’ll just get my coat.”
Avril’s chalet is just like every other cardboard doll’s house on the camp with a fair selection of girlish garments littered about the place, none of which I notice contain ’Reen.
“What’s happened to your friend?” I say admiring the pair of sequined panties that Avril is removing from a chair. Avril blushes.
“I think she’s—she’s out with a friend. You know?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t envy the poor bloke whoever he is, but I suppose everybody can’t have my advantages.
“Where’s the light, then?” I say, knowing the answer to that one before I open my mouth.
“It’s on the table by the bed.”
Oh dear. Mr. Francis is not going to like this, I tell myself. I should not have had all that booze at the Happydrome. Then I would be strong, strong, strong.
“That’s a lovely nightdress,” I say. It is black and see-through and plunges at the front like Ted Heath’s popularity curve. Avril picks it off the bed and holds it against herself.
“Do you like it?” she says unnecessarily.
“Very much. You go in for roses, don’t you?”
There is a black rose in the middle of the cleavage.
“Yes. Have you seen this bra?”
She produces one of those novelty efforts that give you a crick in the neck walking down Shaftesbury Avenue. It has two black fur roses set side by side which, I suppose, is where you would expect them to be.
“No. It’s very sexy. I’d like to see you in it some time.” That was unnecessary, Lea. Stop asking for trouble and get on with the job.
I sit down on the bed and switch on the lamp. It works perfectly.
“That’s funny,” says Avril innocently, “it was flickering like anything last night.”
“Perhaps your friend’s friend mended it?”
“No, there’s been nobody else here.”
“Well, if you’ve got a nailfile, I’ll look at it anyway.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
“No trouble, no trouble.”
She comes and sits next to me on the bed while I unscrew the plug which, of course, has all the leads perfectly connected.
“Nothing wrong here,” I say. Avril snuggles closer and peers down at the plug like it is some small woodland creature we have found on a country ramble.
“Oh dear. I’ve brought you all this way for nothing. And I can’t even offer you a coffee.”
Well, we all know what I should do now, don’t we?
Stand up and give her the Boy Scout salute and run all the way home without stopping. I know that, too, but when I look down into her guilt-ridden little face resting atop those enormous knockers like a pawnbroker’s sig
n, it is as if I have been fitted with diver’s boots.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “It’s nice to be here with you.”
A strange force I can only describe as sheer, naked lust, draws my lips towards hers and we topple back on the bed with me underneath. Honestly, it is like having her separated from me by a couple of melons. What a treasure chest. In this relaxing position, we mingle mouths and I let my hand run up and down the back of her thighs flicking against her garter.
“How many more roses have you got?” I murmur.
“Do you really want to see?”
“Very much.”
She sits up and turns her back to me.
“Unhook my dress.”
I kiss the back of her neck and slide down the zip following the passage with more gentle kisses along the route of her spine. She reaches behind her to undo her bra but I brush her fingers aside and releasing the catch, slide my hands round her body so that I feel the full weight of her breasts drop into my hands. What a pair. They damn near need a safety net underneath them. In this happy position, I nuzzle her neck and stroke her nipples till they swell beneath my fingers. She twists round and shakes herself free of her dress which falls to waist level. The bra she was wearing must be guaranteed by Accles and Pollock and is covered in small red roses.
“Is that all?” I murmur as her mouth gets in the way of further conversation and I feel her bristols ruckling against my chest like a faulty life jacket.
“Wait and see,” she purrs and her hand slides down to the front of my trousers creating wild enthusiasm everywhere it goes. My own little bunch of fives is not slow to reciprocate on the appropriate part of her anatomy and her legs spring open like I have pressed a secret button. Up over her tights I go until I can feel the elastic biting into the back of my wrist and my fingers brushing against her pubes. She is not wearing any knickers, which is a surprise in a girl with her obvious enthusiasm for undergarments, so I leave her side for a moment and quickly drop to my knees. In this position I can gently ease the tights over her prime rump and down to the final jerk which clears her heels. She obviously finds this exciting because she starts to twist her head from side to side and fondles the front of my trousers like she is making bread. I swiftly discard my precious blazer and follow with my shoes, socks and pants. I would be quite prepared to follow with my shirt and tie, but once allowed unimpeded access to Percy, Avril seems to lose control. In the manner of someone jacking up a car she raises me from my humble position by the bed and draws herself up so that I can help ease the dress over her shoulders. Now she is naked and it is quite a sight, I can assure you. Like a bird in one of these pictures by that Italian geezer. The ones with fat-cheeked cupids doing their stuff from behind clouds, and gents in tight furry trousers playing harps. Generous is perhaps the best description of her limbs, though some might use the word plump. Not that I am thinking of rushing out and buying her a course of minibisks. Oh dear me no. At this moment Mr. Francis is probably having a nightmare but that is his problem. Ninety nine per cent of my attention is directed towards the flesh palace writhing beneath me. I glance down at the garter enmeshed in her discarded tights and sink into her like a packet of marbles into warm butter.
What a performer! Her legs cross over behind mine, barring my retreat, and she starts a slow grinding motion that would power the mixing vat in a toffee factory. Thus pleasantly occupied, her hands are free to remove my tie, which has the word ‘Funfrall’ repeated on it about three thousand times. Sir Giles certainly knew what he was doing when he named the company. Pop, pop, pop go the buttons of my shirt and she claws it off so that her fingers can roam lightly over the whole length of my back and down to my dangle-bangles.
In the hands of such an exquisite performer it is perhaps as well that my exertions with Janet have taken the edge off my natural inclinations because this girl could boil a saucepan of milk in thirty seconds. Slowly and beautifully we grind on until there is a gradual pick-up in our rhythm and we accelerate ruthlessly over the horizon with me smacking against her belly like a speed boat riding rough water.
Whether Mr. Francis stepped out from behind the curtains and zapped me over the nut with a black jack or whether I was just dead knackered, I don’t know, but the next thing I am fully conscious of is the sunlight streaming through the window and Avril stepping into a pair of rose pink knickers and blowing me a kiss.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she says, brightly. “I thought you were never going to wake up.”
There is a hint of reproach in her voice which wounds me, but she avoids my grasping hand and quickly zips up her skirt.
“No time for that now, naughty,” she says, “I’ve got the semi-finals of the volley ball in twenty minutes and I want some breakfast. Ta ra.”
And so saying, she skips lightly from the chalet leaving me with the unpleasant realisation that another day of non-stop team games demands my attendance. Ted is probably already wondering where I am. Grateful that ’Reen has not appeared, I hop out of bed and start practising my smile in the mirror of the cardboard cupboard. I have completed this exercise and am just knotting my tie when the front door opens. Expecting to see either Avril or ’Reen I turn casually to be faced by a creature who is obviously a chalet maid. The kindest adjective that can be found to describe her is homely, and her suspicious face turns downright malevolent when she sees my blazer lying on the crumpled bed.
“Oh, ho,” she says, “Mr. Francis isn’t going to like this.”
A pang of fear knee trembles down my body and I wind up my smile.
“Just checking one of the lamp sockets,” I breeze. “Nothing to get excited about.”
“I know what socket you were testing,” she leers. “I’ve got my orders about this kind of thing. Rules is rules. Any case of impropriety involving a member of the staff must be reported direct to Mr. Francis. I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I didn’t.”
Marvellous, isn’t it? Twelve hours, two fucks and I am out of a job again.
“Listen,” I whine, “you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Look. You can see where I was checking the plug.”
I snatch up the dismembered plug triumphantly and suddenly find that slugnipples is standing very close to me.
“Of course,” she says, plonking down her Ajax on the bedside table, “he doesn’t have to know.”
Oh, no! I think. “After all, we’re only human, aren’t we?” Her fingers play with the buttons on the front of my shirt. “A little bit of what you fancy doesn’t do you any harm.” She looks up into my eyes. “I can keep a secret …” My arms obediently steal round her body and she sighs as our mouths meet. “I don’t want to get anybody into trouble.”
Not much chance of that happening very often, madam, I think to myself as I ease my shoes off. Honestly, I have half a mind to tell her to piss off and go and tell Francis anything she likes, but one has to do one’s bit to help keep the unemployment figures down, doesn’t one?
CHAPTER FOUR
“Do you like kids?” says Ted.
“Not particularly,” says I.
“Just as well,” says Ted. “We had a bloke once that did – you probably read about it in the papers.”
It is a few days after my little chalet party and by running like a bloody greyhound every time a bird comes near me I have steered clear of the dreaded ‘hanky panky’. Neither Janet nor Avril has made a direct assault on my person and I am learning that it is quantity, not quality that counts in this place. The more Holiday Hosts a bird lays the happier she is. The way some of them come at you, you would think the old bloke who stokes the boiler would be safer with a padlock on his flies. And it is not only the paying customers who have a case of the galloping hots. Most of the chalet maids make the beds from the inside.
“Get over to the Nipperdrome and give Sam a hand for a couple of hours,” says Ted. The Nipperdrome is where the Funfrall nippers enact a grisly replica of their parents’ games and competitions and is full of screamin
g kids who would sharpen a used razor blade on your throat if they could be bothered to dig it out of the toe of their bother boots.
“Then you can supervise the quarter finals of the croquet competition.”
“But I don’t know anything about croquet.”
“That doesn’t matter. Just stop them using the mallets on each other. We’ve had to replace a lot of equipment lately. Then there’s the archery. That can be very ticklish. At the first sign of them not using the targets – finito! Some lunatic shot Francis’s cat once; wanted to take it home and stuff it. Can you imagine? Our leader did his tiny nut. If you’ve got any time before trough-bashing you can potter round to the roller-skating rink. Things can get a bit out of hand down there, too.”
“Why don’t we just issue them with machine guns and let them got on with it—”
“Now, now, don’t be like that. You direct your energies to sapping theirs and keep a smile glued on your mug. That’s what you’re paid for. Oh, and by the way, it’s the Holiday Queen contest tonight and we’ve only had six entries. Take a handful of entry forms and dish them out to any half-decent bird you see. If we’re stuck with the bunch of stumers we’ve got at the moment, we might as well turn it into a nobbly knees contest. If it’s any inducement, you can sit on the judging panel.”
So off I trip to the Nipperdrome where Uncle Sam is surrounded by kids blowing up balloons as their contribution to the coming evening’s gaiety. Uncle Sam is a character, which means he is the only Host on the camp who does not smile all the time. In fact, he never smiles. His relationship with the children is based on mutual loathing and seems to work as effectively as any other around the place.
“Don’t do that, son,” he snarls at one of his charges. “It’s not nice, and it’s not good for you. And you, I’ve told you once. Blow them up!! You’ll do yourself an injury messing about like that. Hello, Timmy. What have you done wrong to be sent to this penal settlement?”
