Confessions from a Holiday Camp

by Timothy Lea

“Nothing that I know of. Ted told me to breeze down and give you a hand.”

  My attention has been seized by a tall bird, wearing slacks and dark glasses who is standing by one of the kids’ roundabouts. She is also sporting a bikini top and this reveals an outstanding pair of knockers well worthy of a place in the “Holiday Queen” contest.

  “Why don’t you take some of these kids off and organise a football match. You’d like that, wouldn’t you boys?”

  There is a chorus of enthusiastic “yes’s” and one equally loud raspberry from a child with a complexion that resembles the before part of an acne advertisement.

  “Get those balloons out of your pullover!” hisses Uncle Sam. “Hold the fort for a minute, Timmy. I’m just nipping into the office for a quick snifter. I can see it’s going to be one of those days.”

  Ten minutes later two teams of tiny tearaways are kicking the stuffing out of each other and I can wander over to the bird by the roundabout.

  “Hello there,” I smile warmly, “I expect you’ve heard about the Holiday Queen contest tonight. I wonder if you’ve had time to fill in an entry form.”

  “What, me?” She seems genuinely surprised. “I’ve got three kids.”

  “Never! I thought you were looking after your kid sisters.” O.K. so it’s pretty corny but have you ever known a married woman unpleasured by such a remark? “Come on, you must have a go. There’s nothing much to beat.” The minute I say it, I realise I could have put it better. “Just pop your monicker down here and be at the stage entrance of the Happydrome with your bathing costume at seven thirty.”

  “Well, I don’t know what my husband will say.”

  “He’ll be proud of you. And if you win this, you’ll be in the area final and then there’s the chance of a trip to London and possibly a jet flight to Los Angeles for a screen test. Come on, it’s all good fun, isn’t it?”

  She takes off her glasses and looks me straight in the eyes. “You don’t think I’d make a fool of myself?”

  “Good heavens, no. I wouldn’t have asked you if I hadn’t thought you were in with a chance.”

  She looks across the beach thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t half give Ron a surprise to see me up there. He’s always saying—oh, it doesn’t matter.”

  I can see that all she needs is a nudge so I deliver one.

  “I probably shouldn’t say this, but I’m one of the judges and I can assure you that I don’t think you would be making a fool of yourself.”

  “Well, if you really think I have a chance.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Alright then. Where do I sign?”

  An hour later, and heavier by the weight of a flick knife confiscated from the inside right of the Club Cubs, I am listening to the gentle click of croquet balls and keeping my eyes open for future beauty queens. Most of those playing are of the Darby and Joan variety but there is one little raver with competitor written all over her. Emitting a screech of delight, she whangs her opponent’s ball into the roses and lines up a shot which sends her own trundling neatly through the hoops.

  “Oh, give over, Else,” whines her consort who obviously hails from the fair city of Birmingham. “I’ve had enoof.”

  “Well, I haven’t,” says his partner firmly and lashes her ball another twenty yards up the green. “It takes the satisfaction out of winning if you chicken out.” She is not the loveliest girl I have ever seen, having a very pouty mouth that looks as if it has been developed by picking up ping pong balls with her lips, but she has a tight little body and unusual grey eyes. All in all, a very adequate contender for the title of Miss Melody Bay.

  “Talking of winning,” I say with that exquisite sense of timing that has made me the toast of every talent contest in South Clapham. “I take it that you have entered for the Holiday Queen Contest?”

  Her partner snorts. “Holiday Queen Contest! You must be joking.”

  “Shut your mouth,” snaps spirited Else’. “I was thinking of going in for it anyway. You may not find me attractive, but some people do.”

  She looks at me for acknowledgement of this fact which comes with the speed of light.

  “Very,” I observed calmly. “I’m going to be one of the judges and I’d say you had a great chance. Of course, I’m only expressing a personal preference. I can’t speak for the others.”

  “Did you hear that skinny? It shows all you know. Why don’t you get someone to help you lift your ball out of the flowerbed and give over being so bleeding rude?”

  “But Else’.”

  “Shut up!” She turns to me and her eyes hold a melting softness which belies her terrier toughness.

  “What do I have to do to enter?”

  In the next couple of hours I try a number of birds, but though flattered, most of them just giggle and say that they could never do it in front of all those people. Husbands and boyfriends are universally anti and glare at me as if I am recruiting for the white slave trade. It may be possessiveness but I am inclined to believe that the real reason is that they don’t want to bathe in the reflected ridicule that greets their birds’ performances.

  It is not until I join up with the archery class that I find another obvious contender. Athletic Janet is unleashing a shaft as if born and bred in Sherwood Forest and the quiver of her titties is a bloody sight more arresting than the one on her back.

  “Hello,” I say, dropping my voice to a pitch that would have made George Sanders rush out to buy a course of elocution lessons. “How is it going?”

  “Not bad,” she says, “you never told me you were a Holiday Host.”

  “You never asked me,” I say. “I didn’t even know you were coming here at first, so there was little point in mentioning it. I expect you’ve entered for the Holiday Queen Contest?”

  “Ted was mentioning it.”

  “Oh, so you’ve come across Ted?”

  She smiles and slams another arrow into the bulls eye.

  “You could put it like that.”

  I ignore the implications of that remark as being too disgusting and continue: “Yes, well, have you entered?”

  “Not yet. I don’t know if it’s my kind of thing.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous; a beautiful girl like you. You’d be mad not to.”

  “Do you think I’ve got a chance?”

  “Got a chance? Listen, I’m one of the judges. I wouldn’t be talking about it unless I thought you had a big chance.”

  “Oh, alright. I’ll think about it.”

  “Don’t think about it. Do it now. Look, I’ve got an entry form here.”

  Her eyes flash across me and there is a faint smile playing around her lips – not at all a bad place to play, I might add.

  “Have you ever thought of selling insurance?” she says. “Look, I’ve told you, I’ll think about it, and if I fancy the idea I’ll pop round to your chalet and fill in a form.”

  “Do you know where my chalet is?”

  “Yes. It’s three down from Ted’s.”

  The way she comes out with that should put me on my guard but I can be amazingly innocent sometimes.

  I am not on dinner duty in the Potato’s Revenge so I slope back to my chalet for a spot of Egyptian P.T. before facing up to the rigours of the afternoon. No sooner have I settled on the bed, eased my shoes off and stuck my tongue out at my blazer than there is a sharp rat-tat-tat at the door. Cursing gently, I do what is expected of me and find Janet standing on the dorstep. Before I can say “Raquel Welch has lovely knockers” she is standing behind me.

  “I know I’m not supposed to be here, really,” she says, “but I thought I’d enter for your competition after all.”

  “It’s not my competition. I’m just helping to run it.”

  “Yes, but you’re one of the judges, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “So you’re going to have a say in who wins?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I’d like to win a beauty contest.”


  There is a firm edge to her voice which brings me up short as I fumble for the entry forms.

  “I reckon you stand a very good chance,” I say earnestly. “Ah, here we are. Now if you just fill in your name and …”

  I stop talking because Janet has slipped an arm round my neck and is rubbing herself gently against my action man kit.

  “It was nice in the train, wasn’t it?” she murmurs.

  “Fantastic,” I gulp. “But like you said, you know the rules. I’m a Holiday Host and you shouldn’t be here.”

  “What are you going to judge the girls on?” she says, starting to curl the hair at my temples. “Sex appeal?”

  Blooming heck! I can feel the sweat beginning to prickle under my armpits. I know I should heave her through the door but at moments like this my resolution seems to go all to cock. A very appropriate choice of words, too, because Percy is perking up like he is trying to peep over the front of my Funfrall issue black worsteds. Trouble with me is that the flesh is weak, but strong at the same time, if you know what I mean.

  “I’m supposed to be down at the boating pool in a few moments,” I gibber pathetically. If only my mind and body were under the same management I would not be in this sort of trouble. Even as I speak, my hands are sliding down over Janet’s peach-shaped buttocks and lifting the back of her skirt. The pleasure I get from this act is horrible but I can do nothing to stop myself.

  A few minutes later I am examining her naked sun-patterned body and viciously kicking the fag end of the aforementioned Funfrall issue black worsteds over my heels. She draws up her legs and it is like the breach mechanism of a twenty-five pounder issuing in the shell. I am inside her before you can say Eric Robinson.

  “You will see I do alright tonight, won’t you?” she breathes, grinding away like one of those pepper pots you never know whether to shake or screw. In her case, the question of an alternative does not present itself and I am taken out of myself, as they say, in less time than I would ever want to boast to my friends about.

  “That was marvellous,” I gush before she can say anything. “Now you really must go or I’ll be out of a job. Don’t forget to take your entry form.”

  It seems she has only just gone out of the door when there is another knock on it. This time of a more timid variety. I finish knotting my tie, adjust my smile and open the door. It is the bird who was at the Nipperdrome.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to trouble you but—”

  “Come in,” I say. I mean, why fight it? I am obviously a doomed man.

  She is wearing a white dress with frills round the neck and has slapped on a bit of eye makeup which does her no harm at all. I can’t help feeling she has made a special effort before coming round.

  “What’s the problem?” I say.

  “Well, I’ve been reading the form and I don’t think I can go in for the contest.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m over thirty.”

  She has very long eyelashes this bird, and one of those soft peaches and cream complexions that I associate with dew-soaked meadows and oast houses – I think it was one of those butter advertisements. She is obviously nervous because she is fiddling with the entry form between her fingers.

  I feel I want to help her.

  “Look, it doesn’t matter. You go in for the contest and we’ll worry about that afterwards. You want to go in for it, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but what am I going to do about this form?”

  “Just put down your date of birth. Nobody is going to check it. It’s all a bit of a giggle anyway, isn’t it? Think how chuffed your old man would be if you won, even if you were disqualified later.”

  “That’s another thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I told Ron about the contest and he said I was mad – that I didn’t have a chance – that I would make him a laughing stock.”

  Tears glisten in her eyes and I reckon that even Mr. Francis would expect me to make with the sympathy. Nasty Ron!

  “Now, come on,” I say. “I’ve told you before. You’re a very, very attractive woman. I don’t want to say anything rude about your husband, but maybe he hasn’t taken a good look at you lately.”

  “He said I was fat.”

  Her lip starts trembling and a big tear forms and topples slowly down her cheek. I am outraged.

  “Fat!!? You’re—you’re delicious—”

  I offer her my handkerchief and she takes my hand and kisses it. The poor girl is obviously desperate for reassurance and affection. I cannot quite remember what it said in my Holiday Host Manual but I am certain I am supposed to supply both. “There, there, you mustn’t cry,” I say, taking her gently in my arms. “Fat? Your husband doesn’t, realise what a lucky man he is. Curvy, maybe, and soft, certainly, you have the softest skin—” I am stroking her cheek— “—and lips.” I run my fingers along her lower lip and kiss her gently. “You go out there and really show them tonight.” I can feel the tears cool against my cheek as I stroke her spine.

  “But—”

  “No buts. You’re beautiful. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  An alarm bell is clanging in my mind but I silence it with the pressure of my fingers around her waist and steer her over to the mirror. Her dress has buttons all down the front and from behind I gently release them, one by one, allowing my hands to steal in and massage the territory revealed.

  “Beautiful breasts—” I reassure her, ”—slim waist—gorgeous thighs—just look at your legs, they’re great. What have you got to worry about?”

  I know what I should be worrying about but I have less chance of pulling back now than a piece of fluff at the mouth of a suction cleaner. I turn her round and kiss her warmly on the mouth, pulling the dress down and off her arms so that I can drop it on to a convenient chair.

  “You won’t let me come last, will you?” she breathes, as we topple on to the bed.

  I think she is referring to the Beauty Contest.

  Half an hour later she has been sent on her way rejoicing and I am struggling into my clobber again. I am now late for my next assignment and feeling decidedly knackered. It is therefore with some anxiety that I hear another knock on my door. Thinking that it is my last visitor who has left something behind, or Ted coming to chase me up, I throw it open to be faced with – you’ve guessed it – Else’ wearing enough makeup to kit out a tribe of Red Indians and a T-shirt that is stretched so tight across her tits that you can see the indentations on her nipples.

  “I want to have a word with you,” she says.

  “Evidently,” I say, wondering whether to slam the door in her face, or try and run for it. “Which one do you want to have?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Why does Gary Grant never have my trouble getting through to birds? “What is it? I’m in a hurry.”

  “I want to show you something.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “I suppose so.”

  I haven’t got the strength to stop her anyway. As she skates through the door, I notice that she has something clasped in her hand which looks like a kid’s handkerchief.

  “What is it, then?”

  “I wanted to ask you about my costume.”

  “What about it?”

  She holds up the fragment of material in front of herself and I can see that it is one of those costumes that have bloody great holes everywhere except where there is black mesh.

  “In the rules, it says you have to wear a one-piece costume. Will this do? I mean, it doesn’t cover my tummy and it does plunge very low at the back.”

  “Well, if it’s all fastened together it should

  “Probably better if I showed you.”

  Hey, hang on a moment!”

  “You can look the other way if you like.” And the shameless little cow starts tugging her T-shirt over her nut.

  “I told miseryguts Brian I was going to do this and he
said I wouldn’t dare.”

  “I would have agreed with him. Do you realise I could be sacked if anybody came in now?”

  She is now revealing a neat pair of bristols with bell push nipples, and wastes no time in lowering her shorts to reveal the smallest pair of panties I have seen outside the toddlers’ paddling pool.

  “Here,” she says, looking at me without a flicker of embarrassment disturbing her sly little features. “Do you think you could pull a few strings?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know. Get me amongst the prizewinners. You’re one of the judges, aren’t you? I could make it worth your while.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Go on. I quite fancy you anyway. I’m fed up with old misery guts mauling me.” She is closing with me fast and once again my split personality betrays me. Like a punch drunk boxer hearing the count near ten Percy begins to pull himself up off the canvas. Ferret-fingered Else’ immediately adds to my problems by making a direct frontal assault and in an instant I have stumbled back against the bed and am at her mercy.

  “Just somewhere in the first three,” she says, as she slips out of her panties.

  “Ooh, you’re lovely, you really are.”

  I never ever see her in her bleeding bathing costume and by the time she leaves I am prepared to climb out of a window to get away from the place. My fingers are shaking as I knot my tie for the third time and I nearly bash my head on the ceiling when somebody laughs as they go by outside. By the cringe, but you have to be in peak physical condition if you want to hold down a job in this place.

  After the events of the last couple of hours, it is with a feeling of pure horror that I see Mr. “Hanky Panky” Francis himself approaching as I stagger down the pathway that leads from my chalet. No doubt the maid has cracked under interrogation, or one of the informers rumoured to lurk amongst the holidaymakers, has squealed. As he comes nearer I cast down my eyes and cold fear invades my person.

  “Afternoon, laddie,” he observes, “keeping your end up?”

  I give him a bit of an old fashioned look at that one, but his expression does not suggest any secondary meaning to that normally associated with the phrase.

  “Keep smiling,” he observes and, flashing his Ted Heath’s, wanders on his way.