Confessions from a Holiday Camp

by Timothy Lea

  Ted is running around like a blue-arsed fly – of which there are still a great many to pick up hints from – and I am improving my sun tan and doing what I can to keep away from Carmen. The bloody woman won’t leave me alone and is always slipping another bottle into the medicine cabinet or her hand down the front of my trousers. Health and sex are the only two things she seems to think about. Not that I can complain too much because I have given up smoking and never said no to a spot of the other in my life.

  Somebody else who seems to be getting his share is Sid. Our leader’s quarters are across the road from Marcia’s and Carmen informs me that the cobble stones between the two front doors are getting decidedly worn. What Sid gets up to is of course his own business and, despite the fact that he is married to my sister, I have never thought of questioning his behaviour. What makes me change my mind is when he calls me in to his office – the first thing Sid does when he gets onto the island is fix himself up with an office – and informs me that Mum, Dad and Rosie are going to be amongst the first batch of swingers to set foot on our fair shores. This news is nothing if not a bombshell and I stagger back temporarily stunned by its multiple implications.

  “Blimey!” I gasp. “How did they get out here?”

  “I paid for ’em. Of course, I managed to fiddle a pretty hefty reduction. It’s not going to bankrupt me.”

  “But why, Sid?”

  “Well, I thought your Mum and Dad – poor old sods – could do with a bit of a knees-up before they snuff it. I mean, you’re never going to send them anywhere, are you? A day trip to Southend on their Golden Wedding Anniversary would be about your mark.”

  “But why here, Sid? I mean, Love Island. They’re a bit past it, aren’t they? Have you sent them a course of Phyllosan as well?”

  “They don’t have to get involved in anything. They can just sit about in the sun and relax. Marcia can look after them.”

  “Yeah, and what about Marcia? Rosie isn’t going to take too warmly to her being out here, is she?”

  “Don’t be stupid. Rosie knows all about Marcia. She’s met her.”

  “There’s a difference to meeting her in England, and finding her shacked up with you out here.”

  “What do you mean ‘shacked up’? Are you suggesting I’m having it away with her?”

  “The idea had flashed across my mind, Sid. Quite a few others too. Look, I don’t mind what you do, but I think you ought to be a bit careful about upsetting Rosie. Don’t make it too obvious. You know what I mean?”

  Sidney does not like that because he starts tugging at his moustache as if he wants to tear it out of his mush and his face turns an ugly red colour.

  “You’ve got a bloody cheek talking to me like that. You’re still an employee of Funfrall Enterprises, you know, not a bleeding marriage guidance counsellor. I know how to handle Rosie, don’t you worry about that.”

  “I just think it’s bloody stupid having both of them out here.”

  “I don’t see why I should deny Rosie a holiday just because Marcia’s here. She’s been on at me long enough about it. Look, Timmy. We’re in the nineteen seventies. Rosie and I have a modern marriage. If I fancy a quick fling with some bird, Rosie doesn’t mind. She knows I’ll still be mending the kid’s bike on Saturday morning. We’re grown-up people. All that faithfulness bit isn’t the B.O. and end-all, you know.”

  “Supposing Rosie fancied a bit on the side?”

  Sid swallows hard.

  “Well, of course it’s not very likely to happen, is it? She’s got the house and the kid and—and me.”

  “And supposing she did?”

  “Well, it would be just the same. What’s sauce for the goose, is sauce for the gander. The sex thing is pretty unimportant. We put too much emphasis on it. It’s what happens up here that keeps marriage alive.” Sid taps his nut.

  “That’s very broad-minded, Sid.”

  “Well, like I said. You’ve got to move with the times. Attitudes change. Now, don’t worry about Mum and Dad or Rosie. Everything is going to be alright. You leave it to me. If you want to do something useful, get out there and find that bleeder Grunwald.”

  So I pad off with my mind full of the new Sidney and thinking how he has changed. When Sid used to live with us in Scraggs Road he and Dad were after each other’s guts, twenty four hours a day. Now he is giving the miserable old bleeder a free holiday. And as for all this free love stuff, I just don’t get it. I always thought Sid was the possessive type.

  The sun is battering down out of a cloudless sky and, as the alternative is painting a white line round the edge of the ping pong table, I decide to take Sid at his word and go and look for Grunwald. Somebody has broken into the camp kitchen which, as Ted observes, is a clear indication of desperation, and it is generally reckoned to have been Grunwald. This notion is supported by the fact that all the pairs of shorts left out have been put through the mincing machine.

  I wander amongst the pines and find a path which winds down towards the sea. It is cool and dark under the trees with only occasional shafts of sunlight breaking through the thick foliage. Soon I can see patches of blue dodging behind the trunks and when I emerge it is to gaze down on an endless jumble of rocks looking like an upturned box of kids’ building bricks. Half the height of a house some of them are, and they start piling up right at the water’s edge. At first this leads me to think that there can’t be any beach, but as I walk along I can see the occasional tiny cove – and I don’t mean Wee Georgie Wood – nestling amongst the rocks with its own private beach, empty and inviting.

  But not always empty. In the middle of one patch of sand a young woman wearing a bikini is lying on her stomach and reaching behind her back to release the catch of her bra. I hate to see her risking pulling a muscle when I would be only too ready to offer my services. Especially as the young lady in question is the lovely Marcia. She unhooks her bra, arranges each strap neatly on either side of her and rests her head on her hands. Very methodical girl, Miss Trimbody. I find her cool, self-contained style very appealing after some of the ravers I have been struggling with lately. I continue to watch her slim, lithe body dozing in the sunshine and ponder my next move. Any bloke with a spark of decency in him would of course tiptoe quietly away and go home to catalogue his stamp collection.

  Unfortunately, though I can on occasions strike sparks, not one of them has ever had decency stamped on it. My first reaction is the one that is still with me ten minutes and a fair dose of eye-strain later: how can I get the rest of her costume off? I could ask her to take it off nicely, or bash her over the nut with a rock, but neither of these methods seems quite right. In the end, I settle for my normal approach: the one foot in front of the other, followed by the nervous pause while I wait to hear what I am going to say.

  In this case it is “sorry! I didn’t mean to frighten you” because just as I am drawing up beside her and about to cough discreetly, she suddenly sits up and starts to wriggle out of her bikini bottom. She has got it down to the knees when for some reason she turns and sees me gawping at her. Quick as a flash, she crosses her legs and drops her hands over her pubes.

  “What do you want? What do you want?” she shrills.

  Of course, I could tell her, but again, I don’t think it is the right moment.

  “I’ll look the other way,” I say, turning my back on her and holding before me like a photograph the memory of her shapely little breasts and upturned nipples. “I am sorry.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I was looking for Grunwald and doing a bit of exploring at the same time. It’s nice here, isn’t it?”

  “Not if you’re being spied on when you’re sunbathing.”

  “I wasn’t spying. I saw you from up there and you were lying so still I thought something might be wrong. Can I turn round now?”

  I whip round but she has everything on again and is flicking the sand off her bra. Grrrh!

  “You could have shouted.”

>   “Yes, I suppose so. But I didn’t want to frighten you.”

  “It was a jolly sight more frightening turning round and suddenly seeing you standing there.”

  “Yes—er—do you mind if I sit down?”

  “Be my guest. It’s a free beach. What there is of it.”

  “There’s not a lot of sand, is there?”

  “For what is supposed to be a Mediterranean holiday island, I think it’s incredible.”

  “Sidney wouldn’t like to hear you say that.”

  “I’ve already said it to him. I told him that the whole place was a disaster. I don’t see how any sane person could disagree with me.”

  “Well, I hope it goes alright for Sidney’s sake.”

  “Don’t worry about Sidney. He’s one of nature’s survivors. He’ll be alright.”

  “How long have you worked for him?”

  “About six months, I think. The length of time he’s been Promotions Manager.”

  “What’s he like to work for?”

  “We have our ups and downs—” she sees me looking at her when she says that, and blushes. “He’s a very volatile man. Lots of drive, impatient, reckless, his assessment of situations can be terribly wrong sometimes – but I don’t have to tell you all this. You’re his brother-in-law, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. You sound as if you like him.”

  “I do. I like brash, aggressive men. Maybe I want to be dominated. It’s probably all very Freudian.”

  She looks out to sea and lets a handful of sand trickle through her fingers. This is quite a class bird, I think to myself.

  “Are you lobbying on behalf of your sister? I haven’t got anything big going with Sidney.”

  I pick up some sand and pour it gently on to her pile.

  “I wasn’t thinking about that. I was concentrating on number one, as usual.”

  Our hands brush against each other and she makes no great effort to snatch hers away. I am lying on my back and she looks down at me and smiles.

  “How long were you watching from up there?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Wondering if I was dead?”

  “That kind of thing.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “That’s right.”

  She looks out to sea again and slowly releases a hand full of sand on to my stomach.

  “It’s a pity,” she says slowly.

  “What is?”

  “I don’t think I should tell you.”

  “Go on.”

  “I have a favourite fantasy in which I’m lying on a small, secluded beach and the sun is shining and the sea is sparkling and—”

  “And what?”

  “I don’t think I should tell you.”

  “Go on.”

  “And a beautiful man appears from nowhere and …”

  “And?”

  The sky is very blue above me and there is a solitary seagull circling lazily as if keeping a watchful eye on us. Marcia’s face appearing above mine blocks it out and I refocus on her blue eyes.

  “—we make love.”

  “I’m not beautiful.”

  “You’ll do.”

  I raise my head as if her mouth is the lowest of a bunch of grapes dangling above me and we kiss gently. It is very pleasant that kiss, so we do it again, putting a little more feeling into it. Her back is warm and I dust the sand from it, pulling her down so that we are lying side by side and I can smell her hair and run my tongue along her eyelids. She tugs at my T-shirt and starts to knead the flesh around my waist.

  “Ouch,” I say. “That hurts.”

  “You look as if you can take it.”

  Her hand moves smoothly down to my thigh and she pushes it up the leg of my shorts.

  She is biting her lip just as she was when we were watching Grunwald and the girls.

  “That’s nice,” she says. “Oh, that is nice.”

  And quick as a flash she rolls away, arches her back and slips down her bikini bottom. I don’t have time to help, she does it so fast. I kick off my sandals and do the same and her hand comes back immediately, inquisitive and greedy.

  “Take off your shirt,” she hisses. “I want to look at all of you.”

  By the time I have pulled it over my head, she has shaken off her bra and starts running her fingers over me and darting her mouth down so that her kisses fall on me like isolated drops of rain heralding a storm. Her head taxis down my body and—o-o-o-o-o-h! I dig my hands into the sand and screw up my eyes against the sunlight and the ecstasy.

  Far above me through the haze I can see a man standing on the rocks watching us. He has a beard and a hairy chest and a fat hairy belly and he is naked. The expression on his face could be a smile. Grunwald. O-o-o-o-h!! Good luck to him. I close my eyes momentarily and draw Marcia’s quivering body underneath my own.

  “Go on! Please, please, please!!” The muscles on her face are twitching and quivering and her mouth hangs open as if about to bite into an apple.

  “Go on.”

  I don’t look up at the rocks. I rise up above Marcia’s shuddering body, shrug off her unnecessary fingers and dive into her as if from ten thousand feet. At a moment like this, I wouldn’t care if Grunwald was up there selling tickets.

  CHAPTER NINE

  When I next look up, Grunwald has disappeared. I don’t mention him to Marcia because she might get all up-tight about it. You know how funny women can be. We have a little swim and I am all ready for another bout of belly-bashing but unfortunately Marcia says she has to be getting back in case Sid wants her for something. Probably the same as what I want her for, I think to myself, but I don’t say anything. Marcia takes my hand as we walk back, which is very nice and romantic – until we bump into Sid coming round the side of the Candlelight Casino.

  “Where have you been?” he snarls.

  “Looking for Grunwald,” I say. “I think I—”

  “Get round to the office—” he is talking to Marcia. “I’ve been waiting all afternoon to give you some letters. You—” he rounds on me, “I want a word with you.”

  Marcia looks at him real cool for a couple of long seconds then turns and pats my cheek.

  “Don’t let him bully you,” she says, and leaves me with a wink as incriminating as your dabs on the crown jewels. Sidney waits till she has disappeared round the corner and starts bristling like a turkey’s cock.

  “If you’ve laid a finger on her—” he starts.

  “Hey, wait a minute, Sidney,” I interrupt. “What about all that stuff we were talking about this morning? You know ‘living in the nineteen seventies’. ‘What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander’ – I definitely remember you saying that, when you were talking about Rosie. ‘The sex thing is pretty unimportant’. Those were your very—”

  “Shut up you slimy little rat. You’ve never forgotten Liz and me, have you? You’ve been waiting to get your own back ever since.” (Liz was a bird Sid once did the nasty on me with – way back in our old window cleaning days.)

  “But Sid! You said yourself—”

  “Shut your mouth! Only a snivelling little fink would behave like that. After all I’ve done for you, too. You dirty little bastard!”

  Well, that’s it! The old dukes are up and we are about to start belting the sh—you know what, out of each other, when Ted saves a nasty situation by lightfooting it round the corner.

  “Bit out of line with the camp image, isn’t it?” he observes. “I mean, Love Island—”

  “You can shut your mouth, too,” snaps Sid, and he strides away to make life hell for Marcia.

  I don’t know what he does to her, but next morning she is looking like a ruckled marshmallow. Maybe he is just getting it which he still can because the first in-take – meaning those who have been taken-in by the advertisement, as Ted puts it – is arriving that afternoon and Mum, Dad and Rosie are going to be amongst them. Sid gets stroppy and says that his presence is required on the Island, so Muggins is despatche
d to the airport to meet them. Also, to ferry back Ricci Volare and his Angelos del Sole, some crummy Italian group Sidney is importing to boost the atmosphere in the Candlelight Casino. Poor sods I think to myself; little do they know what they are letting themselves in for.

  Luckily I manage to prise myself out from under Carmen in time to slip on my Sun Senor kit and scramble aboard the ferry. I am feeling a right berk because Sidney has decreed that we all wear those flat, black hats sported by Spanish dancers and poufdahs; and strips of scarlet blanket draped round our shoulders. The ferry has been renamed “The Love Chariot” and also painted scarlet – presumably about five minutes before I sat down on it as I find when I examine the seat of my trousers. To my relief, the bus has not been painted “passionate pink” and I settle down beside the driver just in case he drops off to sleep or goes mad. He does neither but after ten minutes and four dead chickens, I am so scared I retreat to a seat halfway down the bus and pick my nails until we get to the airport. Here I skulk in a corner and endure insults about Sandemans Port from home-going English holidaymakers until, at last, the aircraft I am waiting for bounces down the runway like a horizontal pogo stick.

  I am secretly hoping that the family has missed the plane, but not a chance. I can recognise Dad a hundred yards away across the tarmac. He is wearing a tweed suit and a Homburg which he must have got especially for the trip because I have never seen either of them before. Mum, too, is wearing a bloody stupid hat and only Rosie looks relatively inconspicuous in a yellow trouser suit with scarlet stars all over it – she would be a wow in Red China. Trust my bleeding family to turn up looking like a circus act.