Confessions from a Holiday Camp

by Timothy Lea

  “I think most blokes would chuck their fishing rods in the dust bin if they saw you looking like that.”

  “You’re being very kind.”

  “I’m not doing you a favour. It’s the honest truth.”

  “He doesn’t spare me a second glance. He spends all his time grumbling because he can’t find any lug worms.”

  “Lug worms!”

  “I want to go dancing.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “I’m not unattractive.”

  “Unattractive? You’re beautiful.”

  “I only want a little fun.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “It’s not too much to ask, is it?”

  “Of course it isn’t.”

  “I’m a woman.”

  “You wouldn’t find a man in the world who would disagree with you.”

  “Oh! What are you doing?”

  “I’m kissing you.”

  “I thought that was what you were doing. It’s been so long I’ve almost forgotten.”

  “Stand by for a refresher course.”

  “Oh-o-oh. Supposing somebody comes?”

  “They won’t. You’re beautiful.”

  “Oh. But they’ll hear us.”

  “There isn’t anyone to hear.”

  “Oh, that’s heaven. Oh. Oh-o-oh.”

  “Judy! Judy!!”

  The last words are, unfortunately, not spoken by me, but by someone approaching the hut fast.

  “It’s him,” she squeals. “It’s my husband. Get out!”

  But I don’t have time to get out. All I can do is dive under one of the low rush beds – and in my condition it is a pretty uncomfortable dive, I can tell you.

  “Judy! Darling where are you? I’ve got something to show you—oh, there you are. Look, have you ever seen anything like that before?”

  “No. What is it?”

  “I think it’s some kind of sea bream. Fantastic, isn’t it? I got it off those rocks by the bathing beach. Hey, wait a minute. Why haven’t you got any clothes on? Supposing somebody came round?”

  “Who’s likely to do that?”

  “I don’t know. But I must say, you’re looking awfully attractive, darling. Very attractive indeed.”

  “I’m surprised you noticed.”

  “Don’t be like that, darling. I’m sorry I’ve been a bit preoccupied lately, but I just knew there was a big one holed up somewhere.”

  “Your fishing is more important than me.”

  “Not any more, darling. Not any more.”

  “Ooh, your hands are cold. And they smell of that fish. Can’t you wait ’til tonight?”

  “Not with you looking like that, I can’t. Oh, darling.”

  “George.”

  “Darling.”

  “Oh, George.”

  And the next thing I know this bloody ugly fish drops down beside me so it is staring me straight in the eye. George and Judy collapse on to the bed and I am pinned underneath it while they bang away like a couple of vibrating springboards. What a way to spend your lunch hour!

  At least I think, as I gaze into the cold, dead eye beside me, and try and massage the crick in my neck, I have helped to bring a little romance into two of our customers’ lives.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I can never look at a fish without wincing after that and I wish I could say that the fruits of my sacrifice were reflected in an upsurge in the sex life of the camp as a whole.

  Unfortunately this is not the case and when I next see Sid he is sitting in his office clutching an airmail letter in the hand that is not clapped to his forehead.

  “Look at this,” he says. “We’re in the shit now.”

  When he says “we” I realise that things must be serious. “We” is a clear sign that Sid is preparing to spread the load.

  I read the letter which is from Sir Giles and says that he is planning to visit the island in the next few days and “personally solicit a reaction to the standard and extent of the amenities provided”.

  “You have got a problem, Sid,” I say, “but don’t worry, we’ve killed most of the lice.”

  “Mosquitoes, not lice, you twit!” screeches Sid. “How many times do I have to tell you? There are no lice, bed bugs or ticks on this island, except those brought by the customers. Now don’t forget it.”

  “Sorry, Sid. Well, the food then. The cases of food poisoning have dropped dramatically in the last few days.”

  “There you go again,” rants Sid. “Sunstroke, that’s what it is. People stay out in the sun too long and then they blame the food when they don’t feel well. You eat the food and you’re alright.”

  “Yeah, but after Mum’s cooking I’ve built up an immunity to anything. Alright, so everything’s perfect, so what are you worrying about?”

  “I’m worried because they are not inter-acting. If they are not inter-acting, they are not having a good time. And if they are not having a good time they are going to start whining about everything when Slat gets here.”

  “I don’t reckon the British are ready for a place like this. They’re such bloody hypocrites they can only enjoy it if they’re doing it on the quiet. Tell ’em to come out in the open and get on with it and they don’t want to know.”

  “What about that monster gang-bang at Melody Bay?”

  “They were all pissed and they were being told what to do. It was like bingo or community singing. Give ’em a lead and they’re alright. That’s what I’ve been meaning to say to you for a long time now. This place is too free and easy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if we organised some kind of game or activity which gave them a chance to get on the job even though that wasn’t the main purpose of it, I reckon they’d be more likely to respond.”

  “Yeah, you might have a point there. ‘Hide and seek’ through the huts, that kind of thing?”

  “Exactly. Bit talking of huts reminds me. You’ll have to keep Dad away from Sir Giles. You’ll never get him to play ball.”

  “No. The miserable old sod will shop the lot of us. And then there’s that bleeder Grunwald – running about somewhere. Oh my Gawd, we might as well knot ourselves.”

  “You mean you might as well knot yourself, and Ted maybe. I’m just a humble employee remember.”

  “That’s right. Wait till I’m down then start putting the boot in.”

  “Pull yourself together, Sid, we’re—I mean you’re not done for yet. If we give Dad enough booze we can keep him in his hut till his post war credits come up. As for Grunwald, I reckon he’s probably tried to swim back home to Blighty. Nobody’s seen him for weeks.”

  “Bloody kraut. We should never have employed him in the first place. They’re all the same, you can’t trust one of them. That bleeding wop yodler is another one. I’ll swing for him before I’m much older.”

  It is obvious that poor old Sid is cracking up fast and I seek to introduce a more positive note into the conversation.

  “Let’s try something tonight,” I say. “While they’re all at supper, I’ll hide a piece of paper with a letter of the alphabet on it in each of the huts. The person that can produce the longest word by collecting the most pieces of paper will be the winner. We can announce it during supper.”

  “It sounds bloody complicated to me. Supposing they just had to bring back a pair of knickers?”

  “No, Sid! That’s too obvious. I’ve been trying to tell you. What we want to do is slip it in casually – that’s what they want to do, too.”

  “Oh, have it your own way. I can’t think straight any more. If your idea gets them whizzing round the huts it might get us somewhere I suppose.”

  In fact the idea is a success beyond my weirdest dreams. The customers all perk up when they are told there is going to be fun and games, and they charge off up the hill to a man, many of them without waiting for their coffee. This is a disappointment because coffee is an “extra” but you can’t have everything. The winning word “
squelch” comes up three hours later from a very dishevelled blonde and the dance floor of the Candlelight Casino is full for the first time I can remember. I organise a couple of spot waltzes and a hokey cokey and the customers are practically sobbing their gratitude.

  Sidney slides off early saying that he must get some sleep, and maybe it is as well that he does because Rosie’s demented passion for Italy’s answer to Tom Jones is horrible to see. She sits there in her turquoise crimplene, hugging her rum and coke to her not insignificant bosom and sending him messages with her eyes which need to be read through dark glasses.

  “She’s got the hots for him alright, hasn’t she?” says Ted at my elbow. “What are we going to do about it?”

  “Mind your language,” I say, “that’s my sister, remember. I’m not certain I want to do anything. She’s a big girl now.”

  “Yeah, but remember what Sidney said.”

  “Oh stop flapping. Just because you’re senior cringer it doesn’t mean you have to run along behind Sid with a roll of bog paper. You’ve been a real pain ever since you tasted power.”

  “It’s alright for you to go on like that. You’re his brother-in-law. You’re fireproof, whatever happens.”

  Pathetic, isn’t it? You can see we are all on edge. The entertainments business is murder on your nerves, I can tell you.

  “Belt up, will you? Look, they’re dancing.”

  “Blimey! He’s holding her close isn’t he? She’s practically out the other side of him.”

  “I want to hear what they’re saying. We’d better dance.”

  “It’s going to look a bit conspicuous, isn’t it?”

  “Not with each other, you berk!”

  I grab some grateful bird and steer her out into the middle of the sweaty darkness to where Ricci and Rosie are locked in each other’s arms and totally unaware of the existence of anyone else. Ricci’s liver lips are an inch away from Rosie’s lughole and he is making with the honeyed words as usual.

  “Cara mia,” he yuks. “I toucha you and I am inflatable. My body bursts with love. I wanta to kiss your little pink toes, to nobble your finger tips, to do everything to you that a man can do to the body of the woman he loves.”

  And he dives on her mouth so that for a moment I think he is trying to swallow her head. Blimey but it is torrid – horrid too.

  Eventually he has to come up for air and they separate with a noise like someone unstopping a blocked up sink.

  “My darleeng,” he breathes. “I am very much enamelled with you. I musta maka lova to you. Eeza impossible to wait. I am a volcano. I pour all over you.”

  He is pawing all over her alright. Good job Sid is not a finger-print expert.

  “But my husband,” says Rosie unconvincingly.

  “Where eeza he? He does not lova you like me. He cannot lova you like me. I am fire and he is water. Come to my hut. You must. You must.”

  “But—”

  “No! Do not but me. Come, say nothing. Come.”

  And before you can say “Anthony Cheetham” he has taken her by the hand and is pounding towards the sign marked “Egxit”.

  Without quite knowing what I am doing I dump my surprised partner and spring after them. I don’t really give a monkey about Sidney’s feelings but on the other hand I don’t trust Hairy further than I can throw him, and after all, he is a wop, isn’t he? I mean, it is not as if he was one of our blokes.

  I follow about twenty yards behind and have to stop every few minutes while they go into another clinch. They just don’t care do they? God help them if Sidney pops out to water the cactus.

  I have a vague idea of where Ricci’s hut is from when I left the pieces of paper for the game. As I recall it, the pong of the muck he uses on his hair was stronger than that of the disinfectant.

  Love’s young nightmare has just moved through the first row of huts and I am about to follow when suddenly there is a terrible scream from just beside me and a fat woman wearing curlers and nothing else shoots out of a hut.

  “Ooh, you pig,” she yells. “You filthy, dirty old man.”

  Somehow, I know what I am going to see even before I look into the hut. Dad standing there in his socks and his plastic mac, looking confused.

  “I thought it was the piss-house,” he says in a slightly narky voice. “They all look the same to me. I said I was sorry. That ugly old slag doesn’t think I was trying to come it with her, does she? I’m not that bleeding desperate.”

  The ugly old slag starts to scream twice as loud after that and I can see that I have another problem on my hands. Dad’s breath smells strongly of the medicine we have been giving him and he is well pissed.

  “I know this old man,” I say. “He’s quite harmless, really. I think he’s a bit overtired and made a genuine mistake.”

  “Dirty old devil. Do you know what he did?”

  “He hasn’t been very well lately. Now, please try and calm yourself. Shouting won’t do any good. I’ll get him to bed and come back to help tidy up.”

  “You want to watch it if you do, son,” says Dad. “There’s a merry widow there, mark my words. You’re just what she’s looking for. A young, fit man to gratify her disgusting old body.”

  “I’m not standing for that,” shouts Lady Shagnasty. “I’m going to report this whole incident to the camp authorities.”

  “You do and I’ll say you invited me in to your hut,” leers Dad. “I’ll say you begged me to do a tinkle so you could watch.”

  “O-o-oh!!”

  Somehow, I manage to drag the dirty old sod away and I am half wondering whether it really was an accident by the time I get him back to his hut. There is no sign of Mum and I am about to ask where she is when she comes through the door opening.

  “Thank God you’re back, Mum—” I begin, and then I stop. Mum is looking quite incredible. About ten years younger and with an “over the hills and faraway” expression in her eyes. She is wearing no make-up and seems to be in some kind of trance.

  “Mum,” I say quietly. “Mum, are you alright?”

  “What dear?” She looks at Dad and me as if she has only just seen us. “Yes, dear. What is it?”

  “You’d better be prepared for a few cold looks tomorrow morning. Dad went out to the toilet and blundered into some woman’s hut by mistake.”

  I wait for the explosion but Mum just smiles and pats Dad absentmindedly on the head.

  “That’s alright, dear,” she says calmly. “We all make mistakes. You’re back now.” And that is all. I go out into the night wondering what has happened to Mum. What a pity Norman and Henry Bones the boy detectives are not with us.

  But, fascinated as I am by Mum, I now have to turn my attention back to Ricci and Rosie, the star-crossed lovers of Isla de Amor. I pad through the huts hearing the occasional naughty noise seeping out of the thatch until I come to a hut with an Eyetie pennant hung over the doorway. Am I too late to save a fair English rose from a fate worse than National Health glasses?

  “Oh, Ricci, angel, that was fantastic,” gasps an exhausted and familiar voice. “Do it again, pl-e-e-ase!”

  By the cringe, I think, as I stride swiftly away into the darkness. The Leas are really getting amongst it tonight.

  The next morning finds me in Sidney’s office, but I am listening not squealing. An unhealthy shade of grey is breaking through our leader’s sun tan and he is brandishing a telegram.

  “This afternoon,” he groans, “he’s coming this afternoon with the next intake. In the coach. He says he wants to be treated like an ordinary holidaymaker.”

  “Taking his life in his hands, isn’t he?” I say in my normal jokey fashion.

  “Piss off,” says Sidney wearily. “Don’t start being funny at this time of the morning. What are we going to do?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. We’re going to have a Fasching.”

  “A what?”

  “A Fasching. It’s a kraut idea Ted told me about. They have a big carnival just before the
y give everything up for Lent. They all get pissed and have it away with each other’s wives.”

  “You mean like New Year’s Eve?”

  “Yeah. Only on a much bigger scale.”

  “I didn’t know the Germans went in for that kind of thing.”

  “Oh yes. They’re very hot on it. They like getting pissed and the rest comes naturally.”

  “But is it going to work here?”

  “I reckon we’ve got a good chance. You see it’s all very organised. Everybody dresses up and they have parades and beauty queens and all that kind of palava. Just like the Funfrall Camps back home. You saw how well it went last night when we got ’em a bit organised – well, you didn’t see all of it.”

  “No, I slept really well last night. Out like a light when my head touched the pillow.”

  “Good. I’m glad about that. Now, you see, I believe, if we lay on the booze and get back to basic principles, we could get ’em all going a treat. They were beginning to warm up last night.”

  “What are we going to do for fancy dress?”

  “I’ve thought about that. We’ll turn it into a South Sea Island caper. That way, they can all wear grass skirts. That should give them a few ideas. You remember that party at Maisie Simpson’s?”

  “Oh yes. When her grass skirt got caught in the electric fan? That started things off alright, didn’t it?”

  “Not half! I reckon if we call it a Polynesian Carnival Barbecue and elect a Carnival Queen—”

  “What are we going to barbecue?”

  “Some of those bloody goats.”

  “Marvellous! I really think you’ve got something there, Timmo. So we’re not going to call it a Flushing?”

  “Fasching! No, it doesn’t sound right, does it? And if they think it’s anything to do with the Krauts they won’t fancy it, either. It’s just the general idea we’re borrowing.”

  “Great, Timmo, great. We’ll tidy up the details this morning and announce it at dinner time. Then, when Slat gets here, they’ll all be running about happily getting ready for the big night. I won’t forget this, Timmy.”

  “Don’t thank me, too soon. It may not be a success.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Timmo, I can smell this one. It’s going to go like a bleeding forest fire.”