Confessions from a Holiday Camp

by Timothy Lea

  I remember those words later on, but at the time I just shuffle my feet and look modest.

  When I eventually get back to my room it is to find one of the Angelos del Sole pressing my trousers. He is doing this with the help of Carmen who is lying beneath him and on top of the mattress which covers my trousers. The bloke snatches up his clobber and dives out of the window with a speed that suggests he gets a lot of practice. Too bad about that cactus, I think as I listen to the screams.

  “You, very naughty girl,” I say wiggling my finger at Carmen who is now wearing her sulky expression. “My room no knocking shoppe.”

  “He take me by surprise,” pouts Carmen. “You too. Why you worry? You no want me. I no more your little buddy. Once you say you take me to England with you.”

  The subject had indeed been aired on one occasion when I was desperate to escape from her crippling embraces. “I make very good au pair girl.”

  “More like an ‘oh, what a pair’ girl,” I say, immediately wishing I hadn’t.

  “I no understand.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” An idea had suddenly occurred to me: supposing—

  “Hang on a minute,” I trill.

  I go over to the traditional Spanish chest of drawers and kick it until I am in a position to rummage inside. Somewhere I have the Funfrall Continental Brochure. Ah yes.

  “Look,” I say taking it over to Carmen. “You see this man. Sir Giles Slat. Him very important man. Him come to island today. If Carmen nice to him, maybe he fix up trip to England.”

  “You theenk?” She looks at the mugshot of Sir Giles trying to appear benevolent and trustworthy and licks her lips.

  “Oh definitely.”

  “How do I do?”

  “Well, Carmen,” I say, sitting down on the bed beside her and taking her hand in mine.

  “I think you should wait until the carnival this evening and …”

  After our little chat Carmen wants to thank me in traditional Spanish style but I don’t really fancy it so soon after spaghetti features and, telling her that there will be plenty of time later, I skate round to the Fooderama. Here Ted is belting out details of the evening’s goodies in true Melody Bay fashion and I can almost hear the adrenalin starting to slurp round the flabby veins. They wolf down their baked jam roll and jet off to make grass skirts as if they were on piece-work. Sidney is exultant and almost back to his old cocky self.

  “I think I’ve got everything lined up,” he says. “If everybody does their bit there shouldn’t be any slip-ups.”

  “Oh, I’m glad to hear that,” I say. “Don’t forget the whole thing was my idea.”

  “There’s a lot of difference between having an idea and being able to carry it out,” says Sid haughtily. Jesus, but he can be an ungrateful sod sometimes.

  There is the usual doubt as to exactly when Sir G. is arriving so Sid goes across to the mainland and I get the reception committee dusting their plastic wreaths. Nat and Nan have entered into the spirit of things and gone topless with a few paper chains dangling over their boobs whilst Carmen has done the total Spanish bit: long frilly dress, hair in a bun, a rose behind her lughole and tits lined up like grapeshot. If you like knockers this is the island for you.

  About four o’clock I see the first bus rolling up at the jetty and get everybody fell in. Chug, chug, chug and there is porridge puss standing up the sharp end with Sidney. There has been some doubt in our minds as to just how incognito Sir G.’s visit is going to be and this is resolved when he steps out of the boat wearing an immaculate tropical suit while a bloke in uniform struggles ashore behind him with about five pigskin suitcases.

  “Ah, my dears,” says the great man spotting Nat and Nan. “Looking ravishing as always.”

  “We’d rather look ravished,” says Nat bitterly.

  “Here, have a lei, and good luck to all who sail in you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s what they call them. Ridiculous, isn’t it? I know the kind of lay I like.”

  “Yes, my dear, your mother has told me but—ooh!”

  He says this because, smelling trouble, I have pushed Carmen out there fast and as usual she has overdone things. I told her to put the wreath round his neck sensually – not tweak his balls.

  “What kind of mood is he in?” I say to Sid who has slid over to my side.

  “Difficult to say. I’ll tell you later after a few drinks.”

  Sid steers Sir G. towards a few soothing beakers of passion fruit punch – a lethal concoction made to a centuries old Hawaiian recipe Ted and I invented that morning – while I tell the newcomers about the great time we’ve got lined up for them that evening. I can see one or two of them moistening their lips apprehensively at the sight of Nat and Nan but they will just have to learn to live with it. The rest of us have, and nobody has come to any harm yet, except Grunwald. Grunwald. Whatever happened to him?

  Thinking about hairy tum reminds me of Dad and I pad round to his hut. He is exactly as I would wish to find him. Snoozing on his bed with a half empty bottle of Scotch cradled in his arms. I replace it with a full one, drawn from stock on Sidney’s authority, and creep away.

  I meet Sid later when Sir G. has departed for a couple of hours’ kip before the festivities start.

  “How was he?”

  “Pretty good, really,” says Sid. “There was a nasty moment when he stood on one of the rat traps in the kitchen, but apart from that, it’s been alright.”

  “He hasn’t started talking to any of the customers yet?”

  “No. We’re alright there. He says he’s going to do that tonight.”

  “Good. How about the punch?”

  “He had two glasses. Not bad, eh? I topped them up with brandy to be on the safe side. He should be well away when he wakes up.”

  “If he wakes up. We should never have put that liqueur in the punch.”

  “What do you mean? Lots of those Spanish liqueurs have trees growing inside the bottle.”

  “Yeah, but not mushrooms.”

  “Oh well, it’s too late to do anything about it now. Have you checked on Dad?”

  “I’ve just come from his hut. He’s well away. No sign of Mum though. Have you noticed how funny she’s been lately?”

  “No. She always seems pretty strange to me.”

  “Yeah, but she’s definitely very peculiar at the moment.”

  “Maybe it’s the change of life?”

  “I think she changed that years ago, but you could be right.”

  “Anyway, she’s no problem tonight, so don’t worry about it. You concentrate on making sure that the paying customers have a great time.”

  “O.K. Sid. I’m off to slip in to my grass skirt. You got one for Sir Giles, didn’t you?”

  “It’s laid out at the foot of his bed and I’ve hidden all his other clobber so he’s got to wear it.”

  “What time are you calling him?”

  “Seven. I’m going to try and force a couple more drinks past his gums and then it’s the torchlight procession down to the beach, light the fires, get a couple of gallons of jungle juice inside everybody, a spot of dancing, Nat and Nan doing their stuff—”

  “—Carmen doing her stuff.”

  “—and all our troubles will be over.”

  “All your troubles will be over, Sid.”

  “Just as you like, Timmy boy. Just as you like. I can’t see how it can go wrong tonight.”

  That’s the trouble with Sidney. He’s such a boody optimist. Of course, maybe that’s why he always comes up smelling of roses. I am a cautious realist who always takes his raincoat with him, and it doesn’t get me anywhere.

  By seven thirty there is a big crowd milling about outside the Candlelight Casino and Ted is compering the Carnival Queen Contest while we wait for it to get dark enough to light the torches. A fair amount of liquor is also swilling about so that by the time Miss Maureen Dribble of Tring is blushing unnoticeably at the prospect of receiving h
er prize most people are already pleasantly smashed.

  Sir Giles is going to do the honours and I note with interest that he stumbles as he comes down the steps of Sid’s bungalow. With his red face and bloated white body he looks like a half-painted skittle. The grass skirt doesn’t do much for him either.

  “Very well done, my dear. Your mother must be proud of you,” he chortles, and slipping the winner’s wreath over both their necks he delivers a right plonker smack on the lips. Miss Dribble who has been specially selected for her goer potential takes this in good part and the crowd cheers enthusiastically and offers advice of the “Get stuck in, dad!” variety. It is obvious that Sir G. is prepared to let his hair down when beyond the shores of Blighty, and this cannot be bad. The grass skirts are also a good idea because they give people something to talk about, and I hear a couple of blokes telling birds that they intend to mow the grass later.

  The next move is to light the torches and this is effected with only minor damage to one geezer’s grass skirt and marriage prospects. Swift action with a fire bucket preventing any really serious damage being caused.

  Two chairs have been mounted on a framework of poles and Sir Giles and Miss Dribble climb into them and are lifted on to the shoulders of six Spanish waiters. In this manner it is intended to bear them down to the beach but our plans are nearly disrupted when some joker pulls down the grass skirt of one of the waiters, revealing that he is uncircumcised and a bloke who does not believe in lashing out on underwear. The waiter lets out a squeal of rage and releases his hold on the litter so that Miss D. and Sir Giles are nearly toppled from their perches and only saved by the prompt intervention of the crowd.

  This catastrophe averted, the procession gets under way and we march down to the beach with much cheering and shouting. Miss Dribble dismounts and is handed a torch with which to ceremonially ignite the barbecue pit. I should have realised that something was wrong when I smelt the petrol, but you know what it is like when you have had a few. I am as slow as anybody and we only wake up to the danger when the flames have soared to cliff height. Luckily, Maureen’s duties are nearly over so it does not matter too much about her eyebrows and eyelashes, and I personally think she looks much better without the fringe. Anyway it is a nasty moment and it is just as well that we have the Hawaiian punch standing by. I am a spot disturbed when the ladle we had left standing in it comes out steaming and without the spoon bit on the end, but, once again, it is too late to do anything about it because the customers are getting very thirsty.

  Frisky, too. Quite a few grass skirts are rustling without any help from the wind and when Ted turns the music on they start grappling with each other like they are trying to press transfers on to each other’s bodies. The whole thing is going even better than expected and I see Sir G. desperately looking round for someone to start rabbiting to.

  “O.K. darling,” I murmur to Carmen, who is panting for action beside me, “get out there and do your stuff. And remember, this could be your ticket to Hapstead Garden Suburb.” Without another word the Great Spanish Breasts plunge into the scrum of bodies and the next thing I see, Carmen has tucked her rose down the front of Sir G.’s grass skirt and is leading him on to the dance area. Who says romance is dead?

  Certainly not Nat and Nan. As the light from the barbecue pit flickers over their well-stacked bodies they begin to shed their garlands and caress their bodies to the music as if they are appearing in a new toilet soap commercial. Nat is first to strip to the Plimsoll line but then Nan loosens the band at her waist and the grass skirt flutters to the floor. Soon they are both completely starkers and swaying gently before each other with arms outstretched and fingers beckoning.

  “The goat is as tough as old boots,” says Ted, appearing beside me. “Hello! That’s a bit of alright, isn’t it?”

  Some people seem to think so because a couple of the Spanish waiters start to do their thing in front of the girls.

  “Hey, they’re for the paying customers,” says Ted. “How many times do we have to tell those bleeders?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Ted. Let them get on with it. It’ll help get things going.”

  Not half it won’t. The girls are beginning to shudder like a couple of three-ply shit house doors in a hurricane and their eager little fingers stretch out to explore the grasslands before them. Almost simultaneously the waiters’ skirts hit the deck and there are two naked couples gyrating before a responsive crowd.

  “Look!” I say. “Look at that!!” I refer to a bare-breasted Carmen leading Sir Giles away towards the rocks but there is no one there to hear me. Ted is being taken in tow by a bird I have never seen before and who I imagine must come from the new intake. It doesn’t take them long to get the idea when you give them a little guidance, does it?

  In no time at all I am alone with the music, the spluttering fire and a beach full of shadowy objects which might just be large turtles with a dose of hiccups.

  “Hello there.”

  Well, almost alone. It is Judy, the girl who helped to make me a fish hater.

  “Hi,” I say. “Having a good time?”

  “It could be better,” she says wistfully. I prick up my ears.

  “Has your old man gone fishing again?”

  “No, I don’t know where he is. Out there on the beach, I expect. There’s been no holding him since that afternoon.”

  “Amazing. Can I get you a drink?”

  “No. I feel tiddly enough as it is.”

  So do I, actually. I also feel that Judy has appeared as a reward for all the good work I have done lately: happy holidaymakers, satisfied Sir Giles. Now it’s time for Timmy to have a little fun.

  “You’re looking gorgeous,” I murmur.

  “I hoped you’d say that.”

  “That perfume you’re wearing. Marvellous!”

  “I’m not wearing any.”

  “It must be you, then. Even better.”

  “You say fantastic things.”

  I do, don’t I? Oh well, you’ve either got it or you haven’t. For those who haven’t: tough. Very tough.

  “It’s easy when there’s someone like you about.”

  I slide my hands inside the grass skirt and the naughty girl isn’t wearing any knicks. Some of them really ask for trouble, don’t they?

  “Don’t you find this scratches?” I murmur.

  “It wouldn’t if you cut your fingernails.”

  “I didn’t mean that. I meant—oh, it doesn’t matter. Let’s go and make love.”

  “Let’s.”

  Feeling good like a Timmy Lea should I lead her towards the rocks and a patch of sand which has not been claimed by other Funfrall clients. We kiss again and she slides out of my arms and stretches full length on the beach.

  “Take me,” she says.

  I am glad she has got over her inhibitions and I drop on my hands and knees to show her how I feel about it. The lower part of her body flexes temptingly and I part the curtain of grass at her waist and lower my friendly mouth—

  “Ouch!” she screams.

  “I haven’t touched you yet.”

  “Something burned me.”

  “It must be some sparks from the barbecue.”

  “Ouch! There’s another one. Look!!”

  I look up and see what she is on about. A cloud of sparks drifting down from the cliff top and a great glow illuminating the sky beyond.

  “Christ! The camp must be on fire.”

  “Fire! Fire!” hollers Judy, springing to her feet. “Help! Fire! Help! Help!”

  All around us couples start breaking up like horses getting to their knees but I don’t stop to watch. I lead the rush to the cliff path and find myself shoulder to shoulder with Sid.

  “Have you seen Dad?”

  “I haven’t seen anybody!”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  We sprint to the top of the rocks and before us the whole centre of the island seems to be ablaze. Flames are leapfrogging from hut to hut and clouds
of burning thatch are being snatched away by the night breeze.

  I rush forward, putting together a jigsaw puzzle of Dad with every step. I remember all the little acts of human kindness which characterised the man: the time he gave me his old tobacco tin to keep my earwigs in, the space helmet he brought me back from the Lost Property Office – of course it was a gold fish bowl, but Dad believed in teaching a kid to be imaginative.

  Suddenly, he is there before me; an unforgettable figure in his Steptoe-issue long underpants and blackened face.

  “Dad, Dad,” I scream. “Are you alright?”

  “No thanks to you two bleeders,” he rasps. “Bloody place is a bleeding death trap. Knock out your pipe and the whole lot goes up like tinder.”

  “You what!” screeches Sid.

  “You heard. I said try knocking your pipe out around here. It’s bloody murder. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

  “You mean—!”

  “Don’t get all worked up about it. It could have happened to anyone. It’s you who want to feel responsible. Leaving your poor old father to fry while you pander to your unnatural tendencies. Look at those skirts. I always said you two was poufdahs.”

  “You take his legs,” says Sid. “We’re going to chuck him into a burning hut.”

  “No wonder Rosie fancies that Eyetie geezer,” goes on Dad. “You don’t expect nothing better from their lot.”

  “Whadya mean?” snarls Sid, an edge in his voice you could cut your fingers on.

  “I thought you hadn’t noticed. Oh, yes, they were creeping through here hand in hand about half an hour ago. Very nice goings on I said to myself. Our Rosie canoodling with some singing wop. Here! Where are you going? What about all the things I lost in the fire? I want retribution.”

  But he doesn’t get it. Not then, anyway. Sid’s mug assumes the expression of one of those things you see sticking out of church walls and he plunges on through the burning huts with me trying to keep up with him.

  “Where is that bastard’s hut?” he shouts.

  “I don’t know,” I lie. “Over there, I think.”

  I let Sid get out of sight and then belt across to Hairy’s hut. The fire has not reached it yet but clouds of smoke are swirling round the walls. Holding my breath, for a number of reasons, I peer through the doorway and see Ricci and Rosie stretched out naked on two beds that have been dragged together. Oh my gawd! They are obviously taking a post-poke nap and, while I watch, Ricci’s nostrils begin to twitch as wisps of smoke drift through the thatch.