Confessions from a Holiday Camp
Page 16
“Get out!” I scream. “The camp’s on fire and Sidney’s looking for you!”
I thought the bloke who dived through my window into the cactus was a fast mover, but this Ricci must have been in the Italian team at the Rome Olympics. He has snatched up his skirt and is past me before you can say “Jesse Owens”. He doesn’t stop to say “goodbye” or “thank you” either.
It doesn’t get him anywhere because I hear a noise like somebody chopping up pork cutlets and turn to see Sid delivering a bunch of cinques up the wop’s bracketo with sufficient force to send him spinning through the wall of a nearby hut. Sid plunges in after him and a succession of unpleasant thumps and yelps rise above the noise of the approaching flames.
“Get out of it,” I hiss at Rosie who is desperately trying to hook up her grass skirt, “piss off back to the bungalow.”
I make an opening in one of the walls and she slips though it seconds before Sidney comes in stroking his knuckles. I follow his searching eyes round the room and am relieved to find that Rosie seems to have left no evidence of her visit.
“Taught him a bleeding lesson,” says Sid with grim satisfaction. “Come on, let’s go and find the others.”
It has been an evening crowded with incident hasn’t it? But more is still to come. When we leave the huts we see that the Candlelight Casino is ablaze, presumably ignited by the burning straw that is drifting everywhere.
“You stay here and stop anyone going near those huts,” shouts Sid.
“I’ll see if I can do anything about the casino.”
I don’t have a lot to do because in no time at all the whole area of the huts is only fit to roast chestnuts in and there are not a lot of those about. I extend what sympathy and reassurance I can and start to walk back towards the Casino. From the glow in the sky it looks as if the Passion Fooderama has gone up as well. Suddenly, looking into the pines that border the path, I see two figures picking their way through the trees. One of them I immediately recognise as Mum, but the other – blimey, it can’t be! Naked, bearded, pot-bellied – Grunwald!!!
“Mum!” I shout and start racing towards her, my mind reeling with the horror of it all. When I reach her, Grunwald has disappeared and Mum is crying.
“Mum, Mum!” I pant. “What happened? What did he do to you? I’ll kill him.”
Through the tears Mum blinks up at me like she has trouble recognising who I am.
“It was beautiful,” she says, “beautiful.”
“Beautiful!? What do you mean, Mum?”
“—and now it’s over.”
Once again her face has that dreamy look and an expression I can only describe as radiant.
“Mum—”
“I was frightened when I first saw him, but then he took me by the hand and showed me his temple in the rocks.”
“Mum!”
“His Temple of Love, he called it. He’d made it ever so comfy and nice. Really snug it was. He wanted me to stay there with him for ever.”
“Mum. Do you know what you’re saying?”
“Such a nice man. He was so kind. And he had such a lovely furry tummy.”
“Mum, please!” I mean, it’s disgusting, isn’t it? Your own mother!
“I’ve considered it quite seriously in the last few days.”
“You couldn’t, Mum.”
“And then I thought about you and your father.”
“Yes, Mum?”
“And it seemed an even better idea.”
“Mum!”
“I suppose you think it’s ridiculous at my age?”
“Exactly, Mum. You’re old enough to be my mother.”
“But then I thought: after a while the magic will wear off; there will be all the unpleasantness with your father, and nobody will remember to feed the goldfish.”
“True, Mum.”
“So I told him I couldn’t go through with it.”
She starts crying again and I put my arm round her shoulder. I mean, when you think about it, it’s rather lovely, isn’t it?
“There, there, Mum,” I say. “You did the right thing. I believe it gets quite parky here in the winter. Now come and warm your hands on the Candlelight Casino and – take my advice – don’t say anything to Dad about it all!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“I can’t remember when I was last so moved,” says Sir Giles.
It is the next afternoon and we are sitting under a shady rock not far from the scorched site of Sid’s office. Sir Giles, Sid, Ted and me, listening to the last party of holidaymakers whistle Colonel Bogie as they march down to the beach.
“Tears pricked my eyes when they linked arms and sang ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ in front of the burning food hall,” sighs Sir G. “It brought back so many memories.” Ted nods his interested “what is the stupid old basket rabbiting on about” nod, and I do likewise.
“I was unfortunately detained on business in America at the time but I remember the newsreel shots clearly. ‘Dig for victory’, ‘Careless talk costs lives’, The Blitz, rationing, austerity, the tremendous team spirit of the people – and above all, Winnie at the helm.”
Sir G. takes another pull at his enormous cigar. What is he on about?
“Gentlemen, I have had a monumental idea sparked off,” he beams at us as if the joke was intentional, “—sparked off by the events of last night. On reflection I believe that we – that you—” he looks at Sidney – “misjudged the temperament of the British people when you advocated setting up Isla de Amor. I do not think that the British will ever take to sex with the same enthusiasm that they will respond to deprivation and hardship. It may be alright for the continentals but the island race requires sterner challenges before they can be genuinely amused. You have spoken to me honestly about some of the problems you faced in trying to engender the right romantic climate on the island, and frankly I think that these are insurmountable. Love Island was not merely ahead of its time but basically not what the British public wanted.”
“What do they want, then?” says Sidney sulkily.
“World War Two Holiday Camps.”
“World War Two Holiday Camps!?”
“Exactly. It came to me as I observed those people’s response to the fire. They lost everything – your father for instance, his priceless miniature collection destroyed – but they laughed in the face of adversity. They brewed cups of tea on the ashes of their holiday hopes. They sang, they joked. They were British doing what the British do best – suffering. It occurred to me that there are whole generations of young Britons who have never experienced the right conditions in which to indulge our national predeliction. Generations too young to even remember World War II let alone to have enjoyed it. For them and their nostalgic parents we are going to create Funfrall Austerity.”
“Mum was always saying how good it was during the war,” muses crawler Ted.
“Of course she was. Listen, I have it all worked out. We take over an obsolete tube station, or perhaps the giant underground shelter at Clapham South. Bunk beds on the platforms. Piped Vera Lynn records and air-raid sirens, ration cards and queuing for everything. Tinned snook.”
“Why the underground?” I say.
“Because that’s where people used to go to get away from the bombing,” says Sid.
“They used to sleep down there like Sir Giles says.”
“We can have special wireless programmes, they can tune in to ‘ITMA’, ‘Much Binding in the Marsh’, ‘Alva Liddell’.”
“The overheads will be low,” says Sidney.
“Non-existent,” says Sir G. “The food will have to be poor to be authentic and enemy action can frequently disrupt power supplies. Remember, there’s a war on.”
“Do you think it will catch on?” I ask.
“Catch on!?” snorts Sir Giles. “It’s what the British public have been waiting for. They’re sick to death of all this affluence. It’s like sex. It makes them feel shifty.” He looks at the three of us searchingly. “Of course
, it may need an older man with experience of the period to capitalise on all the opportunities. We’ll have to see. Think about it.”
“Yes Sir Giles. I think it’s a wonderful idea,” gushes tedious Ted.
“Good. Now Hotchkiss, I want you to come with me. Noggett, you can stay here and tell Lea about his duties. I’m going to say a few words to the men – I mean I’m going to bid our clients farewell.”
“Boobed again, eh Sid?” I say as Sir G. disappears towards the beach. “You’ll have to watch that Hotchkiss. You’ll find him sitting behind your secretary soon.”
“Shut your mouth,” snarls Sid. “By the cringe but Slat is a crafty old sod. I reckon it was him who set fire to the Fooderama. He was wandering round with a burning torch saying ‘half a fire is no good to man nor insurance company’.”
“This place is well insured, is it?”
“‘Well insured!’ It was never worth more than it is at the moment. Don’t you worry about that.”
“What are these duties the old man was talking about?” I say suspiciously.
“Yes, well,” Sid clears his throat. “Fancy a little sea trip, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we’ve got to make sure that all the customers get back quickly before the weather turns nasty, and there’s a lot of detail work to be done at head office.”
“So?”
“So we’re going to fly back this afternoon and you’re going to stay here to tidy up and settle up with the local labour.”
“But, Sid—”
“Then Sir Giles has organised a berth for you on a boat going back to Blighty. It’ll be a sort of Mediterranean cruise.”
“I don’t want to be stuck here on my tod.”
“Oh, you won’t be alone. Nat and Nan will be staying with you.”
“What!!!”
“Yeah. I suppose the old man doesn’t reckon they have a lot of Vera Lynn potential. I think he wants to give them a couple of weeks to cool off.”
“Cool off!’ What about me? They’ll kill me.”
“Don’t get hysterical, for gawd’s sake. And by the way, talking about killing people, you can drop Ricci Wop and his lads off at Naples.”
“Naples!”
“Yes. I said it was a bit of a cruise, didn’t I? I had a talk with Rosie about that geezer you know.”
“Oh, yes.” I can tell from Sid’s tone that he wants to impart reassurance.
“The dirty bastard got her tiddly, and then tried to ram his nasty up her. Took her back to his hut and got very unpleasant. She slapped his face and that was that.”
“So there was nothing to worry about?”
“No – well, I was never worried. You know me.”
“Yes, Sid.”
“It wasn’t anything to do with the principle we were talking about. I still feel the same about that. I just didn’t fancy the bloke. You know what I mean?”
“Yes, Sid.”
A week later I am standing with my suitcase on the deck of a small dirty steamer watching the crew leap around like excited monkeys while Nat and Nan casually decide which one they are going to screw first. The poor nautical sods don’t know what they are letting themselves in for. Ricci Volare is already hawking over the rail and the Isla de Amor is slipping beneath the ocean behind us – though I realise sadly, that this is only an optical illusion.
Mum has sent me a post card of a large tabby cat saying that they all got home safely and that Dad is in bed with a cold and has not been back to work yet. There is no word from Sid or Ted which does not surprise me.
Taking a last unloving look at the disappearing land mass I go below to check the lock on my cabin door. It won’t be long before the girls have exhausted the crew and you can’t be too careful.
A pity about Carmen. I would have liked to say goodbye to the girl. She probably could not face up to the sight of me leaving, or maybe she still has the needle because Sir Giles sloped off without her.
I open the door of my cabin, and check the bolt. Seems secure enough. Wedge a chair under the handle and I should be alright – for the first few days, anyway.
“Hello, buddy.”
I whip round and there, emerging stark naked from beneath my bunk is—
“Carmen!”
“Yes. We come together to Ingland. I will serveese you, no?”
“No!” I scream.
“You make promeese to your Carmen buddy. Now, you stop trying to unlock door and we make love mucho, mucho.”
“No, no,” I plead but it is hopeless. Her strong arms are already pulling me remorselessly towards the bunk. How long is this trip supposed to last? Ten days? Oh my God! Nat and Nan outside. Carmen inside. I might as well dive straight through a porthole and have done with it.
“Oh, buddy,” sighs Carmen enthusiastically, as she rips open my fly. “This eez going to be voyage to remember.”
THE END
Also available in the Confessions Ebook Series:
Confessions from a Haunted House
Confessions of a Milkman
Confessions of a Travelling Salesman
Confessions of a Window Cleaner
And, coming soon:
Confessions from a Health Farm
Confessions from a Hotel
Confessions from a Luxury Liner
Confessions from a Nudist Colony
Confessions from a Package Tour
Confessions from an Escort Agency
Confessions from the Clink
Confessions from the Pop Scene
Confessions from the Shop Floor
Confessions of a Baby Sitter
Confessions of a Driving Instructor
Confessions of a Film Extra
Confessions of a Gym Mistress
Confessions of a Lady Courier
Confessions of a Long Distance Lorry Driver
Confessions of a Night Nurse
Confessions of a Personal Secretary
Confessions of a Physical Wrac
Confessions of a Plumber’s Mate
Confessions of a Private Soldier
Confessions of a Private Dick
Confessions of an Ice Cream Man
Copyright
The Friday Project
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 1972 by Sphere Books Ltd
This ebook edition first published by The Friday Project in 2013
Copyright © Timothy Lea 1972
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Source ISBN: 0722193165
Ebook Edition © ISBN: 9780007516025
Version 1
FIRST EDITION
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
http://www.harpercollins.com.au/ebooks
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East – 20th Floor
Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada
http://www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollins.co.nz
>
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
77–85 Fulham Palace Road
London, W6 8JB, UK
http://www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
10 East 53rd Street
New York, NY 10022
http://www.harpercollins.com