by Guy Johnson
‘We could look for a new one!’ Mum chirped, picking up on Uncle Gary’s comments. ‘Find one in a camping shop. Or there’s that big store that sells everything. We could get one there.’
I said nothing and answered only in my head. No. Fucking. Way. That’s what I’d have said, if I’d opened my mouth. If I’d been brave enough, too, that is.
After going round the miniature village, we went to a pub for lunch. Us kids had coke in a bottle with a straw. Dad and Uncle Gary had beers, whilst Mum and Auntie Stella had Babycham in special glasses with the Babycham deer on the side. We all had ham sandwiches, but I didn’t eat mine, because they had mustard in them. So, I just had my salt and vinegar crisps and was told that, for-being-fussy, I couldn’t have an ice cream later. Auntie Stella said that Uncle Gary would get me one, though, when Dad wasn’t looking. If-I-was-good.
After lunch, we returned to our cars and headed back to the camp site.
With Uncle Gary joining us, we now had three cars in total. He owned a Ford Cortina – mustard yellow it was. ‘Gold,’ he insisted. It had brown leather seats that had burned my skin the previous times I’d ridden in it.
Auntie Stella had a black Mini, something that made her giggle like Barbara Windsor again whenever she said it. ‘Where shall I park my black Mini?’ was her favourite. It made Mum glare and tut and Dad had to take-that-smirk-off-your-face-as-well. I said I didn’t get it.
‘You never do,’ Della remarked.
The third car was a big green van that Dad drove for holidays. Dad and Ian sat up front, whilst me, Mum and Della sat in the back. Two long bench-like seats were fitted against the sides of the van, so you had a corridor down the middle, like on a coach.
‘Should’ve all come in the same car, saved money,’ Mum remarked, seeing us getting into three vehicles.
But Auntie Stella had insisted on driving herself, saying she liked her freedom. Then she made a comment about her little black Mini getting some action on the road, and the dirty looks, dirty laughs and dirty-smirks-off-faces malarkey repeated itself.
‘What’s so funny then?’ I asked Ian, who was part of the dirty look brigade, clearly embarrassed by the comment.
‘She’s talking about her muff,’ he said, rolling his eyes.
I was about to ask him another question, but he gave me a look that said don’t-ask-another-question, so I didn’t.
‘Right,’ said Uncle Gary, suddenly sounding assertive, making everyone take note. ‘Anyone want a ride with me?’
‘Not a word!’ said Mum, stopping Auntie Stella from saying whatever she was about to say. ‘Nice offer, Gary, I’m sure one of the kids would like to,’ and she gave me a nudge, pushing me forward. ‘Scotty, how about you keep your Uncle Gary company?’
I slid onto the passenger seat cautiously, hoping the leather wouldn’t be too hot this time.
‘You still keeping that anorak on?’ he asked me, leaning over, pulling the seat-belt across my body. He plugged me in, personally making sure I didn’t-come-to-any-harm. His words, not mine.
I said nothing, just kept my eyes fixed on the traffic light air-freshener that swung from the rear-view mirror, as he went from nought to fifty-five, like he was Starsky or Hutch or something. He turned on his radio, music blaring out, trying to be cool, but I wasn’t sucked-in. I wasn’t being his pal. I’d been in Uncle Gary’s car before; I knew what was coming. So, I just kept still, concentrating on those traffic lights, concentrating on the smell of perfume that lingered lamely over the stink of petrol. Concentrating on anything I could, trying not to worry too much about what I’d dragged myself into.
When we got back, Mum pulled me towards her and checked me over; padded my coat with the flat of her hands, and checked my pockets too, like she was checking I was all still there.
‘You need to clean up,’ she announced, hands off, stepping back, as if that was the conclusion from her rough examination. ‘We’re all out tonight and I want us to look our best. Ian, take your brother over to the showers.’
The showers were at Block D; our caravan was in Block F. We had to walk back up towards the entrance, past about ten caravans to reach them.
Ian noticed a couple of girls on the way. He said Hi and they said Hi back. Maybe see you later, down the club? he called after them, turning round, and walking backwards. One shrugged, the other giggled. After the show? he added.
Something changed in Ian’s face, then; something I didn’t think too much of at the time. The joy went from it, his boyish smirk sinking away, leaving him a bit grey.
‘What?’ I asked, picking up on it. I looked back at the girls, expecting to see something else; someone else. But it was just those two girls, getting smaller as they walked away.
‘Come on,’ he said, his face recovering from whatever it was. ‘Let’s get you scrubbed up.’
And just like that, it was forgotten, like it really was nothing at all.
Inside the shower block, Ian left me to sort myself out, whilst he went off for a bit. He was gone for my whole shower. But that was okay; I didn’t mind being on my own. I liked the showers. I didn’t mind taking off my coat and clothes for the shower, either. At home, we just had a blue, rubber shower hose attached to the bath taps - just for your hair really - but here the showers were proper showers. A little cubicle, like a loo, with a lock on the door and white tiles all over. You turned the dial on the wall and the water came out. It was very hot, but I withstood the heat. I wanted to feel it. I liked the feel. Didn’t like it cold; that made me squeal. But standing under the heat, seeing how much I could take, that was like a game I played with myself. Like a test, like setting my own Guinness World Record.
‘You finished squirt?’ Ian asked after a long time, knocking on the door.
‘Yes,’ I said, putting my clothes back on, my pants pasted to my still-wet bum, getting caught up when I pulled up my cords. When my coat was on again, I slid back the lock and Ian laughed.
‘If you were gonna put that filthy thing back on, you might as well have stayed dirty,’ he said, mocking me. ‘Right, let’s get back,’ he added, pushing me towards the exit.
The cold air hit me as I got outside and I almost cried out with joy. I loved that feeling. The slap of cold after the sting of heat. I wanted to tell Ian, but I kept it to myself. He thought I was weird enough as it was.
That night, we were all going down to the night club that was on the campsite. Right in the centre of the grounds, there was this grand old building. It looked like an old castle from the outside and inside the rooms were tall and majestic; big old fashioned doors, flag stones on the floor and bits of antique furniture scattered about. But it was modern, too. There was a reception area as you walked in and a dramatic staircase, which curled around the wall, taking up half the room. It had a thick, red carpet that led you up to rooms and sweets, according to Dad. This didn’t entirely make sense, because he kept saying that we’d have to save up if we wanted to stay in one of them.
‘How big is this sweet, then?’ I asked, quizzing the apparent expense.
‘Big enough,’ was the reply, ‘got a separate loo and bathroom, according to the details.’
‘A sweet?’ I asked again, just to check.
‘Yes!’ he replied, in a tone that meant what’s-this-twenty-questions-or-something? He usually said that when I’d asked just one or two.
I stopped asking.
From the reception area, you could go off in different directions.
Off to the right was a restaurant; we never went there. (‘Bit lardy-dah,’ was Dad’s excuse; ‘Tight bugger,’ was Mum’s retort.) Also on the right was a hallway that led to the games rooms. First of all you came to a few rows of slot machines, in a bit of a corridor; then beyond this was a slightly bigger room, with a pool table, a snooker table, and a darts board.
Off to the left was our destination that evening – the bar. Two large, modern glass doors separated the bar from reception. The bar itself curved round to the right and th
is arc led you into the dance hall.
The seating in the dance hall was split into two levels: there were circular tables and chairs set around the dance floor itself, plus a raised area off to the right, where there were more tables and benches with high, padded backs. The dance floor itself was parquet flooring, and right in the centre, hanging down from the ceiling, was a huge glitterball, shining little mirrors of light all around. For most of the night, you had to listen to the resident band, but sometimes you got 30 minutes of disco when the musicians took a break. The rest of the time was broken up with silly dances, knobbly knee and talent competitions. I’d entered the fancy dress a few years ago – as a girl selling flowers. Ian and Della would never let me forget it; Mum and Dad didn’t want to talk about it. This year I wasn’t entering anything, though. But our clan was still being represented. By Ian.
‘What’s he gonna do up there?’ I asked Della. She laughed and was about to say something rude, but Dad threw her a stern look and she stopped.
‘He’s going to sing,’ said Mum all proud. She had built up to it all day. Her moment of true joy.
You could tell that Dad wasn’t over keen - much as he hadn’t been the year I had last entered - but he didn’t make too much of it. He had sensed Mum’s beam of pride and, for once, wasn’t going to upset her.
So, in the wake of Ian’s impending stardom, there was more fuss made than usual that night. When we got ourselves ready, it was as if we were all going up on that stage. And I didn’t just get sent off to the shower blocks with Ian. I had to have clean socks, clean pants and a clean shirt as well. There was also a threat of ties that came to nothing. A last minute lick-on-that-tissue wash across my face and a bit of gel in my hair - flattening down the permanently sticky-up bit at the back – and I was ready.
Ian got a brand new shirt for his performance, as Mum called it every time Auntie Stella referred to it as his turn. ‘He’s singing, not having a stroke,’ Mum reminded her, but Auntie Stella still called it a turn, finding it funny. Dad did too, but he had to hide his smirking from Mum.
Mum had forgotten her iron, so Ian’s shirt had creases in the fabric, from where it had been folded up in its oblong packet.
‘Oh, look at that. Let’s hope they fall out before you’re up,’ she fussed, disappointed, pulling at it, tucking it further into his waist, as if that would straighten it out.
Yet it was Della’s and Mum’s outfits that caused the real fuss and upset.
Mum got ready in her room, whilst Della took over mine and Ian’s for the occasion. Both came out at the last minute, hoping it would be too late for anyone to insist on a change, should there be complaints about what they wore.
They took so long that we had begun to wonder if they would ever be ready.
‘You’re gonna make me late!’ Ian had cried out a few times.
‘Dying of thirst here,’ Dad had claimed, mimicking a pint in his hand, laughing, losing control as he farted, too. ‘Sorry about that,’ he apologised to Auntie Stella, who had been standing just behind him, bending over her bag, putting her lipstick away.
‘Just lovely, Tony.’
‘Fuck-a-duck!’
Mum had finally made an entrance.
The swearing came from Ian. He would have got a slap if we hadn’t all been so gobsmacked by what Mum was wearing. We’d all seen the outfit before: a pale blue two-piece skirt suit; a frilly, navy blouse; high heels to match; a pink silk carnation in her lapel; and the hat. She’d chopped off the veil, but the wide brim and the daisies were still there. Last seen at a christening – child of a second cousin to Mum we hardly knew. At least Mum’s perfume – a big cloud of Charlie – mingled with Dad’s guff, giving us some relief.
‘Who’s getting married?’ said Dad, followed by the biggest belly laugh ever – he did have the biggest belly, so it wasn’t too much of an achievement.
I could see Auntie Stella, struggling not to join in.
‘You look lov-.’ She began, but then she cracked-up too, holding onto her sides in apparent agony in next-to-no time, clinging onto Uncle Gary, whose face gave nothing away at all.
‘You forgotten your pills, Theresa?’ Dad added, still laughing, but his laugh lessened a bit, realising too late it was something he shouldn’t have said.
Ian looked to the floor, simply annoyed at Mum’s unnecessary effort; I just saw her hurt and wondered how I could save her. But I didn’t need too: Della did it single-handedly.
‘You gotta be fucking joking!’
That time it was Dad swearing – suddenly sobered by the sight of his then 13 year-old daughter.
Della had on this t-shirt. Extra-large in size, it sloped off her left shoulder and was tied in a knot at the bottom of the right side. It was white, with a big gold bird on the front; an eagle, I think. Her tights were fishnet and her heels were high – very. Luckily the t-shirt was long and covered her down to just above the knees.
‘I think she looks lovely,’ said Auntie Stella, whose comment indicated she had clearly had a hand in this.
‘You what? Where the hell did all this stuff come from, that’s what I’d like to know?’ Dad said, his words coming out as a shocked croak.
Then Mum moved in, seeing a chance to make an ally and get some kind of revenge for Dad’s mocking her.
‘Come on Della,’ she had said, taking her arm, leading her forward, much to Della’s horror, who had not looked too pleased to be partnered with Mum’s powder blue monstrosity. ‘We’re gonna be late for Ian if we don’t get a move on.’
And off they went – out of the caravan, leading the way – The Queen Mother and Debbie Harry, as Auntie Stella began to call them. And the rest of us followed. Della kept looking back for help, her face suggesting she was being held against her will, but none was coming. Auntie Stella could barely control her hysterics, hanging onto Uncle Gary, who threw Mum an embarrassed look, like an apology on her sister’s behalf. Dad was cross, but defeated. Yet Ian was the most furious – we were going to ruin his night.
‘Fucking Clampits,’ he muttered, swearing again, but lucky for him no one heard. And lucky for the rest of us, as we neared the castle that was host to the evening’s entertainment, Mum had second thoughts and ditched that hat.
‘Don’t let me forget that on the way back,’ she told me, slipping it behind a bush.
‘Better hope it don’t get nicked, Theresa,’ joked Auntie Stella, but Mum didn’t say a word.
I guessed we should have all noticed, back then. I think the grown-ups did. We should have guessed what was happening to her. The exaggerated outfit, the way she had eagerly embraced Della’s. We should have seen where this was going and done something.
The next time I saw her abandoned hat, it was the day we left for home: a ring of sodden fabric daisies floating in the empty, outdoor pool; drowned, lost and forgotten.
That evening, despite the pantomime costumes and Carry-On comments, our family had a quiet, beautiful moment that shut us all up. A voice spoke through the darkness: Ian’s voice.
It was about 8:20 when they called him up. Spotlights had illuminated the room, casting dazzling stars on the walls and the polished parquet dance-floor, as they reflected off the glitterball that hung centrally.
We were seated to the right of the stage, halfway along.
Ian wore his new green shirt, a brown and grey tank top and black trousers. They announced him and then, standing in front of a mike that was up just a fraction too much, he opened his mouth. The Twelfth of Never, by Donny Osmond, came belting out. It was a bit dated, even then, but he was good. Mum was close to tears from beginning to end, Della did a sly sick mime with her fingers, and I could tell that Dad was itching to make a poof comment. But, despite the mixed outward display, I knew one thing for certain – we were all proud. None of us would say it, but we were. He was one of us and he wasn’t embarrassing. Just this once; a rare moment for us all.
Ian received a big clap and, when he came back, it was cokes, crisps, bi
tter and G and T’s all round.
‘You’ve got to be the winner!’ Auntie Stella chorused, but he wasn’t in the end. Some woman, who sang in Welsh and sounded like a bloke, took the glory. Mum was disgusted.
‘It’s prejudice,’ she said, not offering further explanation.
Dad made some loud comments about bloody taffies and got some dirty looks from a couple of tables nearby.
‘Just enjoy the evening, have another drink,’ Auntie Stella suggested, patting Dad’s hand long enough to get looks from Uncle Gary and the Queen Mother.
‘Another G and T, please Tony,’ uttered the latter, holding her glass up in a manner that was oddly regal.
We headed back at 10:45.
‘Hurry up, or we’ll be too late for supper,’ said Dad, as Mum took just a little bit too long to gather herself. She was looking for something, but you could tell she couldn’t quite remember what. I knew it was the hat. I could have reminded her where she’d left it, but I didn’t say anything. ‘Come on, girl.’
There was a chippy down by the outdoor pool. In the daytime it sold drinks and ice cream, but at night it was just open for hot greasy food. It closed at 11pm. In the end, Dad’s impatience got the better of him and he dragged Ian off ahead of us.
‘Me and the star will queue up, if you get the plates out,’ he yelled at Mum, the compliment for Ian out before he could help himself. But it did them both good, you could tell. Something in Ian’s walk said he was chuffed and Dad patted his back a couple of times. Then it was back to normal and Dad chided Ian for being so slow. ‘Keep up, boy.’
Chicken and chips, that’s what we usually had. Just the smell was enough for me. I had opted for a burger one night, just to try something different, but I regretted it. Wasn’t the same. That chicken: bliss. No other way to describe it.
