by Ray Connolly
I could hear my tummy gurgling messages. Was she waiting for me to do something, or was she just being friendly? Hesitantly I put my arm on the back of her seat, so that it was just a half an inch or so from her head. She didn’t move. I left it there for a while, all casual like, and then I moved it away again, equally casually. There was no way. Her face still seemed yards from mine. She could have seen me coming for hours before I got to her. And if she didn’t fancy me and turned away, or if she thought I was being forward and presumptuous I’d have died of embarrassment. But still she waited, while I talked, and talked and talked … about anything: anything to keep her there, to delay the moment of decision. I told her I was an art student. I told her I was a poet. I told her all kinds of wild insane things, just to keep her interested. She smelled so nice and so sexy, and the way her coat hung open I could see her breasts heaving backwards and forwards under her sweater.
‘Well,’ she said finally, and me, thinking that I was getting the brush off said ‘Yes, well, thanks again for the lift home’ and giving her a nice smile got out and climbed the crumbling steps to the front door of my digs, while she started the engine and drove away. Next time, I promised myself, I’ll make the move. Obviously she was just waiting for it. I bet she’s panting for me. She must be. You can tell that the way she hangs about all the time. Perhaps she’ll think I’m playing hard to get. I hope I see her again.
I didn’t see her for about a week after that. She had to go down to Devon to do some demonstrating in Exeter, so on the Tuesday, when it was my birthday, I was alone again. I was nineteen. I was off that night, and in the absence of anything else to do I went and got drunk. It seemed like a good idea at the time. My mother had sent me some money, so I spent it. She also sent a card with a soppy rhyme, which was so mawkish it embarrassed even me.
You were the only child we had,
Our little pride and joy.
But though you’ve grown into a man
You’re still our little boy.
In the pub I felt people were looking at me, although I was trying to appear normal, so I reckoned the best thing to clear my head would be a nice walk along the pier. It didn’t matter that it was closed. A quick tap on the window pane, and I could easily open the catch and climb over the turnstile. It was the first time ‘Id ever broken in anywhere and I felt a bit heady at the prospect.
It was cold and windy out on the pier, so every now and then I took a sip of some Scotch to keep me going. I didn’t really want it, but it seemed a virile thing to do. It also made me feel sick.
‘Caught anything yet?’ A policeman in a helmet and bicycle clips was leaning on his bike just behind me. He must have followed me on my drunken way down the pier.
‘I feel ill,’ I said.
‘Probably something you ate.’
‘No. I’m drunk.’ The man must be blind, I thought, if he doesn’t know a drunk when he sees one. I pulled myself up, still leaning on the pier railings. ‘Don’t come too close. I’m a madman when I’m drunk.’
‘Where d’you live, son?’
‘Ranelagh Grove.’
‘Shall we go then?’
Seemed to me he was a funny sort of policeman. There was me drunk and disorderly, and having broken and entered, and all he wanted to do was take me home. No wonder there were so many dangerous criminals running around. Perhaps he hadn’t understood.
‘I broke in here you know,’ I said.
‘The lock on that gate’s never been too smart … shall we go?’ And without even waiting for me, let alone arresting me, he began to wheel his bike back down the pier so that I had to run to keep up with him.
A lonely, drunken madman couldn’t get himself arrested on his birthday in February in Shankwater. It was that sort of place.
The next morning I read in the paper that Buddy Holly had been killed. February 4, 1959, it was, and the back page headline in the Daily Mirror read ’Top “Rock” Stars Die In Crash’. It was a Wednesday, and I bought the paper outside a café where I used to go for my breakfast sometimes. I was so sick I went home and played his records until I had to go to work.
Vivien picked me up outside the El Cabino on Friday night. I think she had that look in her eyes.
‘Why don’t we go to your place tonight?’ she said.
Suddenly I was ashamed: ‘Oh, I don’t think you’d like it much. It’s a bit of a slum.’
‘But I thought all you artists lived in slums … starving in garrets.’
It was too late now to tell her that I wasn’t actually an artist at all, so I just shrugged and rubbed my nose, and wondered whether I’d left my striped pyjamas lying out on the bed. I’d never get laid if she saw those.
By the time we’d climbed all the way up to my little room my heart was beating so hard with sexual anticipation and fear of being caught on the stairs by the landlady, that I felt as though it was bursting through my ribs. Vivien didn’t seem to notice, though, and looked confidently and admiringly round my little home, as though she were quite used to being entertained in young men’s bedrooms. Thank God I’d tucked my pyjamas under the pillow, I thought, as I moved to my bed and straightened the counterpane over the untidy sheets.
‘Sit down … er … go on,’ I said, indicating the bed, but moving well away from her in case she should think I was going to pounce. There were no easy chairs in the room, and the bed was the only comfortable place. She moved across to the bed.
‘Did you do all of these?’ She was looking at some of my pictures and poems that I’d stuck on the wall. I wondered whether she’d seen through my guise of being a beatnik artist, working in Shankwater to get inspiration before beginning my Holocaustal Trilogy. That was the name I’d given, in a rash moment, to a series of mammoth paintings I’d said I was planning to do for my first exhibition.
‘Well … er … my best work is in London … in my studio.’ She nodded quite seriously. ‘Like I said, I’m only here for a break … a sort of mental preparation really. I suppose you could say I was on a retreat. What I mean is, that’s why I didn’t bring much down with me …’
‘D’you like doing portraits?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Will you draw me?’
‘You really want me to?’ I began to feel constricted around the front of my trousers. I wished my heart would keep still.
‘Mmm,’ she murmured – I swear it was no more than a murmur – and took her coat off. In the light of my room her bosom looked even bigger. I wondered if her bra was padded. I’d read about girls who wore things like that. I felt a dryness in my throat, and my tongue felt too big for my mouth. I grabbed a sketching pad and a pencil and began to draw furiously, just her head and shoulders, making quick sweeping movements with my hand, bold strong lines, as though I had all the confidence in the world. After a minute or two Vivien came to have a look, leaning over my shoulder so that her breasts just touched my sweater. I half turned my head and noticed that she smelled of talcum powder.
‘Hey, that’s good,’ she said. I looked at my drawing. It was terrible.
‘You really think so?’
She nodded, a little furrow forming between her eyes, and she moved back to the bed. Her bosom seemed to be beckoning. Dare I say it? From somewhere I summoned every bit of courage in me.
‘Maybe you’d like … I mean like to pose … well, I mean just the top half. Well, that’s all. I mean, if you like …’ I suddenly heard my voice rising an octave. I stared at my drawing paper.
‘Well …’ If she’d said no I’d have died of embarrassment. ‘All right then …?’
And then without another word she suddenly moved back to the bed, and stretching up, pulled her sweater up and over her head and tossed it on to the floor. I hardly dared look, and made a pretence of sharpening a pencil. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed her white bra follow the sweater on to the floor.
‘How shall I sit?’ She was virtually commanding me to look at her. I wondered what my mother would have said
if she could have seen me at that moment, and then I looked up. She was sitting on the edge of the bed with her arms down at either side. There’d been nothing false about the shape created by her bra. Her breasts looked bigger and heavier than I’d imagined breasts were, and I noticed that her nipples were standing out towards me. Just above her breasts I could see her tan lines. She must have worn a very revealing bathing suit last summer.
‘Well, if you can just turn a little bit towards the wall, and keep looking over towards the door.’ I felt I had to get her eyes off me. I knew that an unseemly bulge had appeared at the front of my trousers, and I didn’t know what to do with it. With her studying the door I made a delicate effort to relieve my discomfort, by slipping my hand into my pocket and trying to loosen the tightness of my underpants, but it didn’t help. Hardly daring to look at her I began to draw again. Clearly she was enjoying the experience.
‘D’you ever draw nudes?’ Vivien was half smiling, still looking at the door. I felt my palms begin to go clammy. If she looked at me now she would be sure to notice my discomfort.
‘Oh well …’ Keep talking, I thought. Say anything. ‘Well, you know at college that was all we ever did … so, you know, you get pretty used to it … really they used to say I was best at doing full nudes, you know … well, I mean, that’s what they said I was best at. On Tuesday afternoons these big fat women would come in and get undressed …’ I suddenly found myself staring transfixed at the under curve of Vivien’s bosom … ‘yes, that’s right, they’d get undressed, but, you know, they were never really worth drawing.’ She really had an incredible body. Just like in all the pictures I’d seen. And she was in my room. On my bed. ‘What I mean is they should have models like you. I mean you’re a kind of inspiration for any artist.’ I felt my voice muscles tightening again. ‘What I mean is, it would be nice to draw you …’
I didn’t dare look at her after that. I had, I was sure, overstepped the mark. But then I heard the bed creaking, and while I stared at my pad in mortification, Vivien got up and, lifting up her skirt began to undo her suspenders. One stocking off. Then the next. By this time my eyes were bulging open with anticipation. She turned and smiled at me, and slipped off her skirt. Her petticoat rustled, and without hesitation she quickly pulled it down and stepped out of it. Now just panties and a suspender belt. A white one, I remember, though her panties were pale blue. And I could see her tummy, and her thighs.
And all I could do was watch, as all my fantasies began to come true in my own little room in Ranelagh Grove, as she turned away from me, and with a hard tug pulled her knickers and suspender belt down past her knees. Then turning towards me she jumped on to the bed, while I stared transfixed, at her body, and all her flesh, and the little line of blonde hairs that ran up the middle of her tummy. And then I tried to draw, but I couldn’t drag my eyes away from her thighs, and her breasts and darkened nipples, and thighs and the top of her legs. And as I watched she began to smile at me. And I knew she could see how excited I was, but I couldn’t help it. She looked so soft and inviting. I knew then she hadn’t come up to my room so that I could draw her. But still I just stared at the roundness of her hips: at her body.
And as I stared it suddenly struck me that it was already too late, and a welling feeling hit me in the stomach, and began to move right through me, until it reached my face, which puckered with excitement. And then in horror I dragged my eyes from her in the realisation of what was happening to me, and twisting away I doubled over, clamping my hands in front of me, hiding my shame. And as I came a slight cry slipped out secretly, confounding my disgrace. And then I felt myself soaking through my trousers; my hands were wet, my underpants sticky. No longer did I feel my trousers were too tight. And I just sat there for a long time, doubled up, trying to hide from myself and from Vivien. After a moment or two I heard Vivien get up, and get dressed again. And then she came and put an arm on my shoulder.
‘Come on, I’ll make you a coffee,’ she said. But I didn’t move.
Chapter 7
If the holiday camp was my university, then Mike was my professor, counsellor and room-mate all rolled into one. He was the first bloke I’d ever had to share a room with, and I must admit that when I first saw him I wasn’t over-impressed. He was a rough-looking little beggar, with greasy hair, awful flash clothes that seemed top-heavy on his little thin drainpipe trousers, and he had a flower tattooed on his right ear.
It was the summer of 1959, which was to be the best summer of the century the meteorologists said. Having become quite used to living by myself, I rather resented the idea of sharing my life with someone else. But if I wanted to work in a holiday camp, then I’d have to get used to the idea of sharing a chalet, they said.
Mike and I were barmen by night: playboys by day, and then, sometimes again by later-at-night, if you follow my meaning. He was handy in that he taught me all the tricks of being a barman. He said he’d once worked on a boat somewhere, and he knew all the dodges there were. He proved that within a few hours of my meeting him when he ended the first night with two pounds in ‘tips’, as he put it, while I got nothing.
As soon as he got there he was after the women. I’d never known a man like him. It seemed to me he’d chase anything, but I was more circumspect in my behaviour. The episode with Vivien seemed to have stunted my sexual and emotional development, and I hadn’t been having too much success in that direction of late.
It could probably be said that I lacked confidence, and after a week or so of inactivity, Mike began to comment upon my lack of interest. Maybe he was beginning to think there was something queer about me. Or perhaps he just preferred hunting in twos.
‘Couple of blokes from the kitchens got caught climbing over the fence from Camp B last night,’ he told me as we made our way to work one afternoon. He spoke with a very strong Liverpool accent, which in those days, sounded very common and alien to me.
‘Tarting with the trifles?’ I could never resist a bit of word-play with him.
‘Yeah! They’ve had it now. It wouldn’t have been so bad but they’d been with these two birds from Southampton or somewhere and got nowhere. Not so much as a sniff.’
‘D’you know ‘em?’ I wanted to know more about these prick-teasers from Southampton.
‘Yeah! You should see ‘em! They’re last. I wouldn’t touch them with yours … that is, if you have one. Haven’t seen much evidence of it yet, have we?’
I suppose he thought he was being funny, and he began to smirk to himself. I kicked a carton that was lying on the path in front of us, and then back-heeled it across to Mike. He was always going on about Liverpool being the greatest team ever to put on football boots, but he was hopeless himself. He tried to kick the carton and missed completely.
‘Don’t you worry about me. Some people are just more choosey where they put it.’
‘All I was saying was I haven’t seen you in action yet. Look around you … all these birds lusting after it … and here’s you behaving like a queer in a brothel.’
He was right about the birds. The place was absolutely crawling with unattached talent. But I needed time.
‘Come on … we’ll be late for work,’ I said.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Mike.
The best place for viewing the talent at the Bickerstaffe Happy Holiday Camp was the Blue Grotto nightclub, a sweaty place of pâpiér mache stalagmites and stalactites, where the fluorescent lighting made everyone look healthy and tanned, even the newcomers. Mike had already scored a couple of times he’d told me, and working as busy little barmen we got every chance for eyeing up the crumpet as it came looking for two weeks’ naughtiness by the seaside. The Bickerstaffe Happy Holiday Camp Company made a great play of explaining how their camp was a place where families might have happy carefree holidays, but they never mentioned how it was also a place for unbridled sexual expression amongst the unmarrieds. My turn must come eventually, I was sure.
Working as a barman was hard work, tho
ugh. People would be asking for three Babychams, four Britvics, two Guinnesses, a pale ale, three pints of bitter and three gin and oranges, and we’d be expected not only to remember the order, but serve within seconds. After watching the speed with which Mike worked and gave change I wasn’t surprised at the ’tips’ he picked up. ‘I’m not an octopus,’ he’d say, but he worked like one. He had to. No-one gave you a minute to yourself. All the time it was dashing from one table to the next, as the happy holidaymakers grumbled about the food, the service, the chalets, the plumbing, the weather, the children, the weather, the beds, the weather, the band, and the weather. And it was a glorious summer.
When it came to the band I agreed they had something to grumble about. Stormy Tempest and the Typhoons they called themselves, and they seemed to go out of their way to insult me by playing a whole string of Cliff Richard type songs – rock with the balls cut off, if you know what I mean. The drummer wasn’t bad, apart from his hair which made him look like the Last of the Mohicans, but the singer was a twirp – all gold lamé, and fancy hair, as though he were playing the Hollywood Bowl instead of the Blue Grotto. I think he might have fancied himself a bit, which was hardly surprising since quite a slice of the available talent went out of its way to demonstrate how it fancied him. It was sickening.
Taking a quick blow in between rounds, Mike and I watched Stormy’s narcissistic endeavours from the bar.
