Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

“What did the note say?” says Ted.

“Come round to chalet 75 and collect the other half.”

“Surely the expression is ‘the better half,’” says the chaplain.

“Depends which way you look at it,” says Ted.

“My wife is not in the habit of wearing such garments let alone sending me parts of them to suggest meeting places,” says Francis coldly.

“No, of course not,” says the chaplain hurriedly. “It must have been some kind of practical joke.”

“And in very poor taste, too. Who do we have in chalet 75?”

“You didn’t go round, then?” I say, proving what a stupid berk I can be. Francis rounds on me like I have suggested fitting out the Nipperdrome with contraceptive machines.

“Of course I didn’t go,” he hisses. “What kind of man do you think I am?”

This is quite a taxing question but luckily I don’t have time to answer it.

“Number 75 contains a Miss Elsie Worple and a Miss Pearl Barr,” says Ted. “I know Miss Worple—er slightly. She’s in the contest tonight.”

“Really.” The way Francis says it I know Else’s chances have disappeared up the spout.

“Young people today can behave in the most extraordinary fashion,” says the chaplain, “ah well, I suppose we must fortify our nerves for the test ahead.”

He directs his gaze towards the table laid out with sherry and twiglets and we all nod solemnly and start tucking in.

It is obvious that the fortnightly Holiday Queen contest is something of an occasion and this is brought home to me when we file out onto the judges’ rostrum.

The hall is packed and the noise that greets our appearance suggests that most of those attending are, as usual, pretty well oiled. The Holiday Queen contest comes at the end of an evening of dancing, spot prizes, talent contests and what are laughingly called cabaret acts. As we take our seats so Waldo the Unbelievable – with a conviction for perjury to prove it – is chucking flaming carving knives at his wife. What danger there is comes mainly from the risk of one of them igniting his breath – Waldo, it is rumoured, takes a drop of the hard stuff to frighten his nerves away before every performance.

No sooner are we settled than Maestro Freddy Newbold brings his baton down as if executing someone and the orchestra delivers a silencing chord. This is the signal for dapper Holiday Host Henry to spring forward and deliver a few words about the pleasures to come:

“Laydees and Gentlemen, boys and girls, chaps and chapesses, now is the moment you have all been waiting for. The Holiday Queen contest. We have a bevy of outstanding beauties waiting in the wings but before you feast your eyes on them, I’d like to introduce our panel of judges. First—” He rambles on like this for a while and we each stand up and take a bow. Ted gets a big reception, especially from the birds, but I don’t expect this does him any good with Francis. With my glass of water and my “scrutineers” form and pencil in front of me, I feel a bit of a lad and am almost beginning to enjoy myself, when the first bird teeters on to the platform to roars from the crowd.

Each contestant has to walk across the stage, climb a short flight of steps onto a platform, do her bit to electrify the judges and descend the other side. The first bird is obviously terrified out of her tiny mind and you can’t blame her. The noise that greets her must make her feel she is running out on to the pitch at Hampden Park and not all of it is encouragement – inter-suit rivalry dies hard at Melody Bay. Coupled with this, she is a bird who could only have entered the contest when drunk or for a bet. It does not look as if she has ever worn high heels before, because she staggers across the stage like a kid wearing its mum’s shoes for the first time. Her hands, which are supposed to be holding a card with her suit emblem and number on it, are itching for something better to occupy them and she starts tugging down the back of her costume as she walks. The whole effect is almost too painful to watch and I can see that the ascent to the rostrum is going to be a mini-Everest. Biting her lip, she makes it, attempts to do a turn, nearly falls off and sheds one of her heels. The audience roars and the poor chick loses her last drop of self control. Determined to get the hell out of it at a rate of knots, she hobbles down the steps on one and a half shoes, bursts into tears and runs from the stage. “Run” is the wrong word because what she does looks more like an event left over from one of Uncle Sam’s obstacle races. Even compere Henry who could make a commentary on the crucifixion sound like Andy Pandy meets Big Ears is temporarily lost for words. Eventually he calls for a big hand – which is something I have been waiting to give him ever since we met – and the next contestant appears.

This is Mrs. Married who gives a very good account of herself in the circumstances. I note that there appear to be a few bruises around her upper thighs, but I do not hold this against her in my marking, which is generous.

Next comes another couple of bints who deserve marks for their sheer courage in entering and whose embarrassed red flushes are indistinguishable from birthmarks. Then Janet. Her approach resembles one of those gymnastic birds you see on the tele on Saturday afternoon when you are waiting for the 15.30 from Chepstow. All arched back and feet smacking down as if they are pressing in loose divots. She does not jump up on the table or do a handstand but you reckon she could chop up James Bond with one hand tied behind her leotard. It is an impressive display but I prefer my beauty queens a bit more on the soft and stupid side.

This is obviously something that Else has aimed at and she comes on so that you expect to hear Frankie Vaughan crooning “Give Me the Moonlight” in the background. Trouble is, that Else is not really built for the job. She is a game little chick, but not generously endowed for a touch of the sultries. There is a suspicion, too, that the hot lights and her pre-contest activities have sapped some of her natural vitality. Her make-up might have been sprayed on and seems to be prevented from sliding down her face only by the Funfrall type smile, stretching her features into ridges. I look across at Ted and see that he is nervously fingering his collar. Francis leans across to whisper to him and he nearly jumps out of his skin. I reckon that our Else has indulged in a spot of nobbling there. There is no doubt that Ted and myself are being singled out for special attention. Else gets to the top of the steps and, bending her knees, indulges in a rising wriggle calculated to make a trappist monk start sewing lead weights round the hem of his habit. She pouts at Ted and me and turns to reveal that her tight little arse is her best feature. The audience is loving it and I am having another happy stroll down memory lane when she spins round to give us a second butchers at her torso. Once again she bends her knees and starts to thrust upwards, and then – oh dear – the top part of her costume is held to the bottom by a couple of brass rings which choose this moment to suffer from metal fatigue. The strap springs up, smacks her in the eye and she sits down hard on the edge of the platform. The audience erupts like a skin complaint and poor Else limps off leaving Henry to ransack his cask of cliches again.

The next few contestants are worse news than the Festival of Halitosis and I am seriously beginning to consider Mrs. Married as a contender for my first vote when a really knock-out bird arrives on the scene. Where she has been hiding I do not know, but once you have clapped eyes on her, you wish your hands, knees and boomps-a-daisy could enjoy the same experience. Her figure flows through her costume, swelling and diminishing into a number of delicious backwaters, and ends up in as fine a couple of legs as ever pushed through the holes in a pair of knickers. When she smiles it makes you feel that she would get up at three o’clock in the morning to polish the studs on your football boots and her skin looks softer than a kitten’s armpit. Once seen it is just a question of deciding second and third places.

I assign these to Mrs. Married and Else who I feel deserves something for all her trouble, but in the end, after the scrutineers have bustled to and fro, Henry has told a few terrible jokes and Francis described the problem of picking one bloom from a bunch of roses, it is Janet who gets second prize with Mrs. Married third. I am not really cut up about it, being comforted by the fact that the winner was such an obvious knock-out that neither Janet nor the dreaded Else could be surprised at losing out.

I am still thinking about her an hour later as I strip off and contemplate my ruckled bed. It is strange, but though I should be shagged out I am quite chirpy. With me, the more I get, the better I feel equipped to deal with it. Practice makes even more perfect, in fact.

I am just hanging my blazer over the back of a chair when there is a discreet tap on the front door. I wait for a moment and find my mind picturing three different female shapes on the doorstep. Gratitude, or a punch up the bracket? I ask myself, tucking a bath towel round my waist.

On the doorstep is Miss Melody Bay Week Number 26.

“Hello,” she says.

“Hello,” I say, not wanting to argue with her.

“I got your note.” She dangles a piece of paper between her fingers.

“Oh, yes.”

She pushes past me flicking the knot of my towel and I relieve her of the scrap of paper whilst trying to control my surprise.

“‘Dear June, I may be able to do you a bit of good in the contest,’ it says. ‘If I can, and you feel like saying thank you, why not pop round to my chalet for a drink later on? Ted.’”

Trouble with Ted is that his “ones” look very like “sevens” and my chalet is number seven. Tough luck, Ted, I think to myself as I chuck the piece of paper in the wastepaper basket and follow June into the bedroom, you really should do something about your handwriting.

CHAPTER FIVE

June goes home the next day which is just as well because it leaves no time for Ted to find out why he was never called upon to ease the cork out of his Asti Spumante – I saw it standing pathetically in the wash basin when I went round to his chalet. Ted obviously believes in giving a girl a good time. June is no slouch at dishing out the good things of life, either. During the coarse of our night together – and I don’t mean course – I learn quite a bit about how to get on in the beauty business – fascinating! Only my natural sense of reticence and the fact that the paper would probably start curling at the edges, prevents me from putting it all down. But if there was one thing I learned from June, it was that you can never go by a bird’s outward appearance what she is like in the privacy of your own bed. June looked the kind of girl who would have got her biggest kick out of plaiting your kid sister’s pigtails, but I came away from a night with her feeling like a peeled prawn.

I am still thinking about some of the things she did and blushing quietly to myself when I sit in Francis’s office the next morning. Fortunately, I am not there to collect my stamp collection but to be addressed, with a selection of my fellow Hosts, on a matter of great importance and urgency.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” begins Francis – there are female Holiday Hosts who, in the main, look like retired traffic wardens treated with laughing gas – “There is no point in me beating about the bush. The Slat Twins have chosen to descend on us.” A gasp of dismay echoes round the room as mouths pop open like starting gates. “I have, of course, taken all the normal steps, but apart from saying that the camp is in quarantine after a cholera epidemic—” he pauses, waiting for us to acknowledge the joke— “I am powerless to do anything.”

“Who are—?” I begin whispering to Ted.

“For those of you who have not yet been exposed—” Francis winces— “to the Slat Twins, let me tell you that they are the nieces of our Company Chairman and renowned for their ability to disrupt the day to day life that prevails in Funfrall Camps throughout the length and breast – I mean breadth – of the country.” Francis blushes, clears his throat and continues. “Because of their connection with our Chairman, it is virtually impossible to bar them from our camps and we can only work together to try and keep them under control. I believe that if we can fully integrate them into the life of this camp we may well be able to channel their—their energies away from those morally destructive pursuits which have characterised other visits.”

“How long are they staying for?” asks Ted.

“I don’t know,” says Francis. “To my knowledge they have never stayed the full two weeks at any Funfrall camp.”

“It was three weeks when they started that Love-Peace commune at Skilton. You remember, when they barricaded themselves in the dining hall and the police had to storm the place with—”

“Yes, yes, Ted. I do remember.” Francis’s eyelids flicker and his hand jumps to his adam’s apple. “But let us try and think positively. That is not going to happen this time.” A hysterical edge leaps into his voice. “It must not happen this time.” Another pause in which it is clear that he has something more to deliver.

“Sir Giles is paying us a visit.”

“While they’re here? Oh my God!”

“You are quick to read my fears. Any grave disruption of camp life during that visit could prejudice all our futures.” Francis gives that time to sink in.

“Now, as I understand it, the Slat girls will be arriving on Saturday morning and Sir Giles in the afternoon. From the moment they step inside the gates, I want to involve those girls and, hopefully, totally immerse them in preparations for the Camp Concert on Saturday night. I do not want them confronted with Sir Giles because this might tend to inflame their exhibitionist tendencies. If we can put on a good show and Sir Giles afterwards learns that his nieces were behind scenes helping then I think the impression left will be a good one.”

“Yes, but—” begins Ted.

“I have had longer to think about this than any of you,” says Francis firmly. “And that is what we are going to do. Now for details. They will be housed in chalets number 1 and 397 respectively.”

Ten minutes later I am outside with Ted, tugging at his sleeve like a kid wanting to find out where babies come from.

“Have you heard of nymphomaniacs?” says Ted.

“Of course,” I say.

“Well, these two eat ’em for breakfast. They start where most other women reach for the bromide caddy.”

“I don’t get it.”

Ted snorts. “You would with these two. From both barrels. They hunt as a pair.”

He shudders like a man trying to scrape a nightmare off the back of his mind. “‘Screw for Peace’ – that’s their motto. They reckon they can unite the whole world by everybody having it away with each other. ‘Khaki Kidology’ – that’s what Francis calls it.”

“That’s very good.”

“It’s diabolical, mate, when you’re trying to run a holiday camp. Give those two twenty minutes and they’ll have every man in the place jostling to get to the head of the queue. It’s the way they wrap it up in all this peace-love rubbish that terrifies me. They make you feel like Hitler if you’re not spending all your time looking for a bun-hole to tuck your frankfurter in.”

“You know them, then, do you?”

“Know them? Have you seen my back? Most people think I served three years on The Bounty. And that was only one of them.”

“Where was the other one?”

“Kicking the front door in trying to get at me.”

“I thought you said they hunted as a pair.”

“Sometimes they can’t wait for the other one to get there.”

“You’re having me on.”

“You wait, mate. I’ve known Black Belts turn the colour of your grandma’s roll-on when they saw them coming.”

Well, frankly, I still reckon he is pulling my leg and the time passes quite agreeably until Saturday with me pottering about and avoiding trouble. I learn that Sidney is also rolling up with Sir Giles, so I am doubly keen to keep my nose clean. One thing that helps is the constant turnover of customers. You only have to steer clear of a bird for a few days and the chances are that she has gone home. Either that, or pissed off with one of the other forty Hosts as already mentioned. A right lot of kinks some of these geezers are, too. They spend all their time talking about their agents and waiting to audition for “Opportunity Knocks”. The wheezing of accordions from the Hosts’ Lines sounds like a ward full of asthmatics and they must have cornered the market in sun ray lamps.

Saturday morning arrives and it is half way towards being a decent sort of day weatherwise. The sun is beginning to break through a band of clouds stretching to the horizon and I am standing at Pet’s Corner explaining to a child that you do not turn a tortoise into a turtle by dropping it into the goldfish pond. I think the kid understands because when I let go of its ear it kicks me in the shins and runs off saying that its dad is going to smash my face in. This is the kind of unpleasantness I spend my life trying to avoid and I am moving smoothly towards the crazy golf course when two female figures appear through the camp gates.

They are somewhat different from most other guests because they are carrying bedding rolls instead of suitcases and give no indication of having had their hair done twenty minutes before arriving at the camp – not unless the job was handled by a nesting stork. They wear headbands, enough beads to have bought North America from the Indians and are barefoot. Smocks adorn the rest of their bodies and they wear no make-up. This is not to say that they are less than handsome. They cannot be much less than six foot, but if you fancy big birds these are definitely your bucket of tea. For some reason I imagine that they are gypsies and move forward to prevent them lowering the tone of the place still further. I am a bit surprised that they got past the gatekeeper.

“Can I help you?” I say, giving them my cold “please ask your little boy to stop pissing against my trouser leg” smile.

“Sure,” says one of them considering me for a moment. “I fancy a stand-up quickie amongst those gnomes.”

“Two’s up,” says the other one, “or maybe we can share him.”

“No, Nan. You wait your turn. You’re always stealing my ideas.”

“Gnomes?” I say.

“That’s right, cowboy. On the lawn there. Don’t fight it. Let it all hang out. You can park your arse on the grass if you’re bashful.”

“Groovy,” sings out the other one. “I can nibble round the edges.”

Suddenly a veil is snatched from my eyes and I begin to put one and one together with startling results. Nan? Nancy?

“Natasha?” I bleat.

“Good. So you got the postcard,” says the one who wanted to open the batting. “We would have liked a bigger reception committee but you’ll do to start with. Now why don’t we all snuggle up in the privet and get down to the privates?”

The way she looks at me I know what it must be like to be night nurse in an Italian prisoner of war camp.

“I expect you want to see Mr. Francis,” I croak.

“We’ll get round to him,” says Nan. “Now relax. You’re so uptight. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s beautiful. Come on. You’ll like it once we get going. Everybody does.”

And she sticks her hand down the front of my worsteds. Right there under the shadow of the big dipper.

“Yeeow!” I say, or it might have been “Urrh!” I can’t really remember. “Get off me. You must be bonkers.”

“‘Bonkers’, that’s a nice word,” says Natasha. “Bonkers about conkers.”

Well I don’t wait for any more. I’m off and running. I mean they are nearly as big as me and there are two of them. I don’t stop until I get to Ted’s chalet.

“They’ve come,” I shout as I burst into the bedroom.

“They’re dead lucky then, aren’t they?” says Ted, rolling apart from a well-developed lady I remember being runner-up in a slow bicycle race. “They obviously didn’t have you to worry about.”

“I’m sorry, Ted, I mean—” I go outside and shout through the bedroom door. “The Slat Twins have arrived.”

Five minutes later a possee of Hosts with Francis at the head is galloping towards the main gate. We get there just in time. Nat and Nan are attacking the gatekeeper’s hut with a battering ram made from the camp flag pole.

“Welcome, welcome, ladies,” chortles Francis. “Still full of beans, I see.”

“Call this a welcome, dryballs?” snarls Nat. “We’re trying to bring a little joy into the lives of all these sex-starved husks of human beings and all they can do is run away or lock themselves up. What have you done to them? You’ve castrated them! You deny love and you deny the one force that can unite the world. Now stand aside. We’re going to liberate that poor misguided victim of fascist sexual repression.” Looking through the window there is some doubt as to whether Mr. Merriweather wishes to be liberated. He is cowering behind his desk with his stapler in his hand and seems prepared to fight to the last staple.

“Come, come ladies,” purrs Francis. “I am afraid that Mr. Merriweather cannot respond to your blandishments. He is one of our permanently disabled staff.”

“They must have got him last time,” mutters Ted.

“—Now let’s start channelling all that infectious enthusiasm for life into something everybody can participate in.”

“A gang bang?” says Nan hopefully.

“No, no. We’re going to make you honorary Holiday Hosts for the duration of your stay. You can meet people, help organise entertainment. Do something positive.”

“Positive? Screwing is positive, stoat-features.”

“It’s not the only thing. Now, put down that pole.”

“But I like it. It’s so thick and long. It reminds me—”

“Yes, yes, Miss Slat. I’m certain it has many happy associations for you. Now why don’t you pop on your blazers and let’s get down to business. We’ve got a very tight schedule today with the Camp Concert at the end of it.”

“You look as if you’ve got a very tight arse too, fart-face,” sneers Nan. “And you can stuff those blazers for a start. I wouldn’t be seen dead in one.”

“Put one on and find out,” mutters Ted.

It is a funny thing, with these birds, but though they both talk rude they have very posh accents. They sound like upper class little girls trying to shock nanny.

“First stop it’s the Hosts versus Campers marathon swimming race, isn’t it, Ted,” sings out Francis who should get a prize for the job he is doing.

“First stop it’s a liberation grind with any man in this place who hasn’t got a shell-shocked cock,” bawls Nan. “What have all these able-bodied pricks been provided for – elevenses?”

“Now you’re talking,” enthuses Nat. “Move those gnomes out of the way and let’s get down to a lust dust, fellahs. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“These escorts are here as your guides, and team-mates in the pursuance of camp activities,” says Francis firmly. “They will stay with you at all times.”

“‘Camp’ is the right word,” jeers Nan. “I’ve heard of the last resort, but this is ridiculous. It’s a bloody prison.”

“Off we go to the swimming pool,” says Francis, his voice beginning to crack at the edges. “Come on, gentlemen. Show the ladies where to go. We can drop their things off on the way.”

“You can drop mine off right now,” says Nan wearily. “I want sex.”

“Freedom is sex.”

“Sex is freedom.”

“Sex is now.”

“Freedom is now.”

“Sex.”

“Sex!”

“Sex!!”

A small but very interested crowd is beginning to collect as we close in on the girls and start to frog march them away.

“Living Theatre tonight, six thirty by the lifeboat station,” breathes Ted conspiratorially. Everybody nods their heads and makes a mental note to be somewhere else at this time.

What a day we have after that. At the end of it I feel like one of those corks which is attached to a kid’s pop gun. Up and down the swimming pool till skin starts to grow between my toes; then deep sea fishing in which nobody catches anything and the first prize is given to the hook with the biggest worm on it; cross country, weight lifting, gymnastics, volley ball. How the twins survive it I don’t know. But they do. Whilst the rest of us are breathing hard over our spam sandwiches, they are standing there eyeing us with sullen contempt and eating nothing.