Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

“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 her 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.

“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.”