Читать книгу The Confessions Collection - Rosie Dixon, Timothy Lea - Страница 38

Melody Bay holiday camp is situated on the edge of town and surrounded by a high wire fence. This is presumably there to keep people out. The first impression is one of a lot of mock-tudor chalets layed out in orderly lines along paths with names like “Laughter Lane” and “Happiness Row”. From the bus I can see tennis courts and putting greens and a couple of large buildings that look like aircraft hangars (I later find out that they were aircraft hangars before their true potential was realised.) The camp is approached by the coast road and a wide expanse of almost empty beach stretches away opposite the main entrance. This entrance is vaguely reminiscent of those Hollywood studios I have seen pictures of. Gold topped wrought iron gates, a commissionaire type bod, and an inscription carved in the stonework. The difference is that this does not say “Ars gratia artis” but “Let good fellowship be your guide, and Laughter your companion”, Sir Giles Slat, founder of Funfrall Enterprises, who, I imagine, has quite a lot to laugh about. There are also some clinically perfect flowerbeds and a bloke made noticeably ridiculous by the jacket he is wearing. This is all-white, trimmed with black ribbon, and bearing a black ace of spades on the breast pocket. I have no sooner decided that he looks a complete berk than I see another one. This time the white blazer has a red trim and an ace of hearts on the pocket. Immediately, it occurs to me that these men must be Holiday Hosts and that I, too, will have to dress up like a refugee from a game of pontoon. The thought is not a cheering one and it is with heavy heart that I present myself before the commissionaire whose face immediately splits into a smile as false as the teeth delivering it. Janet, I should add, is not with me because I have darted away from her at the bus stop shouting “must get some razor blades, see you later” just as the appropriate vehicle pulls into sight. I have not mentioned to her that I am a Holiday Host, in the forlorn belief that my uniform will either make me unrecognisable or unattainable.

No sooner have I stepped over the threshold than what sounds like a Boer War tannoy delivers the following message of tinny cheer:

“Welcome, welcome, welcome to Melody Bay.

We all are here to please you and serve you in every way.”

Hardly have I recoiled from this than the commissionaire regrinds his gnashers and delivers himself of a few words of welcome.

“May I be the first to wish you a happy holiday and inform you that the reception area is directly across the college lawns. There, our Holiday Hosts will show you to your chalet and explain the programme to you.”

“I am a Holiday Host,” I say, “or at least, I soon will be. Where can I find Mr. Francis?”

The news that I am not a paying customer whips the smile from the doorman’s face like it had been secured with sellotape.

“You’ll find him in his office behind the crazy golf,” he grunts. “It’s past the netball court and the children’s zoo.”

With this description, I cannot go wrong, and shielding my eyes against sight of Janet, who I imagine by now has probably unpacked and is roaming the camp in search of prey, I bring myself to a position in which a quick rat-tat-tat on Mr. Francis’s door requires the co-operation of my outstretched arm.

“Come in,” says a voice right out of Father Christmas’s Grotto and I open the door.

The man behind the desk bounces to his feet and an expression of radiant joy burst across his thin features like sunshine.

“Mr. Francis,” I begin. “My name is Timothy Lea. I believe you are expecting me.”

Mr. Francis’s warm smile does not wane, but he shakes his head reproachfully.

“Come, come, laddie,” he intones. “Let’s try that again and this time with a smile. Remember the Holiday Host philosophy: A natural, ready smile for everybody from crack of dawn ’til last thing at night. When you speak, make me believe that the spirit of good cheer pervades your whole personality. —‘Hello, Mr. Francis. My name is Timothy Lea and I’m looking forward to working with you!’ Now, pop outside and let’s try the whole thing again.”

I feel a complete berk but what can I do? Mr. F. obviously calls the shots around here and maybe all the good cheer will come naturally after a while. I stumble outside and notice that beneath his name on the door it says “keep smiling”. I try and put this into effect and etching a grisly grin across my features bound through the door to repeat my introduction. This time I get it right because Francis pumps my hand up and down like he is trying to separate it from my body and the laughter lines round his mouth resemble mongol scar tissue.

“Welcome, laddie, welcome,” he beams. “I don’t know how much you know about our particular operation but you have probably seen some of our Holiday Hosts going about their tasks. Our job is to keep holiday makers amused twenty-four hours a day if need be and for the purpose of organising team games and competitions we divide the camp up into four villages, Hearts, Clubs, Diamonds and Spades—” an impression of an encampment. of Zulus flashes across my mind but I keep it to myself— “Each village has its own Holiday Hosts and these are distinguished by the emblems on the pockets of their blazers. I trust that this is clear? Good. You will be joining the Happy Hearts where I am certain you will find an excellent team spirit prevailing. Team spirit is the answer, Timothy. We all work for each other here. Team spirit and. a warm sincere smile for every man, woman and child you come into contact with. Do you play the banjo?”

I shake my head.

“What a pity. We have our ‘Swanee River Ramble’ this evening and a touch of the banjos would have been most appropriate. Not to worry, though, we’ll get by without it. One thing I should warn you about and that is hanky panky. Steer clear of hanky panky, Timothy. There are temptations and some of the ladies do get a bit frisky before the onslaught of the ozone. But resist, always, resist. Remember your obligation to your employers and to the great family unit we are all serving.” Even as he speaks I expect to hear Janet scratching at the door. “I haven’t been here long myself and one of the reasons I was posted here was because moral standards amongst some members of the staff – only some, I hasten to add – had become lax. Abuse of trust is a terrible thing, laddie. Some Hosts had to hand in their blazers—” He pauses so I can register the full horror of what he is saying.

“I would hate to have to live through a day like that again.”

I nod my head solemnly.

“But we don’t want to live in the past, do we, laddie?” Francis slaps me on the shoulder, jarring the smile back on my face. “It’s the future we have to think about. You cut along to the Ocean Restaurant and report to Mr. Hotchkiss who is supervising high tea. He’ll issue you with your blazer and show you the ropes. Alright? Right! Keep smiling and good luck!”

I go out beaming and it takes about fifty yards to get my face back to normal. Really, this smiling bit is going to be the death of me. The Ocean Restaurant looms ahead and as I make my way towards it, I come across a small clearing amongst the chalets in which two teams of women are playing netball. From the emblems on their well endowed chests it seems as if Clubs are playing Diamonds and the game is generating a fair amount of agro not diminished by the crowds of supporters standing around the court, most of whom seem to be drunk.

“Do her, Bertha!”

“Get stuck in, Diamonds.”

“Ooh, you dirty cow!”

“Watch your filthy mouth, you slut!”

“Come on ref. Get a grip.”

The referee is a fair-haired gangling youth wearing a Spades Holiday Host Blazer, who is vainly trying to keep control of the game without resorting to physical force. His smile is a bit frayed at the edge but it is still there.

“Come on,” he pipes. “Well done. Oh dear. I think we’d better have a free throw there, hadn’t we? Remember, it’s only a game, no need to get too excited. And could spectators keep off the court? Thank you very much. Right now, where’s the ball? The ball? Can we have the ball back, please?”

He gets the ball alright – straight in the mush from one of the crowd. There is no doubt about it, they take their games seriously at Melody Bay. I leave the poor sod to it as two women start pulling each other’s hair and the crowd surges on to the pitch and press forward to the Ocean Restaurant. Quite why it has this name it is difficult to know, unless the corrosive effect of the brine on its walls has anything to do with it. From close to it looks like a wet sponge.

Inside, I get my first view of the Melody Bay holidaymakers en masse and it’s obvious that they enjoy exercising their gnashers. Elbows are flying in all directions and there is hardly an H.P. sauce bottle which is not divebombing a plate. It is clear that food is provided on a self-service basis and behind a long counter a bevy of cooks in tall French Chef’s hats are ladling out goodies. The human voice is much in evidence but this is nearly drowned by the tannoy system which is dishing out a medley of “Workers’ Playtime’s greatest hits” interspersed with commercials for the pleasures to come: “Hello campers, we hope you are all enjoying your fine cured ham. We don’t know what went wrong with it but we think we have cured it real fine” – pause for silence – “but seriously folks, we just want to remind you that this evening the Swanee River Ramble will be taking place in the camp theatre at nineteen thirty hours – seven thirty to you old stagers – and that there will be prizes for the best riverboat costumes, gamblers, hustlers, cowpokes, saloon girls, you name it, we’re giving prizes for it, because remember:

“Welcome, welcome, you’re welcome at Melody Bay.

We all are here to please you and serve you in every way.”

Once the strains of the familiar dirge have faded away I approach the nearest Holiday Host and am directed to a thick-set curly-haired man of about thirty-five who is standing by one of the serving hatches and beaming at everyone approaching it in the manner of a vicar shaking hands with the congregation outside a church. As I draw near, he is addressing a neat redhead with a blouse knotted across her plump little tummy.

“O.K. luvvie. I should be through about twelve, I’ll leave the back door open for you.”

Quite how I should interpret these words in the light of my address from Mr. Francis I do not know, but no doubt there is a very simple explanation apart from the one that flashes across my sewer-soaked mind.

“Mr. Hotchkiss?” I say brightly, “my name is Timothy Lea.”

“Call me Ted. Hello Timmy. Yes. I heard you were on the way. Have a good trip, did you?”

He shakes my hand warmly and, although it is difficult to be certain in the presence of such all-pervading good cheer, seems genuinely glad to see me.

“Seen Mr. Hanky Panky, have you?” he continues. “Got the message about putting your Y-Fronts on back to front when you leave your chalet, laddie? Hey – look at the pair on that one. Grind you to death, wouldn’t they? Have you had anything to eat?”

“Er, no. What’s it like here?”

“The food? Diabolical. I don’t know what they do to it. The raw materials are alright, I’ve seen them. I think they play football with it, to tell you the truth. It’s alright if you like chips. You get chips with your cornflakes here.”

“But you never get any complaints?”

“Only medical ones. I’ve known times when it’s been more like sick bay than Melody Bay. No, the only complaints about the food are if it’s not covered in chips. Hello Gladys – she’s a goer, that one. I’ve still got the marks of her nails down the door of my chalet. Like bloody cats they are. She comes every year – and every five mintes, too, if you give her the chance.”

As I examine the plump bint leering at me through a mouthful of chips, it occurs to me to wonder what the Hosts who got sacked were like.

“She looks a big girl,” I observe conversationally.

“Big? She’s big alright. She loses things by sitting on them. And she’s strong with it. She knotted a putter round another bird’s neck on the crazy golf course.”

“You seem to take your sport pretty seriously here. There was quite a struggle going on when I passed the netball court.”

“It’s bloody murder sometimes. Last week a fight broke out during the ping pong tournament and they smashed the table to matchwood – and I mean matchwood. There wasn’t a piece you couldn’t pass through a windowpane. I know because they chucked most of them in here.”

“Why do they get like that?”

“It’s the system, isn’t it? I take it that Aunty Francis told you all about it? The whole idea is to keep people occupied during every waking moment and the best way of doing that is to divide them up into teams and make them play games against each other until they drop dead with exhaustion. That way they all reckon they are having a wonderful time. Of course, you have to allow for the competitive element getting a bit out of hand sometimes. It’s like being at a bleeding boarding school. There’s a cup for the suit that gets the most points in all the events and by the end of the fortnight, some of these buggers have turned into Kamikazi pilots. There’s even some that practise for weeks at home before they get here.”

“I didn’t see many people on the beach.”

“Well, you wouldn’t, would you? It’s not an amenity, is it? Who wants to mess about on a stinking old beach when they could be lashing out on rounds of drinks and watching a toddler’s fashion parade. The weather doesn’t help, either. We’ve only had six sunny days since Whitsun. Hello, Helen luv. Is the knee alright? Better? Good. I’ll be round with the Wintergreen like I promised. Ooh, did you hear that? They don’t care some of them, do they?”

“Ted. Mr. Francis was saying—”

“I know what he was saying. ‘No hanky panky.’ Yes, well, he’s got to say that, hasn’t he? I mean you can’t advertise the place as the biggest knocking shop north of The Wash, can you? But how many people would come here if there wasn’t the chance of a spot of slap and tickle. They’re not all bloody refugees from ‘It’s a Knockout’.”

“I realise that, Ted, but we’re not supposed to get mixed up with the customers, are we?”

“Do me a favour! You try telling that to Gladys and the rest of them. Forget what Francis says. You’re not employed as a Holiday Host here. You’re a stud. What do you think all the single birds come here for? They come to get poked rotten, and you, with your snazzy white jacket are the first prize. Being laid by a Host is what it’s all about, and this is a very competitive set-up, remember?”

“But I was warned—”

“O.K. You were warned. I won’t say another word. You put on your white blazer and see what happens. I’ll give you a Saint Timothy medal if you’re not fitting a yale lock on your chalet door before tomorrow night. Look at that bird over there, for instance, she obviously fancies you.”

I glance in the direction of his jerked thumb and there of course, is Janet waggling her fingers at me.

“Bird I met on the train,” I say, like I am describing cold semolina.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind walking the alsatian past her chalet. You could do yourself a bit of alright there.”

“Yeah. Talking of doing things, what do you want me to do now?”

“Well, I’ll show you where you’re going to live if you’ll excuse the exaggeration, and then you can help to get ready for the Swanee River Ramble.”

“What’s that?”

“Bingo in funny hats. Everything in this place revolves around Bingo. It’s the second most popular activity. You just have to keep on thinking up new names for it, that’s all. You know, I fancy that bird. Do you know what her name is?”

“Janet.”

“Right. I think I’ll pop over and introduce myself. That is, if you don’t have any objections?”

“No, of course not.”

In fact, I am very grateful. I fancy that Ted is just what Janet is looking for.

An hour later I have unpacked and been issued with my blazer with a big red heart on the breast pocket. I feel a right ponce but there is no doubt that Ted is right when he talks about the bird-pulling potential. Frippet that was ignoring me in the cafeteria is now giving me the Georgie Best treatment and I begin to wonder how long I can hold out before I hole out.

I am soon to find out because when I report to the Happydrome, the tables in the entertainment hall are littered with birds knocking back rum and cokes and brandy and Babycham like it was water. In fact, I have been led to believe by Ted that a good bit of it is water. The chief steward is apparently known as Nero and waters the booze like it was flowers. “I had a Drambuie the other night that tasted like bloody liquorice, water,” moaned Ted. “I could have mixed myself a stronger drink from a packet of sherbet.”

Neverthless, sheer volume of intake seems to produce the desired effect and by the time the Bingo caller, wearing false moustache, bowler hat and fancy waistcoat gets into his stride, most of those present are, to put it mildly, in a fairly relaxed condition. Attempts to capture the Swanee River mood vary from tennis visors and sleeve garters to low cut frilly dresses and beauty spots – mostly the ones revealed by the low-cut frilly dresses. Only the mums and dads sit there in their sensible cardigans and floral prints, unmoved by the frivolity of dress about them.

I pass amongst the tables asking people if they are having a good time and indulging in what light banter finds its way into my mind. There is no sign of Janet and I imagine that she is grooving in the Stardust Disco or perhaps revelling in the up tempo music of Freddy Newbold and his Startimers.

It is in this way that I come upon Avril who is flashing a lovely pair of knockers that look as if they are trying to climb out of her dress. As I draw near her table, she crosses her legs and reveals a pair of matching thighs, one of which is adorned with a black garter with a rose attached to it.

“Been picking flowers, have you?” I say, which is an indication of the standard of repartee I have been indulging in.

“Yes, do you like it?” Her eyes work over me fast like a farmer weighing up meat at a fat-stock auction.

“I like the whole costume. You stand a good chance of a prize.”

“Ooh, did you hear that, ’Reen?”

’Reen is thin and mousey and the kind of bird you go on holiday with because she makes you look so attractive. She is also giving me an eye-bashing.

“Yeah. Perhaps he can pull a few strings if you make it worth his while.”

“Ooh, you cheeky thing. Did you hear what she said, Timmy?”

Identifying me is no problem because my name has been lettered onto the heart on my breast pocket.

“I’m not a judge, so there’s nothing I can do,” I simper.

“Couldn’t you give her a consolation prize?” says ’Reen.

“What do you suggest?”

“Ooh, well, I don’t know about that. What do you think, Avril?”

They both collapse into fits of giggles and it is all I can do to hold a smile on my mug. Avril is definitely a looker, though, and she has been in the sun because I can see a thin white line across her breasts where they edge over the top of her bra. If it was not for ’Reen and the warnings from Sid and Francis, I would be breaking over her like a tidal wave.

“Well, I’ll come back if I think of something,” I say, showing how persistently unfunny I can be when I really try. I deliver another dollop of warm, friendly smile and move on to the next table where a woman terrifies me by leaping to her feet and shouting “Bingo” just as I am about to open my mouth in greeting. It is obviously the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to her because she flings her arms round my neck and nearly hugs the life out of me to the accompaniment of shouts of “Watch it, Bertha!” “There’s no holding her when she’s had a few” “Save some for me!” and the like.

With so much good cheer about I have obviously got to join the party for a drink and in no time at all I am well on the way to being pissed. In this condition, I applaud loudly when the results of the fancy dress competition are announced and Avril wins a prize. More bingo follows and then Holiday Host Billington entertains us with his accordion, one foot resting sensually on a convenient chair. Such all-time favourites as “Roll Out the Barrel”, “Goodnight Irene” and “My Old Man’s a Dustman” find everyone in good voice and I am perilously near enjoying myself when I feel a light kiss on the cheek. I turn round expecting to discover Janet has devoured Ted and come in search of fresh prey, but instead find my nose wedged between a couple of Bristols that could only belong to Avril – or three other birds packed one on top of the other.

“I just thought I’d give you a little kiss to say thank you,” she says. “I’m so happy. It’s the first time I’ve ever won anything.”

“It wasn’t anything to do with me,” I mumble. “What did you get, anyway, I can’t remember?”

“I got an L.P. voucher. I’m never going to cash it, though. I’ll always keep it.”

“Why not get a record and keep that?”

“No, it wouldn’t be the same. My kid brother would borrow it and I’d never see it again.”

“Yes, you’ve got a point there.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

It’s not the kind of stuff to give Sir Terence Rattigan sleepless nights, is it? But I don’t have to dig any deeper into my fund of small talk because Avril lowers her boobs and starts to tell me her problem.

“Do you know anything about electricity?”

“Not much,” I say, sensing that my powers of self-control are about to be tested.

“I’m certain it’s only a little thing, but the bedside light in our chalet keeps flickering.”

“Probably the wires in the socket have worked loose.”

Avril looks at me as if I have just discovered penicillin.

“Do you think that’s it? Is it difficult to fix?”

“No, it’ll only take a couple of minutes with a screwdriver.”

Avril’s breasts jut out in such a fashion that the pendant she is wearing, thwarted in its attempt to hang beween them, rests on top, much as it would do on the palm of your hand. Little things like that mean a lot to a man.

“Would you like me to take a look at it?” I mean, it can’t do any harm, can it? ’Reen will be there and it is part of my job to cope with this kind of thing. I am certain Mr. Francis would approve. And Sid? Yes, I think I know what Sid would do in this situation.

“Oh, would you? You’re sure it’s not too much trouble?”

“No trouble at all,” I say, turning on to full beam. “Do it right away if you like. I think they’ll be packing up here in a minute.”

This observation is unlikely to be disputed by the lady on my left who is now snoring loudly with her head in a pool of light ale.

“Ooh, lovely. I’ll just get my coat.”

Avril’s chalet is just like every other cardboard doll’s house on the camp with a fair selection of girlish garments littered about the place, none of which I notice contain ’Reen.

“What’s happened to your friend?” I say admiring the pair of sequined panties that Avril is removing from a chair. Avril blushes.

“I think she’s—she’s out with a friend. You know?”

“Yeah.”

I don’t envy the poor bloke whoever he is, but I suppose everybody can’t have my advantages.

“Where’s the light, then?” I say, knowing the answer to that one before I open my mouth.

“It’s on the table by the bed.”

Oh dear. Mr. Francis is not going to like this, I tell myself. I should not have had all that booze at the Happydrome. Then I would be strong, strong, strong.

“That’s a lovely nightdress,” I say. It is black and see-through and plunges at the front like Ted Heath’s popularity curve. Avril picks it off the bed and holds it against herself.

“Do you like it?” she says unnecessarily.

“Very much. You go in for roses, don’t you?”

There is a black rose in the middle of the cleavage.

“Yes. Have you seen this bra?”

She produces one of those novelty efforts that give you a crick in the neck walking down Shaftesbury Avenue. It has two black fur roses set side by side which, I suppose, is where you would expect them to be.

“No. It’s very sexy. I’d like to see you in it some time.” That was unnecessary, Lea. Stop asking for trouble and get on with the job.

I sit down on the bed and switch on the lamp. It works perfectly.

“That’s funny,” says Avril innocently, “it was flickering like anything last night.”

“Perhaps your friend’s friend mended it?”

“No, there’s been nobody else here.”

“Well, if you’ve got a nailfile, I’ll look at it anyway.”

“That’s very nice of you.”

“No trouble, no trouble.”

She comes and sits next to me on the bed while I unscrew the plug which, of course, has all the leads perfectly connected.

“Nothing wrong here,” I say. Avril snuggles closer and peers down at the plug like it is some small woodland creature we have found on a country ramble.

“Oh dear. I’ve brought you all this way for nothing. And I can’t even offer you a coffee.”

Well, we all know what I should do now, don’t we?

Stand up and give her the Boy Scout salute and run all the way home without stopping. I know that, too, but when I look down into her guilt-ridden little face resting atop those enormous knockers like a pawnbroker’s sign, it is as if I have been fitted with diver’s boots.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “It’s nice to be here with you.”

A strange force I can only describe as sheer, naked lust, draws my lips towards hers and we topple back on the bed with me underneath. Honestly, it is like having her separated from me by a couple of melons. What a treasure chest. In this relaxing position, we mingle mouths and I let my hand run up and down the back of her thighs flicking against her garter.

“How many more roses have you got?” I murmur.

“Do you really want to see?”

“Very much.”

She sits up and turns her back to me.

“Unhook my dress.”

I kiss the back of her neck and slide down the zip following the passage with more gentle kisses along the route of her spine. She reaches behind her to undo her bra but I brush her fingers aside and releasing the catch, slide my hands round her body so that I feel the full weight of her breasts drop into my hands. What a pair. They damn near need a safety net underneath them. In this happy position, I nuzzle her neck and stroke her nipples till they swell beneath my fingers. She twists round and shakes herself free of her dress which falls to waist level. The bra she was wearing must be guaranteed by Accles and Pollock and is covered in small red roses.

“Is that all?” I murmur as her mouth gets in the way of further conversation and I feel her bristols ruckling against my chest like a faulty life jacket.

“Wait and see,” she purrs and her hand slides down to the front of my trousers creating wild enthusiasm everywhere it goes. My own little bunch of fives is not slow to reciprocate on the appropriate part of her anatomy and her legs spring open like I have pressed a secret button. Up over her tights I go until I can feel the elastic biting into the back of my wrist and my fingers brushing against her pubes. She is not wearing any knickers, which is a surprise in a girl with her obvious enthusiasm for undergarments, so I leave her side for a moment and quickly drop to my knees. In this position I can gently ease the tights over her prime rump and down to the final jerk which clears her heels. She obviously finds this exciting because she starts to twist her head from side to side and fondles the front of my trousers like she is making bread. I swiftly discard my precious blazer and follow with my shoes, socks and pants. I would be quite prepared to follow with my shirt and tie, but once allowed unimpeded access to Percy, Avril seems to lose control. In the manner of someone jacking up a car she raises me from my humble position by the bed and draws herself up so that I can help ease the dress over her shoulders. Now she is naked and it is quite a sight, I can assure you. Like a bird in one of these pictures by that Italian geezer. The ones with fat-cheeked cupids doing their stuff from behind clouds, and gents in tight furry trousers playing harps. Generous is perhaps the best description of her limbs, though some might use the word plump. Not that I am thinking of rushing out and buying her a course of minibisks. Oh dear me no. At this moment Mr. Francis is probably having a nightmare but that is his problem. Ninety nine per cent of my attention is directed towards the flesh palace writhing beneath me. I glance down at the garter enmeshed in her discarded tights and sink into her like a packet of marbles into warm butter.

What a performer! Her legs cross over behind mine, barring my retreat, and she starts a slow grinding motion that would power the mixing vat in a toffee factory. Thus pleasantly occupied, her hands are free to remove my tie, which has the word ‘Funfrall’ repeated on it about three thousand times. Sir Giles certainly knew what he was doing when he named the company. Pop, pop, pop go the buttons of my shirt and she claws it off so that her fingers can roam lightly over the whole length of my back and down to my dangle-bangles.

In the hands of such an exquisite performer it is perhaps as well that my exertions with Janet have taken the edge off my natural inclinations because this girl could boil a saucepan of milk in thirty seconds. Slowly and beautifully we grind on until there is a gradual pick-up in our rhythm and we accelerate ruthlessly over the horizon with me smacking against her belly like a speed boat riding rough water.

Whether Mr. Francis stepped out from behind the curtains and zapped me over the nut with a black jack or whether I was just dead knackered, I don’t know, but the next thing I am fully conscious of is the sunlight streaming through the window and Avril stepping into a pair of rose pink knickers and blowing me a kiss.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she says, brightly. “I thought you were never going to wake up.”

There is a hint of reproach in her voice which wounds me, but she avoids my grasping hand and quickly zips up her skirt.

“No time for that now, naughty,” she says, “I’ve got the semi-finals of the volley ball in twenty minutes and I want some breakfast. Ta ra.”

And so saying, she skips lightly from the chalet leaving me with the unpleasant realisation that another day of non-stop team games demands my attendance. Ted is probably already wondering where I am. Grateful that ’Reen has not appeared, I hop out of bed and start practising my smile in the mirror of the cardboard cupboard. I have completed this exercise and am just knotting my tie when the front door opens. Expecting to see either Avril or ’Reen I turn casually to be faced by a creature who is obviously a chalet maid. The kindest adjective that can be found to describe her is homely, and her suspicious face turns downright malevolent when she sees my blazer lying on the crumpled bed.

“Oh, ho,” she says, “Mr. Francis isn’t going to like this.”

A pang of fear knee trembles down my body and I wind up my smile.

“Just checking one of the lamp sockets,” I breeze. “Nothing to get excited about.”

“I know what socket you were testing,” she leers. “I’ve got my orders about this kind of thing. Rules is rules. Any case of impropriety involving a member of the staff must be reported direct to Mr. Francis. I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I didn’t.”

Marvellous, isn’t it? Twelve hours, two fucks and I am out of a job again.

“Listen,” I whine, “you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Look. You can see where I was checking the plug.”

I snatch up the dismembered plug triumphantly and suddenly find that slugnipples is standing very close to me.

“Of course,” she says, plonking down her Ajax on the bedside table, “he doesn’t have to know.”

Oh, no! I think. “After all, we’re only human, aren’t we?” Her fingers play with the buttons on the front of my shirt. “A little bit of what you fancy doesn’t do you any harm.” She looks up into my eyes. “I can keep a secret …” My arms obediently steal round her body and she sighs as our mouths meet. “I don’t want to get anybody into trouble.”

Not much chance of that happening very often, madam, I think to myself as I ease my shoes off. Honestly, I have half a mind to tell her to piss off and go and tell Francis anything she likes, but one has to do one’s bit to help keep the unemployment figures down, doesn’t one?