Читать книгу The Confessions Collection - Rosie Dixon, Timothy Lea - Страница 43

“You pull the knob behind the seat,” says Ted.

“Oh, I thought you pushed it,” I say.

“Yeah, so did the last eight blokes who were in my place, I reckon. Blimey! Talk about pong.”

We are discussing the toilet arrangements which are decidedly “traditional”.

“They ought to print some instructions in English.”

“It wouldn’t make any difference if they did. My inheritance still hasn’t moved and the flies are standing three abreast on each other’s shoulders. What time does the water go on?”

“I dunno. I just work here.”

“You must be the only thing that does. What a carve-up. God knows what it’s going to be like when the paying customers arrive.”

We are sitting on the verandah of the Candelight Casino to which I have fled after the Deadly Duo have finished “liberating” me. That was their word for it, anyway.

“You alright?” says Ted. “You’re looking a bit pale.”

I laugh hollowly and continue to flick through my cornflakes in case there are any more ants lurking there. The tinned milk failed to drown the first three hundred.

“I didn’t sleep very well,” I say.

“Hot, wasn’t it?”

“Very.”

“Still, I suppose we’re going to get used to it.”

“I hope so. Oh, by the way, Ted, what does Isla de Moscas mean?”

“‘The Island of Flies’. Why?”

“That’s what they used to call this place.”

“What do you mean ‘used to’? Have you seen my bathroom? Blooming heck. I’ve heard of Spanish Fly – this place ought to be called Spanish Flies.”

“That’s very good, Ted.”

“Thank you, Timmy. Flattery will get you anywhere with me. Incidentally, who’s been filling you in on the local history? I heard you were giving a Tupperware party in your room last night. Was it one of your guests?”

“There was only one.”

“That’s not what I heard. They reckoned you were breaking in wild horses later on. Don’t tell me you’ve started indulging in the dreaded hanky panky already?”

“No, Ted, I was moving the furniture around.”

“Sounds an interesting way of doing it.”

“Yes. Look, Ted, talking of ‘hanky panky’. Who’s the Francis figure round here?”

“A bloke called Grunwald.”

“I haven’t seen him since we got here.”

“You won’t, either. Not until he’s finished the three bottles of brandy he took with him when he locked himself in his bungalow.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Nothing. Nobody else is going to do anything. I’ve checked the kitchen and we’re alright for potatoes and tinned milk. There’ll be no shortage of tea and chips. I’m not a plumber or a can of fly spray so there’s bugger all else I can do.”

“But hadn’t we better do something to get the place organised?”

“Organised!? Listen, mate. This is Isla de Amor: Love Island. You don’t have to organise anything here. Just let ’em get on with it; it sounds as if you were setting a very good example last night—oops! Talk of the diablo. Look who’s coming.”

I follow his eyes and there is Carmen padding towards us carrying a piece of paper in her hand. “You sweem long way,” she says to me reproachfully. “I have flushed out toilets and got more stomach powder for you.”

“Very kind of you, but I don’t have a stomach ache.”

“Soon,” she says, nodding wisely. “Soon.”

“Cheerful little darling, isn’t she,” says Ted. “What have you got there, love?”

“Telegram for Senor Grun—Grun—you look.” She hands the paper to Ted.

“Telegram! My goodness, what next? I thought a bloke ran out of the rocks with a message in a forked stick. Now, let’s see. ‘Arriving Island 14.30 hours. 7–7–72. Noggett’.”

‘I give telegram to Grun, Grun …” Carmen extends her hand.

“Don’t bother, darling. I think we’d better call his room the Sick Bay from now on. Take him some chicken broth about dinner time.”

“I no understand.”

“It doesn’t matter. Man come from England in flying bird. He sort everything out.”

In fact, man and woman arrive by flying bird. About four hours later than expected, a very damp and bedraggled Sidney and secretary limp on to the Island. We refrain from asking if he had a good trip but he tells us about it anyway.

“Poxy plane wouldn’t start and then the bloody bus breaks down. You buggers didn’t go out of your way to meet us, did you?”

“Your telegram didn’t arrive until this morning.”

“Bloody marvellous. When did we send that, Marcia?”

I check over Miss Trimbody for signs of mauling but it looks as if she has had a fairly Sid-free trip. No obvious bruises or torn garments.

“Mid-day last Tuesday,” she says primly, flicking aside a damp curl.

“Looks as if someone made a cock-up. Where’s Grunwald?”

‘Ill.”

“Sick.”

“You mean pissed as usual, I suppose. Where’s his chalet?”

“Oh—er. I think—no—where …?”

“Don’t mess about. I want to talk to someone about this place. We’ve got the public arriving in a few days you know. Now where is he?”

So a small procession forms up and we all march round to Grunwald’s bungalow. The sun is sinking behind the corrugated iron roof and the only sound to be heard is that of a dog working over one of the dustbins behind the Passion Fooderama. It is very peaceful.

“That one?” says Sid.

We nod and Marcia sucks in her breath. Sid steps forward and taps on the door. Nothing happens. Sid knocks on the door. Still nothing happens. Sid bangs on the—“Shurrup!! Shurrup! Shurr-u-u-p!!!” The voice goes off like an explosion and the bungalow shudders as waves of abuse break through the wall. Grunwald is obviously well into the brandy. As if to prove the point, two empty bottles leave in quick succession via one of the windows, narrowly missing Marcia’s head. They are followed by a burst of drunken laughter accompanied by hysterical female giggles. Sid puts his shoulder to the door and we all crane forward to peer inside. Lying naked across the bed is Grunwald, his fat belly glistening with sweat and his limp cluster shaking in time with his laughter. Nan is lying starkers with her head on his hairy belly and Nat is standing up trying to pour herself a slug of brandy. Unfortunately, she is laughing so much that she cannot hold the glass steady. She tries to concentrate, bites her lip, screws up her eyes, then drops the bottle which shatters on the concrete floor. Now all three of them start laughing twice as loud. I glance at Marcia who is standing at my elbow. She is also biting her lip and I suspect she is getting a quiet kick from the proceedings. Interesting girl, Marcia.

The back of Sid’s neck turns red and when he swings round we all fall down the steps of the bungalow. He chokes a couple of times, shuts the door as an afterthought and fixes Ted with his eye.

“Right, Hotchkiss,” he says. “You’re in charge and your first job is going to be to get that bloody maniac off the island. Put him on an aeroplane. It doesn’t matter where it’s going. Anywhere. And as for those two—those—”

“You mean Sir Giles’ nieces?” I say hurriedly. Sidney wilts. “You’ll have to watch them,” he says weakly.

In the next few days we watch the Deadly Duo systematically work their way through every male on the Island. This is not bad going when you consider that these are the days on which we interview waiters and barmen, and an extra sixty Spaniards come over from the mainland. Poor devils. It is pathetic to see them change from arrogant males glorying in their Latin sensuality to shivering substitutes for men skulking behind rocks in order to avoid the merciless attentions of the flesh fiends.

“Poor sods,” said Ted. “They started off as bull-fighters and ended up fighting for their balls.”

You may think I exaggerate but you have never experienced those birds at first hand – at least I imagine you haven’t. Maybe by the time I write this—hey, why don’t you run down to the village store and buy a padlock, just to be on the safe side?

Sidney watches what is happening and tries to be philosophical – at least I think that was the word he meant to use. You never quite know with Sidney.

“Let ’em get on with it,” he says. “They’ll be shagged out by the time the paying customers get here.”

Us old hands shake our heads at that one. We know our girls. When you screw for peace you screw with the strength of ten. Not that Sid is less than smack on the ball in many ways. He gets all the huts repaired, stops the locals using the piss houses as goat pens and even gets some of the toilets working. I can vouch for this latter success because one of the workmen manages to flush his plastic false teeth down the loo and they bob up beside Ted off Palm Beach two minutes later.

“Bloody terrifying, it was,” he says. “I thought they were one of those tropical fish with nothing but teeth.”

This incident underlines one of the fundamental weaknesses of Love Island’s plumbing arrangements and you soon learn to swim a fair distance from the shore unless you want to meet a few old friends.

One disappointment is the failure to get Grunwald off the island. The sun must have affected him because when Ted goes to fetch him for the plane he tears all his clothes off and runs naked into the trees. He has only been seen occasionally since. At first, it was reckoned that hunger would drive him out, but now with only a couple of days left to the first guests arriving, Sid has ordered that pairs of shorts be left around the island in the hope that he will slip a pair on and not let down the tone of the place. It is much in Sid’s mind that some old Funfrall customers might wonder why their former Holiday Host is now frisking about in the altogether.

Ted is running around like a blue-arsed fly – of which there are still a great many to pick up hints from – and I am improving my sun tan and doing what I can to keep away from Carmen. The bloody woman won’t leave me alone and is always slipping another bottle into the medicine cabinet or her hand down the front of my trousers. Health and sex are the only two things she seems to think about. Not that I can complain too much because I have given up smoking and never said no to a spot of the other in my life.

Somebody else who seems to be getting his share is Sid. Our leader’s quarters are across the road from Marcia’s and Carmen informs me that the cobble stones between the two front doors are getting decidedly worn. What Sid gets up to is of course his own business and, despite the fact that he is married to my sister, I have never thought of questioning his behaviour. What makes me change my mind is when he calls me in to his office – the first thing Sid does when he gets onto the island is fix himself up with an office – and informs me that Mum, Dad and Rosie are going to be amongst the first batch of swingers to set foot on our fair shores. This news is nothing if not a bombshell and I stagger back temporarily stunned by its multiple implications.

“Blimey!” I gasp. “How did they get out here?”

“I paid for ’em. Of course, I managed to fiddle a pretty hefty reduction. It’s not going to bankrupt me.”

“But why, Sid?”

“Well, I thought your Mum and Dad – poor old sods – could do with a bit of a knees-up before they snuff it. I mean, you’re never going to send them anywhere, are you? A day trip to Southend on their Golden Wedding Anniversary would be about your mark.”

“But why here, Sid? I mean, Love Island. They’re a bit past it, aren’t they? Have you sent them a course of Phyllosan as well?”

“They don’t have to get involved in anything. They can just sit about in the sun and relax. Marcia can look after them.”

“Yeah, and what about Marcia? Rosie isn’t going to take too warmly to her being out here, is she?”

“Don’t be stupid. Rosie knows all about Marcia. She’s met her.”

“There’s a difference to meeting her in England, and finding her shacked up with you out here.”

“What do you mean ‘shacked up’? Are you suggesting I’m having it away with her?”

“The idea had flashed across my mind, Sid. Quite a few others too. Look, I don’t mind what you do, but I think you ought to be a bit careful about upsetting Rosie. Don’t make it too obvious. You know what I mean?”

Sidney does not like that because he starts tugging at his moustache as if he wants to tear it out of his mush and his face turns an ugly red colour.

“You’ve got a bloody cheek talking to me like that. You’re still an employee of Funfrall Enterprises, you know, not a bleeding marriage guidance counsellor. I know how to handle Rosie, don’t you worry about that.”

“I just think it’s bloody stupid having both of them out here.”

“I don’t see why I should deny Rosie a holiday just because Marcia’s here. She’s been on at me long enough about it. Look, Timmy. We’re in the nineteen seventies. Rosie and I have a modern marriage. If I fancy a quick fling with some bird, Rosie doesn’t mind. She knows I’ll still be mending the kid’s bike on Saturday morning. We’re grown-up people. All that faithfulness bit isn’t the B.O. and end-all, you know.”

“Supposing Rosie fancied a bit on the side?”

Sid swallows hard.

“Well, of course it’s not very likely to happen, is it? She’s got the house and the kid and—and me.”

“And supposing she did?”

“Well, it would be just the same. What’s sauce for the goose, is sauce for the gander. The sex thing is pretty unimportant. We put too much emphasis on it. It’s what happens up here that keeps marriage alive.” Sid taps his nut.

“That’s very broad-minded, Sid.”

“Well, like I said. You’ve got to move with the times. Attitudes change. Now, don’t worry about Mum and Dad or Rosie. Everything is going to be alright. You leave it to me. If you want to do something useful, get out there and find that bleeder Grunwald.”

So I pad off with my mind full of the new Sidney and thinking how he has changed. When Sid used to live with us in Scraggs Road he and Dad were after each other’s guts, twenty four hours a day. Now he is giving the miserable old bleeder a free holiday. And as for all this free love stuff, I just don’t get it. I always thought Sid was the possessive type.

The sun is battering down out of a cloudless sky and, as the alternative is painting a white line round the edge of the ping pong table, I decide to take Sid at his word and go and look for Grunwald. Somebody has broken into the camp kitchen which, as Ted observes, is a clear indication of desperation, and it is generally reckoned to have been Grunwald. This notion is supported by the fact that all the pairs of shorts left out have been put through the mincing machine.

I wander amongst the pines and find a path which winds down towards the sea. It is cool and dark under the trees with only occasional shafts of sunlight breaking through the thick foliage. Soon I can see patches of blue dodging behind the trunks and when I emerge it is to gaze down on an endless jumble of rocks looking like an upturned box of kids’ building bricks. Half the height of a house some of them are, and they start piling up right at the water’s edge. At first this leads me to think that there can’t be any beach, but as I walk along I can see the occasional tiny cove – and I don’t mean Wee Georgie Wood – nestling amongst the rocks with its own private beach, empty and inviting.

But not always empty. In the middle of one patch of sand a young woman wearing a bikini is lying on her stomach and reaching behind her back to release the catch of her bra. I hate to see her risking pulling a muscle when I would be only too ready to offer my services. Especially as the young lady in question is the lovely Marcia. She unhooks her bra, arranges each strap neatly on either side of her and rests her head on her hands. Very methodical girl, Miss Trimbody. I find her cool, self-contained style very appealing after some of the ravers I have been struggling with lately. I continue to watch her slim, lithe body dozing in the sunshine and ponder my next move. Any bloke with a spark of decency in him would of course tiptoe quietly away and go home to catalogue his stamp collection.

Unfortunately, though I can on occasions strike sparks, not one of them has ever had decency stamped on it. My first reaction is the one that is still with me ten minutes and a fair dose of eye-strain later: how can I get the rest of her costume off? I could ask her to take it off nicely, or bash her over the nut with a rock, but neither of these methods seems quite right. In the end, I settle for my normal approach: the one foot in front of the other, followed by the nervous pause while I wait to hear what I am going to say.

In this case it is “sorry! I didn’t mean to frighten you” because just as I am drawing up beside her and about to cough discreetly, she suddenly sits up and starts to wriggle out of her bikini bottom. She has got it down to the knees when for some reason she turns and sees me gawping at her. Quick as a flash, she crosses her legs and drops her hands over her pubes.

“What do you want? What do you want?” she shrills.

Of course, I could tell her, but again, I don’t think it is the right moment.

“I’ll look the other way,” I say, turning my back on her and holding before me like a photograph the memory of her shapely little breasts and upturned nipples. “I am sorry.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I was looking for Grunwald and doing a bit of exploring at the same time. It’s nice here, isn’t it?”

“Not if you’re being spied on when you’re sunbathing.”

“I wasn’t spying. I saw you from up there and you were lying so still I thought something might be wrong. Can I turn round now?”

I whip round but she has everything on again and is flicking the sand off her bra. Grrrh!

“You could have shouted.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But I didn’t want to frighten you.”

“It was a jolly sight more frightening turning round and suddenly seeing you standing there.”

“Yes—er—do you mind if I sit down?”

“Be my guest. It’s a free beach. What there is of it.”

“There’s not a lot of sand, is there?”

“For what is supposed to be a Mediterranean holiday island, I think it’s incredible.”

“Sidney wouldn’t like to hear you say that.”

“I’ve already said it to him. I told him that the whole place was a disaster. I don’t see how any sane person could disagree with me.”

“Well, I hope it goes alright for Sidney’s sake.”

“Don’t worry about Sidney. He’s one of nature’s survivors. He’ll be alright.”

“How long have you worked for him?”

“About six months, I think. The length of time he’s been Promotions Manager.”

“What’s he like to work for?”

“We have our ups and downs—” she sees me looking at her when she says that, and blushes. “He’s a very volatile man. Lots of drive, impatient, reckless, his assessment of situations can be terribly wrong sometimes – but I don’t have to tell you all this. You’re his brother-in-law, aren’t you?”

“Yes. You sound as if you like him.”

“I do. I like brash, aggressive men. Maybe I want to be dominated. It’s probably all very Freudian.”

She looks out to sea and lets a handful of sand trickle through her fingers. This is quite a class bird, I think to myself.

“Are you lobbying on behalf of your sister? I haven’t got anything big going with Sidney.”

I pick up some sand and pour it gently on to her pile.

“I wasn’t thinking about that. I was concentrating on number one, as usual.”

Our hands brush against each other and she makes no great effort to snatch hers away. I am lying on my back and she looks down at me and smiles.

“How long were you watching from up there?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Wondering if I was dead?”

“That kind of thing.”

“You’re a liar.”

“That’s right.”

She looks out to sea again and slowly releases a hand full of sand on to my stomach.

“It’s a pity,” she says slowly.

“What is?”

“I don’t think I should tell you.”

“Go on.”

“I have a favourite fantasy in which I’m lying on a small, secluded beach and the sun is shining and the sea is sparkling and—”

“And what?”

“I don’t think I should tell you.”

“Go on.”

“And a beautiful man appears from nowhere and …”

“And?”

The sky is very blue above me and there is a solitary seagull circling lazily as if keeping a watchful eye on us. Marcia’s face appearing above mine blocks it out and I refocus on her blue eyes.

“—we make love.”

“I’m not beautiful.”

“You’ll do.”

I raise my head as if her mouth is the lowest of a bunch of grapes dangling above me and we kiss gently. It is very pleasant that kiss, so we do it again, putting a little more feeling into it. Her back is warm and I dust the sand from it, pulling her down so that we are lying side by side and I can smell her hair and run my tongue along her eyelids. She tugs at my T-shirt and starts to knead the flesh around my waist.

“Ouch,” I say. “That hurts.”

“You look as if you can take it.”

Her hand moves smoothly down to my thigh and she pushes it up the leg of my shorts.

She is biting her lip just as she was when we were watching Grunwald and the girls.

“That’s nice,” she says. “Oh, that is nice.”

And quick as a flash she rolls away, arches her back and slips down her bikini bottom. I don’t have time to help, she does it so fast. I kick off my sandals and do the same and her hand comes back immediately, inquisitive and greedy.

“Take off your shirt,” she hisses. “I want to look at all of you.”

By the time I have pulled it over my head, she has shaken off her bra and starts running her fingers over me and darting her mouth down so that her kisses fall on me like isolated drops of rain heralding a storm. Her head taxis down my body and—o-o-o-o-o-h! I dig my hands into the sand and screw up my eyes against the sunlight and the ecstasy.

Far above me through the haze I can see a man standing on the rocks watching us. He has a beard and a hairy chest and a fat hairy belly and he is naked. The expression on his face could be a smile. Grunwald. O-o-o-o-h!! Good luck to him. I close my eyes momentarily and draw Marcia’s quivering body underneath my own.

“Go on! Please, please, please!!” The muscles on her face are twitching and quivering and her mouth hangs open as if about to bite into an apple.

“Go on.”

I don’t look up at the rocks. I rise up above Marcia’s shuddering body, shrug off her unnecessary fingers and dive into her as if from ten thousand feet. At a moment like this, I wouldn’t care if Grunwald was up there selling tickets.