Читать книгу The Confessions Collection - Rosie Dixon, Timothy Lea - Страница 45

I can never look at a fish without wincing after that and I wish I could say that the fruits of my sacrifice were reflected in an upsurge in the sex life of the camp as a whole.

Unfortunately this is not the case and when I next see Sid he is sitting in his office clutching an airmail letter in the hand that is not clapped to his forehead.

“Look at this,” he says. “We’re in the shit now.”

When he says “we” I realise that things must be serious. “We” is a clear sign that Sid is preparing to spread the load.

I read the letter which is from Sir Giles and says that he is planning to visit the island in the next few days and “personally solicit a reaction to the standard and extent of the amenities provided”.

“You have got a problem, Sid,” I say, “but don’t worry, we’ve killed most of the lice.”

“Mosquitoes, not lice, you twit!” screeches Sid. “How many times do I have to tell you? There are no lice, bed bugs or ticks on this island, except those brought by the customers. Now don’t forget it.”

“Sorry, Sid. Well, the food then. The cases of food poisoning have dropped dramatically in the last few days.”

“There you go again,” rants Sid. “Sunstroke, that’s what it is. People stay out in the sun too long and then they blame the food when they don’t feel well. You eat the food and you’re alright.”

“Yeah, but after Mum’s cooking I’ve built up an immunity to anything. Alright, so everything’s perfect, so what are you worrying about?”

“I’m worried because they are not inter-acting. If they are not inter-acting, they are not having a good time. And if they are not having a good time they are going to start whining about everything when Slat gets here.”

“I don’t reckon the British are ready for a place like this. They’re such bloody hypocrites they can only enjoy it if they’re doing it on the quiet. Tell ’em to come out in the open and get on with it and they don’t want to know.”

“What about that monster gang-bang at Melody Bay?”

“They were all pissed and they were being told what to do. It was like bingo or community singing. Give ’em a lead and they’re alright. That’s what I’ve been meaning to say to you for a long time now. This place is too free and easy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if we organised some kind of game or activity which gave them a chance to get on the job even though that wasn’t the main purpose of it, I reckon they’d be more likely to respond.”

“Yeah, you might have a point there. ‘Hide and seek’ through the huts, that kind of thing?”

“Exactly. Bit talking of huts reminds me. You’ll have to keep Dad away from Sir Giles. You’ll never get him to play ball.”

“No. The miserable old sod will shop the lot of us. And then there’s that bleeder Grunwald – running about somewhere. Oh my Gawd, we might as well knot ourselves.”

“You mean you might as well knot yourself, and Ted maybe. I’m just a humble employee remember.”

“That’s right. Wait till I’m down then start putting the boot in.”

“Pull yourself together, Sid, we’re—I mean you’re not done for yet. If we give Dad enough booze we can keep him in his hut till his post war credits come up. As for Grunwald, I reckon he’s probably tried to swim back home to Blighty. Nobody’s seen him for weeks.”

“Bloody kraut. We should never have employed him in the first place. They’re all the same, you can’t trust one of them. That bleeding wop yodler is another one. I’ll swing for him before I’m much older.”

It is obvious that poor old Sid is cracking up fast and I seek to introduce a more positive note into the conversation.

“Let’s try something tonight,” I say. “While they’re all at supper, I’ll hide a piece of paper with a letter of the alphabet on it in each of the huts. The person that can produce the longest word by collecting the most pieces of paper will be the winner. We can announce it during supper.”

“It sounds bloody complicated to me. Supposing they just had to bring back a pair of knickers?”

“No, Sid! That’s too obvious. I’ve been trying to tell you. What we want to do is slip it in casually – that’s what they want to do, too.”

“Oh, have it your own way. I can’t think straight any more. If your idea gets them whizzing round the huts it might get us somewhere I suppose.”

In fact the idea is a success beyond my weirdest dreams. The customers all perk up when they are told there is going to be fun and games, and they charge off up the hill to a man, many of them without waiting for their coffee. This is a disappointment because coffee is an “extra” but you can’t have everything. The winning word “squelch” comes up three hours later from a very dishevelled blonde and the dance floor of the Candlelight Casino is full for the first time I can remember. I organise a couple of spot waltzes and a hokey cokey and the customers are practically sobbing their gratitude.

Sidney slides off early saying that he must get some sleep, and maybe it is as well that he does because Rosie’s demented passion for Italy’s answer to Tom Jones is horrible to see. She sits there in her turquoise crimplene, hugging her rum and coke to her not insignificant bosom and sending him messages with her eyes which need to be read through dark glasses.

“She’s got the hots for him alright, hasn’t she?” says Ted at my elbow. “What are we going to do about it?”

“Mind your language,” I say, “that’s my sister, remember. I’m not certain I want to do anything. She’s a big girl now.”

“Yeah, but remember what Sidney said.”

“Oh stop flapping. Just because you’re senior cringer it doesn’t mean you have to run along behind Sid with a roll of bog paper. You’ve been a real pain ever since you tasted power.”

“It’s alright for you to go on like that. You’re his brother-in-law. You’re fireproof, whatever happens.”

Pathetic, isn’t it? You can see we are all on edge. The entertainments business is murder on your nerves, I can tell you.

“Belt up, will you? Look, they’re dancing.”

“Blimey! He’s holding her close isn’t he? She’s practically out the other side of him.”

“I want to hear what they’re saying. We’d better dance.”

“It’s going to look a bit conspicuous, isn’t it?”

“Not with each other, you berk!”

I grab some grateful bird and steer her out into the middle of the sweaty darkness to where Ricci and Rosie are locked in each other’s arms and totally unaware of the existence of anyone else. Ricci’s liver lips are an inch away from Rosie’s lughole and he is making with the honeyed words as usual.

“Cara mia,” he yuks. “I toucha you and I am inflatable. My body bursts with love. I wanta to kiss your little pink toes, to nobble your finger tips, to do everything to you that a man can do to the body of the woman he loves.”

And he dives on her mouth so that for a moment I think he is trying to swallow her head. Blimey but it is torrid – horrid too.

Eventually he has to come up for air and they separate with a noise like someone unstopping a blocked up sink.

“My darleeng,” he breathes. “I am very much enamelled with you. I musta maka lova to you. Eeza impossible to wait. I am a volcano. I pour all over you.”

He is pawing all over her alright. Good job Sid is not a finger-print expert.

“But my husband,” says Rosie unconvincingly.

“Where eeza he? He does not lova you like me. He cannot lova you like me. I am fire and he is water. Come to my hut. You must. You must.”

“But—”

“No! Do not but me. Come, say nothing. Come.”

And before you can say “Anthony Cheetham” he has taken her by the hand and is pounding towards the sign marked “Egxit”.

Without quite knowing what I am doing I dump my surprised partner and spring after them. I don’t really give a monkey about Sidney’s feelings but on the other hand I don’t trust Hairy further than I can throw him, and after all, he is a wop, isn’t he? I mean, it is not as if he was one of our blokes.

I follow about twenty yards behind and have to stop every few minutes while they go into another clinch. They just don’t care do they? God help them if Sidney pops out to water the cactus.

I have a vague idea of where Ricci’s hut is from when I left the pieces of paper for the game. As I recall it, the pong of the muck he uses on his hair was stronger than that of the disinfectant.

Love’s young nightmare has just moved through the first row of huts and I am about to follow when suddenly there is a terrible scream from just beside me and a fat woman wearing curlers and nothing else shoots out of a hut.

“Ooh, you pig,” she yells. “You filthy, dirty old man.”

Somehow, I know what I am going to see even before I look into the hut. Dad standing there in his socks and his plastic mac, looking confused.

“I thought it was the piss-house,” he says in a slightly narky voice. “They all look the same to me. I said I was sorry. That ugly old slag doesn’t think I was trying to come it with her, does she? I’m not that bleeding desperate.”

The ugly old slag starts to scream twice as loud after that and I can see that I have another problem on my hands. Dad’s breath smells strongly of the medicine we have been giving him and he is well pissed.

“I know this old man,” I say. “He’s quite harmless, really. I think he’s a bit overtired and made a genuine mistake.”

“Dirty old devil. Do you know what he did?”

“He hasn’t been very well lately. Now, please try and calm yourself. Shouting won’t do any good. I’ll get him to bed and come back to help tidy up.”

“You want to watch it if you do, son,” says Dad. “There’s a merry widow there, mark my words. You’re just what she’s looking for. A young, fit man to gratify her disgusting old body.”

“I’m not standing for that,” shouts Lady Shagnasty. “I’m going to report this whole incident to the camp authorities.”

“You do and I’ll say you invited me in to your hut,” leers Dad. “I’ll say you begged me to do a tinkle so you could watch.”

“O-o-oh!!”

Somehow, I manage to drag the dirty old sod away and I am half wondering whether it really was an accident by the time I get him back to his hut. There is no sign of Mum and I am about to ask where she is when she comes through the door opening.

“Thank God you’re back, Mum—” I begin, and then I stop. Mum is looking quite incredible. About ten years younger and with an “over the hills and faraway” expression in her eyes. She is wearing no make-up and seems to be in some kind of trance.

“Mum,” I say quietly. “Mum, are you alright?”

“What dear?” She looks at Dad and me as if she has only just seen us. “Yes, dear. What is it?”

“You’d better be prepared for a few cold looks tomorrow morning. Dad went out to the toilet and blundered into some woman’s hut by mistake.”

I wait for the explosion but Mum just smiles and pats Dad absentmindedly on the head.

“That’s alright, dear,” she says calmly. “We all make mistakes. You’re back now.” And that is all. I go out into the night wondering what has happened to Mum. What a pity Norman and Henry Bones the boy detectives are not with us.

But, fascinated as I am by Mum, I now have to turn my attention back to Ricci and Rosie, the star-crossed lovers of Isla de Amor. I pad through the huts hearing the occasional naughty noise seeping out of the thatch until I come to a hut with an Eyetie pennant hung over the doorway. Am I too late to save a fair English rose from a fate worse than National Health glasses?

“Oh, Ricci, angel, that was fantastic,” gasps an exhausted and familiar voice. “Do it again, pl-e-e-ase!”

By the cringe, I think, as I stride swiftly away into the darkness. The Leas are really getting amongst it tonight.

The next morning finds me in Sidney’s office, but I am listening not squealing. An unhealthy shade of grey is breaking through our leader’s sun tan and he is brandishing a telegram.

“This afternoon,” he groans, “he’s coming this afternoon with the next intake. In the coach. He says he wants to be treated like an ordinary holidaymaker.”

“Taking his life in his hands, isn’t he?” I say in my normal jokey fashion.

“Piss off,” says Sidney wearily. “Don’t start being funny at this time of the morning. What are we going to do?”

“I thought you’d never ask. We’re going to have a Fasching.”

“A what?”

“A Fasching. It’s a kraut idea Ted told me about. They have a big carnival just before they give everything up for Lent. They all get pissed and have it away with each other’s wives.”

“You mean like New Year’s Eve?”

“Yeah. Only on a much bigger scale.”

“I didn’t know the Germans went in for that kind of thing.”

“Oh yes. They’re very hot on it. They like getting pissed and the rest comes naturally.”

“But is it going to work here?”

“I reckon we’ve got a good chance. You see it’s all very organised. Everybody dresses up and they have parades and beauty queens and all that kind of palava. Just like the Funfrall Camps back home. You saw how well it went last night when we got ’em a bit organised – well, you didn’t see all of it.”

“No, I slept really well last night. Out like a light when my head touched the pillow.”

“Good. I’m glad about that. Now, you see, I believe, if we lay on the booze and get back to basic principles, we could get ’em all going a treat. They were beginning to warm up last night.”

“What are we going to do for fancy dress?”

“I’ve thought about that. We’ll turn it into a South Sea Island caper. That way, they can all wear grass skirts. That should give them a few ideas. You remember that party at Maisie Simpson’s?”

“Oh yes. When her grass skirt got caught in the electric fan? That started things off alright, didn’t it?”

“Not half! I reckon if we call it a Polynesian Carnival Barbecue and elect a Carnival Queen—”

“What are we going to barbecue?”

“Some of those bloody goats.”

“Marvellous! I really think you’ve got something there, Timmo. So we’re not going to call it a Flushing?”

“Fasching! No, it doesn’t sound right, does it? And if they think it’s anything to do with the Krauts they won’t fancy it, either. It’s just the general idea we’re borrowing.”

“Great, Timmo, great. We’ll tidy up the details this morning and announce it at dinner time. Then, when Slat gets here, they’ll all be running about happily getting ready for the big night. I won’t forget this, Timmy.”

“Don’t thank me, too soon. It may not be a success.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Timmo, I can smell this one. It’s going to go like a bleeding forest fire.”

I remember those words later on, but at the time I just shuffle my feet and look modest.

When I eventually get back to my room it is to find one of the Angelos del Sole pressing my trousers. He is doing this with the help of Carmen who is lying beneath him and on top of the mattress which covers my trousers. The bloke snatches up his clobber and dives out of the window with a speed that suggests he gets a lot of practice. Too bad about that cactus, I think as I listen to the screams.

“You, very naughty girl,” I say wiggling my finger at Carmen who is now wearing her sulky expression. “My room no knocking shoppe.”

“He take me by surprise,” pouts Carmen. “You too. Why you worry? You no want me. I no more your little buddy. Once you say you take me to England with you.”

The subject had indeed been aired on one occasion when I was desperate to escape from her crippling embraces. “I make very good au pair girl.”

“More like an ‘oh, what a pair’ girl,” I say, immediately wishing I hadn’t.

“I no understand.”

“It doesn’t matter.” An idea had suddenly occurred to me: supposing—

“Hang on a minute,” I trill.

I go over to the traditional Spanish chest of drawers and kick it until I am in a position to rummage inside. Somewhere I have the Funfrall Continental Brochure. Ah yes.

“Look,” I say taking it over to Carmen. “You see this man. Sir Giles Slat. Him very important man. Him come to island today. If Carmen nice to him, maybe he fix up trip to England.”

“You theenk?” She looks at the mugshot of Sir Giles trying to appear benevolent and trustworthy and licks her lips.

“Oh definitely.”

“How do I do?”

“Well, Carmen,” I say, sitting down on the bed beside her and taking her hand in mine.

“I think you should wait until the carnival this evening and …”

After our little chat Carmen wants to thank me in traditional Spanish style but I don’t really fancy it so soon after spaghetti features and, telling her that there will be plenty of time later, I skate round to the Fooderama. Here Ted is belting out details of the evening’s goodies in true Melody Bay fashion and I can almost hear the adrenalin starting to slurp round the flabby veins. They wolf down their baked jam roll and jet off to make grass skirts as if they were on piece-work. Sidney is exultant and almost back to his old cocky self.

“I think I’ve got everything lined up,” he says. “If everybody does their bit there shouldn’t be any slip-ups.”

“Oh, I’m glad to hear that,” I say. “Don’t forget the whole thing was my idea.”

“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!”