Rosie Dixon - Confessions from a Package Tour

‘Penny!’ I trill. ‘What a marvellous surprise. But how did you get here so soon? You’re looking so fresh and relaxed.’

‘I flew to Brussels and got a taxi. It was terribly easy, darling. Did you have a good trip? I hope you don’t mind me saying so but you’re looking a trifle peaky?’

‘Next time, I’ll take the Titanic if there’s a choice,’ groans Mr Betts, dumping a string bag full of baked beans tins on the quayside – Sid and Martha Betts do not trust foreign food.

‘Try not to sound quite so enthusiastic,’ I whisper to Penny. ‘The journey so far has not been a resounding success.’

‘Mine has,’ says Penny. ‘You know how they’re always saying that airline stewards are queer? Well, I can prove differently. Tamberlaine was unbelievable. The minute our eyes met I knew it was something special. The first class was empty so he invited me in for a quick one.’

‘A drink?’ I say.

‘No, darling. Procreation practice. The first time was heaven, but it was when he made me a life member of “The Mile High Club” that sparks really started to fly.’

‘How high was it?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know, darling, but it seemed to be nudging my lower rib sometimes.’

‘I don’t mean that!’ I say, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment rush over me. ‘I meant how high was the plane?’

‘Excuse me,’ interrupts a slightly irritable voice. ‘Are we going to stay here all night? I haven’t slept in a bed since I left home. I don’t think it’s good enough. I came on this holiday because I was run down.’

‘Well, you’re going to be run down again if you stand there,’ says Penny, cheerfully. ‘You’re smack in the middle of the railway track.’

The man skips out of the way as the cattle train pulls out. ‘Look at all those lovely moo cows,’ says Penny. ‘They’ve got such soft faces, haven’t they?’

The man looks as if he is going to say something unpleasant and then controls himself. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much if we’d got off before the cows,’ he grumbles.

‘They don’t have the same passport formalities as us,’ says Penny. ‘Life is much easier if you’re a cow.’

Once again the man opens his mouth and I deem it best to step in hurriedly – not in his mouth, of course.

‘We’ll soon be on our way,’ I say. ‘We’ll just wait for everybody to – er finish.’

It is terrible embarrassing because half the male passengers were in the middle of answering a call of nature behind the train when it pulled out. Now they are all facing us with their little pink front botties waggling in the wind. I turn away and find myself looking through one of the portholes of the Foreskeen . Another of our passengers, Mrs Lapes, is demonstrating that she is prone to other things beside accidents. Her flabby white buttocks rise and fall like a half-collapsed tent agitated by a playful breeze. Beneath her, one of the stokers opens his mouth and delivers himself of a silent scream. Either the porthole glass is too thick or, as seems more likely, the poor devil is too exhausted to raise a sound.

I do hope that these distressing events are not a foretaste of what is to come during the rest of the holiday.

An hour later I am feeling in a much happier frame of mind. Reginald Parkinson has revealed himself as possessing all the qualities of instant decision-making and dynamism that I secretly attributed to him. He has appreciated that ‘the punters’ as he so endearingly calls the paying customers will be feeling ‘a trifle knackered’ as Penny so colourfully puts it, and will be eager to put their heads down – not quite in the same way as was Mrs Lapes when I last dared to look at her, I hope. To this end, he has booked the party in at what I first take to be the Hotel Twerp – I later find that the ‘An’ has fallen off, as has the service, food and one or two other features vital to the efficient running of any hotel.

However, as I stand beside Penny in the reception and watch our charges carrying their bags upstairs while the porters play Dutch auction bridge, such thoughts are far from my mind. ‘All I want is a bath,’ I breathe. ‘I can’t wait to expose myself to those suds.’

‘What sods?’ says Penny, sounding interested. ‘Did you pick up some sailors on your trip? Nice going, you can’t beat a jolly jack –’

‘I said “suds”!’ I say. ‘I’m talking about a bath. That’s the only thing I’m interested in.’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Penny. ‘It’s your quaint accent. I find you very difficult to understand sometimes.’

I am feeling rather bitter towards Penny because of the cushy trip she has had out here, and this high-handed remark does nothing to improve my mood. Penny is very nice but she can be rather thoughtless sometimes. If you are born with a silver spoon in your mouth it can be uncomfortable for other people beside your mother.

‘What rooms do we have?’ asks Penny.

‘You?’ says the man behind the desk sounding surprised. ‘I am very sorry but we do not have any more rooms. They have all been taken by your party.’ He says something to one of the porters at the card table who shakes his head. ‘I had hoped that the Royal Suite might be vacant but they have not finished fumigating it yet. We had one of your famous British pop gropes here.’

‘Excuse me,’ I say, suppressing a smile. ‘I think you mean “group” not “grope”.’

‘You did not see them,’ says the man, shaking his head. ‘Many of the older people had not experienced anything like it since the British Army liberated the town.’

‘How historical,’ I say. ‘What do you suggest we do about finding accommodation?’

The man shrugs. ‘There are some hotels down by the docks. They are not so luxurious as this, but…’ his voice trails away as we watch another guest leaving the dining room on a stretcher.

‘I tell you what,’ says Penny. ‘Your need is greater than mine – at least, in some ways it is. You go off and find a hotel and I’ll finish tidying up here. You don’t know the Belgian for “stomach pump”, do you?’