Timothy Lea - Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

“Lug worms!”

“I want to go dancing.”

“Of course you do.”

“I’m not unattractive.”

“Unattractive? You’re beautiful.”

“I only want a little fun.”

“Of course you do.”

“It’s not too much to ask, is it?”

“Of course it isn’t.”

“I’m a woman.”

“You wouldn’t find a man in the world who would disagree with you.”

“Oh! What are you doing?”

“I’m kissing you.”

“I thought that was what you were doing. It’s been so long I’ve almost forgotten.”

“Stand by for a refresher course.”

“Oh-o-oh. Supposing somebody comes?”

“They won’t. You’re beautiful.”

“Oh. But they’ll hear us.”

“There isn’t anyone to hear.”

“Oh, that’s heaven. Oh. Oh-o-oh.”

“Judy! Judy!!”

The last words are, unfortunately, not spoken by me, but by someone approaching the hut fast.

“It’s him,” she squeals. “It’s my husband. Get out!”

But I don’t have time to get out. All I can do is dive under one of the low rush beds – and in my condition it is a pretty uncomfortable dive, I can tell you.

“Judy! Darling where are you? I’ve got something to show you—oh, there you are. Look, have you ever seen anything like that before?”

“No. What is it?”

“I think it’s some kind of sea bream. Fantastic, isn’t it? I got it off those rocks by the bathing beach. Hey, wait a minute. Why haven’t you got any clothes on? Supposing somebody came round?”

“Who’s likely to do that?”

“I don’t know. But I must say, you’re looking awfully attractive, darling. Very attractive indeed.”

“I’m surprised you noticed.”

“Don’t be like that, darling. I’m sorry I’ve been a bit preoccupied lately, but I just knew there was a big one holed up somewhere.”

“Your fishing is more important than me.”

“Not any more, darling. Not any more.”

“Ooh, your hands are cold. And they smell of that fish. Can’t you wait ’til tonight?”

“Not with you looking like that, I can’t. Oh, darling.”

“George.”

“Darling.”

“Oh, George.”

And the next thing I know this bloody ugly fish drops down beside me so it is staring me straight in the eye. George and Judy collapse on to the bed and I am pinned underneath it while they bang away like a couple of vibrating springboards. What a way to spend your lunch hour!

At least I think, as I gaze into the cold, dead eye beside me, and try and massage the crick in my neck, I have helped to bring a little romance into two of our customers’ lives.

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.