Timothy Lea - Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

The female presence, apart from Mrs Caitley, is virtually non-existent and I, for one, am grateful. When you look around you it is easy to see why chefs are usually men–big, strong men. It is a tribute to Mrs Caitley’s muscle power that she can wield any authority at all and still have enough strength left for her marathon hassle with Mr ‘Superpoof’ Bentley–that is the name of the maitre d’hotel, or head waiter to you and me. Normally, the chef de cuisine has total authority over the choice and preparation of meals and Mr B. is pushing his luck in trying to get in on the act.

That is another thing you soon learn when you work in a hotel. Everybody is ‘Mr This’ and ‘Mr That’. There is none of the informality that used to prevail at the holiday camp. This is presumably because everybody in the business seems to have worked their way up from the bottom and is very jealous of preserving their status.

And talking of working your way up from the bottom, I have never seen so many concrete parachutes in my life. I have nothing against queers, except the toe of my boot if they become too persistent, but really! After peeling millions of potatoes and scraping blackened cooking pots in a temperature of over a hundred degrees, and in an atmosphere so steamy that you can hardly see the dripping walls, the last thing you fancy is being touched up by some joker as you bend over to sluice your greens.

My dismissal to the kitchen does at least help my relationship with June and Audrey. Like everyone else on the staff, they trust me less than a Vietnamese threepenny bit but at least when they see me crawling along the corridors towards my new room–yes, Sid has moved into the management suite and I have been relegated to the ‘Penthouse Club’ or attic, as it is also known–they realise that being a nark is not all easy sailing.

‘Trying a bit of work for a change, are you?’ says June, as we bump into each other on my first evening.

‘Don’t be like that. I’m knackered.’

She is all tarted up and obviously about to grab a bit of the gay night life that Hoverton has to offer before it closes down at half past nine.

‘Why aren’t you downstairs with your mate?’

‘You ask him that. He wants me to learn the ropes. At the moment I feel like hanging myself with one of them.’

‘It’s not nice down there, is it?’ says June with a hint of sympathy creeping into her voice. ‘You have to be careful when you come out into the cold. It’s easy to catch a chill.’

‘I’ll remember that. Where are you going?’

‘They have a dance down at the Pier on Fridays. Do you fancy coming?’

‘I’m not much of a dancer at the best of times and tonight I couldn’t stand up for the national anthem. Thanks anyway. Another time.’

‘You sure you’re all right?’

‘Oh yes. Just fagged out, that’s all.’

I let myself into my room and notice her registering its number.

‘I’ll see you later,’ she says. ‘Bring you a little surprise. Who are you sharing with?’

‘Nobody at the moment. I think the bloke is on holiday or evaporated.’

‘Oh.’ Her face lights up. ‘See you.’

She trips off down the corridor and I peel off my clobber, have a sluice down in the washbasin and climb on to the bed to listen to the plumbing. It is just like being back at home with the sloping rafters inches from my nose.

I must have drifted off because the next thing I am aware of is a burst of laughter in the corridor and the sound of whispering and giggling right outside my door. I open my eyes as the door knob turns and June and Audrey come in wearing long nightdresses with frills at neck and hem. Very nice too. What is an additional peeper-bonus is the playmate they have brought with them. A coloured girl I have been quietly eyeing since I crossed the threshold. She is wearing a black shortie nightdress and carrying a bottle of brown ale.

‘Have you got an opener?’ she says and all three of them burst into fits of giggles.

‘You had a good evening, did you?’ I say, waking up fast and slipping my hand under the sheets to adjust periscope.

‘We brought you a present,’ says the coloured chick.

‘Which one?’ I say, looking from one to the other of them. More giggles.

‘This is Carmen,’ says Audrey. ‘She said she’d like to meet you.’

‘I never did.’

‘You did.’

‘I never.’

I imagine that Carmen is blushing but it is difficult to tell.

‘Anyhow,’ I say gallantly to cover her embarrassment, ‘the brown ale is for me, is it?’

‘Yes. We thought you needed building up.’ More giggles. If the sheets were transparent, they might change their minds.

‘I’ll have to open it, won’t I? Look the other way, girls.’

I grab a handy towel and drape it around my shapely loins as I slide out of bed. I don’t have an opener but I reckon I can knock the top off on the edge of the table–that and a few other things.

‘Hold this penny, luv.’

Carmen leans forward and I get an eyeful of lovely dusky knocker. Colour problem? You must be joking! It would be no problem for me, I can tell you. I hook the bottle top over the edge of the coin and give it a hard bash with my fist. Hard enough, anyway, to drive it down on to my bare toe. I scream loudly and drop the towel whereupon it is the girls’ turn to scream loudly. I don’t know what they are making all the fuss about. They have probably seen better and they must have seen worse.

‘Press down on the coin this time. OK, luv?’

Carmen nods and her face is a study in concentration as the mighty Lea fist is raised again. This time I give it a right belt and the top flies off–no trouble. Unfortunately it has become resentful of the treatment dished out to it and promptly discharges its contents over Carmen’s shorty nightdress. The poor bird is soaked to her lovely skin and when the flimsy material sticks to her it becomes transparent. No wonder that in all the excitement my towel falls off again. Hey ho, some things were clearly meant to be, eh? I slip my arm around Carmen’s waist and raise one and a half inches of brown froth to my lips.

‘Cheers, girls, thanks a lot. That was a very nice gesture. Now, what can I do for you?’

A diabolically stupid question you may well say, but I am a great one for observing the niceties. A tidal wave of female flesh bears me back on to the bed which promptly collapses under the strain. I don’t know what these birds have been drinking but it sure beats the hell out of diluted yogurt. None of them are slow starters but this jungle bunny Carmen climbs over me like I am a commando training course closely followed by the other two in flying T formation. I am fighting for sexual survival as I try to work out what I should be doing to which. In the end I give up and have a stab at anything that is moving. And, dear readers, there is a lot moving. Luckily my experiences with Nat and Nan have taught me the basic rudiments–and I do mean rudeiments! If there was going to be an action replay you would need about fourteen cameras to capture all the detail. And the noise. Oh, my God, the noise! That must be what attracts Miss Primstone. I get my head up just in time to see her turning into a great black prune in the doorway.

‘Urgh!’ she says. ‘Urgh!’ The noise is rather like a dog growling through a bone it is worrying. ‘I am going to report this disgusting behaviour to the management.’

She is just like the two old bags on the train because she shows no sign of going away but stands there drinking in the monstrous depravity and loving every moment.

‘I’m going to get on top of him now,’ says Carmen. ‘Do you want to watch that?’

Only then does the door close and Carmen makes good her threat–or promise, depending on which way you look at it. It is all good, clean, healthy fun in the modern tradition but I don’t think that Miss Primstone has nipped off to tell her diary about it. As Carmen gently rises and falls across my hips I can imagine the tales that are now being borne along the corridors of power. Reinforcements will soon be on their way.