by Joan Ellis
Wisely, she chooses not to respond, just glances at her watch.
‘We should be there in about two hours. So sit back and enjoy the ride.’
‘Bet you go like a train!’ yells one of the lads. Jill shoots him a look and goes downstairs.
As we head south, Wally takes the opportunity to make a fast buck by opening a book on our final destination with a five-star health farm being odds-on favourite and a French Chateau the rank outsider at 100 to 1.
Josh is laughing loudly at something Peter has just whispered to him. Chloe has closed her eyes and is listening to her Walkman. I notice Peter’s hand gently brush against her hair as he holds onto the back of her seat. David turns to glare at him.
Wally nods off. Not sure how he managed that given Darren and the boys haven’t stopped shouting. One of them pulls his trousers down and moons at a woman who works in accounts. She tells him to put it away before discussing a recipe for coq au vin with the girl sitting next to her.
I am just happy to be here, away from it all. Try as I might, my mind rewinds to Tom and I torture myself with memories of the happier days. I feel so alone, so singular. Making love to him made me feel loved. And he was my Guardian Angel when Peter put me through hell. Now I wonder where the devil is sleeping now. And who with. Perhaps his fans are forming an orderly queue outside a Photo-Me-Booth. I can’t help picturing what they might be getting up to inside. Flash! Bang! Wallop!
I must move on. Just like Mum did eventually. She never wanted to walk away from Dad but she did it to protect me.
‘I had to leave, for your sake. If it wasn’t for you, I would still be with him,’ she would tell me wistfully.
I was never sure if she was blaming me or grateful for the excuse. I have a sneaky suspicion it was the former. She never remarried. I wish she had found someone to love her and make her happy. When I was older, I encouraged her to go on dates but she was having none of it.
‘I still love your father. It wouldn’t be fair on another man,’ she would say her face turned to the wall.
I am not going to be like her. I want to be happy. I deserve to be happy.
I join in the singsong started by the boys on the back row. Joy is contagious. I am smiling. Someone downstairs starts singing Boy George hits and we all join in with the opening lines and the chorus. I break a couple of squares off the bar of chocolate I bought and foolishly hand the rest around. I never see it again. I wish Adam was here, he’d have brought a hamper.
Once the novelty of being on a London bus outside of London wears off, a few people start moaning about how rickety and uncomfortable it is. We get stuck in traffic and the journey takes longer than expected. Thanks to the bottle of whiskey being passed around, spirits are high. Three toilet stops and one sick bag incident later, the bus pulls off the road and we head towards a sumptuous-looking country hotel set in its own grounds. We slow down at the large wrought iron gates and we all get up, expectantly.
‘Sit down, please. We’re not quite there yet,’ Jill tells us.
We don’t have long to wait before we arrive at our destination.
‘No way!’ exclaims Josh as the bus pulls up outside a desolate compound, fenced with barbed wire. ‘You can’t seriously expect me to stay here. It’s a holiday camp with chalets, bingo and third-rate entertainment.’
‘Don’t be a knob,’ shouts Darren.
‘Did you just call me a ‘knob’?’ asks Josh.
‘No, a ‘snob’,’ lies Darren.
Poor Josh. His annual holidays in Provence, filled with vineyards and olive groves, are a long way from a packet of crisps and a pint of lager. I can’t wait to see him in the knobbly knees competition. With those legs, he’ll walk it.
We all file slowly downstairs. Darren and the rest of the boys are laughing, convinced this is one big rouse and we’ll soon be whisked us off to a five-star resort. The less inebriated know this is it and stand on the pavement like refugees with their luggage littered at their feet. Jill herds the stragglers off the bus like a crazed sheep dog. Dressed from head to toe in a pink gingham playsuit, she is embracing the 1950’s holiday camp vibe. Turns out her mother is quite the entrepreneur, having had the foresight to spot the trend for retro and snapping up a job lot of dilapidated holiday camps at auction five years ago. I should never have put Jill in charge. I should’ve smelt a rat when she insisted on keeping her plans a secret. Obviously, anyone who washes her pants at work is more knicker-drawer than top-drawer. It may be eighty degrees in the shade but no amount of sunshine can brighten this day. The only way things can get any worse, would be for Tom Tyler to top the bill tonight. It’s just the sort of seedy hole he would feel at home in.
‘Bagsy, the one with a double bed. Girls, form an orderly queue,’ shouts Darren running towards the chalets.
He cuts a lonely figure sprinting across the concourse.
Peter descends from the top deck, looking bilious. I can only guess what chaos his chakras must be in without access to his herbalist, nutritionist and therapist. He looks like he wants to kill me. Or pay someone else to – after all, he wouldn’t want my blood on his new shirt.
‘What the hell?’ he exclaims when he sees the full extent of Jill’s mother’s pathetic property portfolio.
‘Peter, please not in front of the children,’ I tell him indicating the kids from the campsite who have gathered to gawp open-mouthed at his linen suit and Panama hat.
‘This is a fiasco. If we must be detained in this hell-hole we should’ve insisted on exclusive occupancy.’
He indicates an over-weight sun-burnt woman lounging on the grass eating ice-cream and chips. In the same mouthful. At least she’ll be spared his advances.
Jill calls Darren back, and armed with a clip-board allocates the chalets. Some people are delighted with their house-mates especially as Jill has decided to have a bit of fun and mixed girls and boys. I will be sticking to my single bed and wearing two pairs of pyjamas, just in case Peter decides this is the time to consummate our Little Arrangement. Others are equally shocked at the prospect of their prospective partners and start trading. Darren opens the bidding.
‘You can have Wally if I can have Jill.’
Poor old Wally, no-one wants him snoring in their chalet.
‘Wally can share with me if he wants,’ I tell Jill.
‘Eh, Wally, Ella wants you bad,’ leers Darren.
‘I should be so lucky,’ replies Wally.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and carry Wally’s case to our chalet, number 41. It’s pure nostalgia with candlewick bedspreads and linoleum flooring. There’s even a patch of green mould inching up the wall.
‘You take the big room, Wally. I’ll have the small one. And no funny business; I’ve got my eye on you,’ I tell him with a wink.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it; you’re practically a married woman.’
‘Not any more, Wal,’ I tell him heaving his bag onto the bed.
‘You told him to clear off? Good girl, you’re learning.’
‘Yeah, he …’
I stop myself. Wally doesn’t need to know about me finding the condom.
‘You were right, Wal. And to think I was going to let him move in.’ Wally shudders and shakes his head.
‘Narrow escape, if you ask me, young ‘un. You won’t make that mistake again. Forget all about him and enjoy the weekend,’ he says taking a handful of coins from his pocket. ‘Just nipping to the phone box to ring the wife and let her know I got ‘ere safe.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ I say, running after him, before remembering I have no-one to call. ‘I can just get the lay of the land.’
The man in the call-box has settled in for the afternoon. Every three minutes he takes a coin from the tower he has piled on top of the telephone directories and pushes it into the slot. When Wally bangs impatiently on the glass, he turns away. Eventually, he replaces the receiver and we move forward in anticipation. Then the phone rings, he picks it up and carries on his con
versation. When he finally hangs up, Wally steps inside only to emerge moments later, crestfallen.
‘She must be out getting her hair done. I’ll try again later. Just nipping to the loo – too much tea on the bus,’ he says, heading for the toilet block.
Don’t know why he didn’t just save himself the trouble and go in the telephone box. Everyone else does. When I was younger my friends would tell me about fortnights spent with their parents at places like this. Beauty competitions, swimming pools and nightly cabaret shows, it sounded like holiday heaven. But this place is hell and now boasts its very own devil in residence. Peter.
Now he staggers towards me looking angry.
‘Give me a hand with my bags. This heat is very debilitating,’ he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and nods at his set of matching, monogrammed luggage.
‘Have you really been hanging about, all this time, in the hope someone would carry your cases?’ I ask.
‘Is this dick-head with you?’ asks a well-built man, holding a small boy by the hand and pointing at Peter.
‘Why?’ I ask guardedly.
‘He just offered my kid fifty pence to carry his bags to his chalet. Is he some sort of pervert? You can tell him from me, if I see him anywhere near my family again, I’ll ‘ave him.’
‘Sorry,’ I say.
I help Peter carry his stuff. Typically, he has pulled rank with Jill and got a chalet all to himself. The door is the only one painted a putrid shade of orange. He fiddles with the handle.
‘You turn it and I’ll push. No, not that way; turn it to the right, you fool. Oh, get out of the way and let me do it.’
He twists the knob as he shoulders the door. It flies open to reveal the interior in all its faded glory, a bed covered in a nylon counterpane and a faded rug on the floor.
‘Wow, this is perfect for our Little Arrangement, isn’t it, Ella? And the fact we’re playing away from home adds a certain frisson.’
He can’t imagine I would ever sleep with him, let alone in this room.
‘Just going to freshen up. Make yourself comfortable,’ he calls from the bathroom.
I slip out and wander across the camp-site. Children are leaping in the swimming pool as their parents sit limply in deck-chairs, sunning themselves. The place feels tired but everyone looks happy enough.
When I eventually arrive back at my chalet, Wally is soaking his false teeth in a mug on his bedside cabinet. His new blue flannel sits on the side of the washbasin, next to a fresh bar of soap and his dressing gown hangs on the hook behind the door. He puts his teeth back in to talk to me.
‘My things are in the top drawer. You can have the bottom two. I know what you girls are like - pack for a fortnight when you’re only away a couple of days.’
‘Wally, that’s very kind of you but I won’t be offended if you’d rather share with a bloke.’
‘Why would I wanna do that? I’m old, not stupid,’ he says with a smile.
‘I know. But it would be a shame to ruin a beautiful friendship for one night of unbridled passion, wouldn’t it?’ I say my tongue firmly in my cheek.
‘You’re right,’ he says, playing along. ‘Don’t want to make Adam jealous.’
‘Adam?’ I ask taken aback.
‘Yeah, I remember when you’d only just joined the agency and I used to catch the pair of you laughing in the kitchen when everyone else had gone home, polishing off the biscuits meant for the boardroom. Good job he left when he did or you’d have never got any work done.’
‘Once we ate a buffet they’d prepared for a client lunch. Luckily, no-one knew it was us.’
‘I did,’ he said with a wink. ‘And it was the pair of you what had the chocolate samples meant for the research groups. You two are made for each other.’
‘Don’t be daft, Wal. Besides. He’s got a girlfriend.’
‘Like you had a boyfriend, y’mean?’
Before I can reply, Wally goes into the bathroom and locks the door behind him. I hear him whistling to try to muffle the sound of him peeing.
I sit on my narrow bed, wondering where Adam is now. Wherever it is it must be better than my panoramic view of the car park. Now, I understand how Jill got such a great deal. The camp needs renovating. Our chalets don’t look like they’ve been touched in the thirty years since they were built. I am startled by Jill’s voice on the tannoy. I get up and go outside.
‘Welcome CBA-campers. This is Jill, your Event Co-ordinator bringing you your weekend programme. Bingo starts this afternoon at 3.30. Dinner is at 6 followed by Marvellous Michael and his Magic Monkey at 8. Then, it’s the disco at 9. Tomorrow, starts with keep fit on the beach at 10. Then there are mystery activities followed by prize-giving. Now, make
yourselves at home. Lunch is being served in the canteen. Have a great weekend.’
Just as I am trying to decide whether or not I like the new-improved Jill, I spot David walking past.
‘Hi, David.’
He quickens his pace, I run to catch him up, then trot beside him and try to make conversation.
‘Poor Peter looked like he was going to have a heart attack when he saw the campsite. Not exactly the South of France, is it?
He stops abruptly and looks at me.
‘Why am I here?’
‘That’s a bit deep, Dave,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood.
‘What use is a team-building exercise to me? I’ve got no future at the agency, thanks to you.’
‘You’re a designer. A brilliant designer. I’ve had a word with Darren in the studio and he’s promised to keep you in mind if anything comes up.’
His breath smells of alcohol, he must have started drinking on the bus.
‘Haven’t seen much of Chloe, is she enjoying herself?’ I ask. He speeds up. I take the hint.
‘Good. Well, I must find Jill. See you later,’ I say.
I’ve walked further than I realised. All the chalets look identical. I’m lost. I remember the number because it’s the same as my old house, number forty-one. I find myself outside Peter’s chalet again. I recognise the orange door. The curtains are drawn which is odd. It’s the middle of the afternoon. Perhaps he wants to shut out the horror of his surroundings – Peter doesn’t do working-class. If he’s relaxing after his shower, on that
nylon counterpane, I hope he’s dried himself properly and is not creating too much friction. I’d hate for him to get a shock from all that static electricity. Then I hear a woman laugh. Peter must be showing her his chakras.
When I finally find my chalet, Wally is waiting, washed, dressed and ready to party. He smells of soap and his wispy hair is combed neatly over his head.
‘Hurry up, young ‘un. Bingo starts in five minutes.’
I had hoped to miss the Two Fat Ladies but Wally is keen to look them up. He takes me by the arm and propels me out of the door.
The hall is empty except for an elderly woman with a middle-aged man who looks like she spat him out. Mother and son sport identical blonde curly perms.
‘Wally, this is awful, can we go?’ I whisper as I am handed a book of cards and a pen.
‘Stick with me. We’ll have a laugh.’
Gradually, the seats fill up. Everyone seems to take what is laughingly called a ‘game’ of bingo very seriously. I giggle when the caller says
‘Legs Eleven’. It’s a cliché but I’ve never heard it used in context before. At first I leap up and shout ‘Bingo!’ whenever I hear one of my numbers but thanks to the helpful tut-tutting of the other players I learn to button it. Thank goodness Alan Ferguson didn’t come. I can’t imagine Mr Cool with this lot. Wally certainly knows his way around the card. He calls ‘House’ so often he’ll own half of Soho before the night’s out. He wins the last game on number 13, unlucky for some. But not for him.
‘Wish the wife was ‘ere, she’d love all this. I better give her another ring. I can afford a nice long call with me winnings. Coming, young ‘un? ’
I stand outside an
d watch as Wally dials the number. His wife must have picked up straight away because he is beaming. I realise I’m intruding and turn away. Couples arm in arm and big, happy families go about their perfect lives. Right now, it’s hard to imagine that will ever be me. My mum has always worried I would never settle down because I come from a ‘broken home’ as she calls it. But I can’t blame the present on the past. It’s up to me to create my own, one built on love and respect.
‘What d’you fancy for dinner later?’ asks Wally bursting out of the phone box like a short, balding Clark Kent. ‘You must be hungry you only had them couple of bits of chocolate on the bus. I’m having meat-pie and chips but not too many, gotta watch me ticker.’