You Did Say Have Another Sausage

by John Meadows

  As I watched, mesmerised, for giant metallic spiders to appear over the treetops, David explained matter-of-factly, “It’s the Northern Lights... Aurora Borealis.” He went on to explain to the boys, and to me, that it was a phenomenon caused by solar wind interacting with the Earth’s magnetic field to produce such a dramatic light show. Magical!

  I am no expert in meteorological conditions, so I don’t know if there was any connection between the appearance of the Northern Lights and the dramatic change of weather the following evening. As we were washing up after the evening barbeque, the starry night gave way to cloud cover as if someone had pulled a duvet across the sky.

  “Uh oh,” exclaimed Ricky, “I just felt a couple of drops of rain,” as he held his hand out.

  “It looks as though the shelters are going to be tested,” answered David.

  Prophetic words indeed. If the Aurora Borealis was set to music, I would suggest something peaceful and soothing like Mascagni’s ‘Cavelleria Rusticana’ or perhaps ‘Morning’ from Grieg’s ‘Peer Gynt’.

  The following night’s performance was more like Strauss’s ‘Thunder and Lightning Polka’ or the canons from Tchaikovsky’s ‘1812 Overture’. At first it was quite cosy, almost soothing, as we listened to the plinking of raindrops hitting the leaves and bark and then cascading to drain away along our strategically cut channels on the ground. David, Ricky, and I looked at each other with the satisfaction of a job well done, almost pleased that it had started to rain to put our handiwork through its paces. It was all going swimmingly. Perhaps that was the wrong choice of adjective. One or two drops started to find their way through the carefully arranged canopy as we changed our positions and moved sleeping bags out of the way. However, this was merely the overture to the main movement. The percussion section became louder, and the beat became incessant. It was now Ravel’s ‘Bolero’. The kettle drums were now introduced as the thunder actually rattled the branches, and the leaves shook like a tambourine. ‘I hope the lightening conductor of this performance is wearing rubber soles,’ I thought. The rain came down as if a dam had burst above our heads. The rain fell with the force of Tahquamenon Falls, and, inevitably, the roof above our heads caved in. The shelters had been designed and constructed with a tried and tested technique, but nothing to withstand such an onslaught. It was like facing a tsunami in a sailing dingy. It was indeed the aforementioned deluge of Biblical proportions. I had visions of businessmen building rafts on the eighteenth floor from office desks and chairs, hugging each other and bonding, of course. All the huts collapsed simultaneously, and everyone climbed out covered in twigs, mud and foliage, looking more like marine commandos on a camouflage course in the jungles of Borneo. Grotesquely- shaped silhouettes shuffled slowly towards the column of steam that once was the campfire. Dramatic flashes of sheet-lightning lit up this scene of devastation, followed almost immediately by a clap of thunder straight out of the BBC sound-effects library. It was a Hollywood B-movie black and white horror. I expected the next flash of light to pick out the evil presence of Bela Lugosi or Christopher Lee. If any unsuspecting hiker had stumbled upon the scene at that moment, I think we would have had to deal with a case of cardiac arrest. I felt more like a case of Jack Daniels. I delved inside my soggy pockets for the keys to the truck and everyone clambered aboard, discarding their outer layer of foliage along the way. We could hardly see each other as the steam started to rise, and we had to raise our voices to be heard over the noise of the rain hammering the truck.

  “Let’s get out of here,” ordered David. “We’ll have to find some shelter ‘cos this storm looks settled in for the night.”

  With the windscreen wipers thrashing about at battle speed, I drove blindly down the track as the beams of our headlights danced in all directions while we bounced along. It was like driving through a sewer pipe, like the three minis in the movie ‘The Italian Job’. Eventually we literally saw light at the end of the tunnel as we emerged on to the highway. We were on the road to Paradise after emerging from Hell, so I suppose it could be described as purgatory. I felt as though I had just survived a full cycle trapped inside a washing machine. If the windscreen wipers had worked any faster I am sure that the truck would have achieved vertical lift-off, but through the curtain of water we were able to pick out an out-of-focus red neon sign of a motel. It was accompanied by, in that peculiarly American way, a flashing neon yellow arrow pointing below the sign. I suppose it is to reassure passing motorists that the motel is indeed situated below the sign and not at some remote site miles away.

  “We have got a small problem,” said David with supreme understatement as in unison the soggy bedraggled group gave him a questioning ‘What next?’ look. “We haven’t got enough money, cheque book or card to pay a motel bill.”

  I sat there squelching and feeling as though I was developing First World War trench foot, or whatever the anatomical equivalent would be due to drenched underpants, probably something like post-traumatic shrivel. Since it was a case of ‘Hobson’s Choice’, I volunteered to go in and speak to the proprietor. Besides, I needed to stand up to allow excess water, by now quite warm, to drain away inside my now shrunken tight jeans, literally drainpipe trousers. I chose two of the youngest boys to accompany me into the reception lobby in order to play the sympathy card. We ran across the car park to the cover of the porch.

  “Try to look as sad, pathetic and helpless as you can,” I suggested. Their ironic rolling-of-the-eyes spoke volumes.

  We approached the reception looking like survivors of a shipwreck, and the desk clerk looked taken aback as the squelching sounds caused him to look up from watching a portable television on the Formica desk. The lobby was illuminated by a stark, single fluorescent strip light on the ceiling which was covered in yellowing stick-on polystyrene tiles. The walls were covered in varnished pine panels, much like a Swedish sauna, and there were three slightly threadbare armchairs, none of which matched the others. The man behind the reception desk wore a pale blue shirt and dark blue tie, with the motel’s name embroidered on both. He was probably in his mid-forties, with dark straight hair and sharp features which gave the impression of a studious owl. Fortunately the floor was covered in linoleum, no carpets to ruin, and I began by apologising for the pools of water which were forming under our feet.

  “You guys sure look as though you could use a shower,” he said sympathetically with a welcoming smile.

  “I think we have just had one,” I quipped in response.

  “Hey, you’re from England?” said the clerk with that now familiar American cadence, rising towards the end of the sentence.

  “Yes,” I replied gesturing towards the boys, “but these two are American.”

  They gave him a wide-eyed pleading smile. Their forlorn expressions were like two Labrador puppies in a pet shop window. His sympathetic reaction made me feel as though he would react favourably to our predicament, so I explained to him what had happened.

  “Wow, you guys were out in the woods, up by the lake in this weather?” he exclaimed, just as a clap of thunder roared above our heads like a cinema cliché.

  “Unfortunately we are rather impecunious at the moment,” I said, trying to sound as English as possible.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll feel better once you get out of those clothes.”

  “Er, no, what I am trying to say is that we haven’t got any money on us.”

  “Oh, I see,” he said, ominously closing the reservations book with a degree of finality. He was obviously in a dilemma as he stroked his chin, so I used the silence to show him some soggy Maplehurst documentation and assured him that there would be no problem settling the bill. I wasn’t sure if that would be the case, but by now I was thinking on my feet.

  “I can hardly turn you away in this,” he said looking upwards to the sound of rain on the roof tiles while at the same time looking at his wristwatch noting the laten
ess of the hour.

  “That’s very good of you,” I said gratefully, “but there is just one other thing I need to mention.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There are fourteen of us,” I said with a gulp.

  “What?!”

  “They are sitting in the truck.”

  He pulled back the curtain, wiped the window with his hand, and peered across the parking lot. He looked back at me, and shook his head, then towards the boys who flashed him a beaming smile, right on cue.

  “Why do I feel as though I have just been trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey?” he said sardonically.

  I thought it better not to say anymore at that point, like a second-hand car dealer on the verge of a sale.

  He paused for a few moments to stroke his chin again before saying, “Mmm, okay, I think I can help you guys out.”

  All three of us gave a big sigh of relief. I introduced myself with a handshake.

  “Call me Andy,” he said. He provided accommodation for us in an annex building to the main motel which was designed specifically for group bookings such as fishing or hunting parties. It had a central lounge area with adjacent rooms, it was basic log cabin style, but to us it was as luxurious as a 5-star New York hotel with views across Central Park. We were able to shower, dry our clothes, and, even though we had eaten earlier, Andy provided us with slices of pizza. He was a Good Samaritan who saved our lives, or at least saved us from catching pneumonia. Following a restful, warm, dry night’s sleep we were woken by bright sunshine streaming into the lodge. The storm had passed and the clear blue sky had made a welcome return. The colours of the leaves and grass had been intensified by the rain, and the morning sun highlighted an extensive palette of lush verdant greens, turquoises and jade. Following a breakfast of coffee, cereal and bagels, we started to gather together our belongings; ready to return to the lake to collect the equipment, we hoped that the kayaks had not floated to the centre of the lake. I didn’t relish the prospect of swimming out to retrieve them. As the boys loaded the truck, David, Ricky and I went to reception to pick up the bill. After exchanging good morning pleasantries with Andy, David asked if he could use the phone to ring Maplehurst.

  “Before you do that,” answered Andy, “maybe you guys will be interested in my proposal concerning payment.”

  “Go ahead,” said David intrigued.

  He took us to a nearby row of lock-up garages which were packed with a multitude of objects, including furniture, bicycles, washing machines, musical instruments, and sporting equipment, all stacked and piled up haphazardly. The juxtaposition of totally unrelated things was like a Parisian flea market, or a surrealist painting by Renée Magritte. It was Tutankhamen’s tomb meets Steptoe and Son’s yard.

  “I have been intending to clear out this lot for years,” he informed us, and then suggested, “If you guys could do it for me you can earn yourselves a discount.” As we were quite concerned about landing Maplehurst with an unscheduled substantial financial outlay, we all nodded simultaneously.

  All the boys were on the truck waiting to leave as we walked across the car park. Ricky took on the role of Lee Marvin in ‘The Dirty Dozen’ as he ordered, “Okay, everyone out.”

  I fully expected the kind of truculent reaction usually associated with young teenagers when confronted with that dreaded four-letter word... ‘work’, but every one of them readily and cheerily agreed. Obviously they appreciated last night’s accommodation. Andy directed operations as we transferred his worldly possessions to other buildings and a site ready for reclamation collection. We were like an army of worker-ants operating in single file, each carrying whatever came to hand next. The musical score for the weekend which opened with the Aurora Borealis, through the ‘Thunder and Lightning Polka’ and ‘The 1812 Overture’, reached its finale with ‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’ by Dukas from Disney’s ‘Fantasia’. Or perhaps everything could have just come under the one umbrella of Handel’s ‘Water Music’. After about two hours we had cleared out the garages.

  “That would have taken me weeks,” Andy told us with an air of gratitude. “And... that takes care of the bill,” he added with a gracious smile.

  “So John, what made you come over here, all the way from England?” Andy asked me as we walked over to the truck.

  “Oh, I enjoy travelling,” I replied, climbing into the driving seat, “and anyway, it’s always raining in England!”

  Frankly My Dear, Robert doesn’t give a Damn.

  One very important day each season at Maplehurst is the visit by the children’s parents, who are always given a V.I.P. welcome as if they were royalty. The majority came from Detroit or Chicago, and arrived in convoys of Cadillacs, Pontiacs and Rolls-Royces. A display of wealth seemed to be a competitive sport and one rather rotund father even turned up at Richard’s tennis lesson sporting a brand new pristine white tennis outfit, proudly brandishing his gold-plated racquet. One parent was a state senator, while chairmen of multi-national companies seemed to be two-a-penny. Being English in America was still somewhat of a novelty in the early seventies. Richard and I found ourselves in demand as we were personally introduced to many of the families, and we lost count of the number of invitations we received to go and stay at their homes as houseguests. Each invitation was generous, warm and genuine, a beautiful American trait. Parents’ day was like a school or university open day to provide a showcase for activities, facilities and presentations. A major focal point was an annual show involving the children and as many of the counsellors as could be cajoled into joining in. Richard and I didn’t have a say in the matter as one segment was written especially for us: the English ‘bad guys’ during the American War of Independence. It was to be my stage debut as I had never taken part in any kind of presentation at school or university, not even the Christmas Nativity at primary school. Our outfits must have taken the wardrobe department all of ten seconds to dream up: a tri-cornered hat! To our great relief, it wasn’t the most demanding of roles. Walk on, get shot, fall down, and get dragged off. That was it. No dialogue to memorise, apart from the odd grunt. During rehearsals our dying scene gradually became more exaggerated and theatrical.

  The show was staged in the Maplehurst Theatre; a rather grand title for a converted barn which was also used as an occasional cinema. The seating arrangement consisted of rows of wooden benches for the children and, at the back and around the edges, wooden chairs for the parents. Rich VIPs or not, upholstered seating was not an option. Backstage, I was a little nervous while awaiting my stage debut and this was made worse when I peeped through a gap in the curtains. The theatre was packed to the rafters, and, being a former barn, they really were rafters. We waited for our cue, went on, got shot, fell down. Surprisingly there were murmurs of laughter, but I think it was because we had beefed-up the role and our prolonged death scene was a cross between the ‘Dying Swan’ and James Cagney in ‘White Heat’.

  The writer Coleridge coined the phrase ‘suspension of disbelief’, referring to how an audience engages with a live performance. Well I think I stretched that notion to its limits as I was then resurrected, like Lazarus, to read a poem self-penned especially for the occasion:

  The British suffered an ignominious defeat

  As the army made a hasty retreat

  The Declaration of Independence was Washington’s finest hour

  And America grew to become a mighty super power

  (Spontaneous applause and whooping from the audience at this point)

  But that is not the end of the story

  The English returned in a wave of glory

  The streets were deserted, people stayed in their homes

  It was a new British invasion... by the Beatles and the Stones.

  Okay, I admit it’s hardly Byron or Wordsworth, but not bad for someone who had just been shot.

  I was als
o a member of an American barbershop quartet. It was great fun: dressed in striped shirts and waistcoats, and sporting 1920s style stick-on waxed moustaches, curled up at the tips in the manner of Hercule Poirot. Also, Richard and I teamed up for a one-off musical performance. We formed a duo in which I played guitar and Richard was on the tambourine. We called ourselves ‘The Symbolics’... I was Sym. After I had finished my final stint on stage, I was able to join Bob at the back of the auditorium to watch the rest of the show.

  After a few minutes there was an almighty ripping sound and, after a brief silent pause, all the kids in the audience scattered in a panic towards the edges of the room. Wooden forms clattered noisily to the floor during the stampede.

  ‘Has somebody brought in a lion skin?’ I mused.

  At the epicentre of this mayhem remained a seated lone figure, grinning insanely as he looked around the room. Minichello, who else? He had worked up and then let off the mother of all farts. It was pre-meditated, meticulously planned and timed to go off with a devastating impact. It was a controlled explosion, prolonged as he brought it to a crescendo... and it was deadly. He must have practised this sabotage as often as the actors had rehearsed the show. Perhaps he really was Ernst Stavro Blofeld, or was he the prototype of Bart Simpson? The play on stage ground to an abrupt halt as the actors went off-script to hurl abuse at Minichello. He continued to revel in the moment. Some parents laughed nervously thinking (hoping) that it might be part of the show, but most of them just shuffled uneasily on their chairs and concentrated a gaze at their feet in excruciating embarrassment. Bob looked at me and smiled wistfully.