Out of Towners

by Dan Tunstall

  Another thirty seconds and we can see the pier. Against the backdrop of grey sea and grey sky, it’s fairly rickety-looking. A jumble of wood and concrete and metal, all flaking white paint, peeling roof lead and seagull shit. It looks like one big gust of wind could send it crashing into the English Channel. But then the sun breaks through the clouds and the pier suddenly seems a whole lot more impressive.

  Robbie looks at us. He points to the sky.

  “How’s about that for timing?”

  Nobody says anything. We’re too busy grinning again. The temperature seems to have gone up by five degrees in the last couple of seconds and the rays of the sun are bouncing off the surface of the sea. We all put our sunglasses on.

  “Right then,” Robbie says. “The lads are officially on tour. Wonderland here we come.”

  two

  We go along the seafront, away from the pier, heading out of town. On the left of us, beyond a row of yukka plants, some fancy flowerbeds and the prom, is the beach. Grey, white, yellow and red pebbles slope gently down to the sea. Every hundred metres or so, a heavy wooden groyne stretches out into the waves. The tide is going out, but it’s still quite high. It’s a good time for swimming, but nobody’s in the water. There’s a few family groups dotted about on the stones and a bloke in big earphones ambling up and down with a metal detector, but not much else.

  “Not very busy, is it?” I say.

  Robbie pushes his sunglasses up his nose.

  “It’s not really the holiday season yet. The schools down here don’t break up for weeks. It livens up at the weekends though. Londoners, mainly.”

  I look across to the other side of the road at the big old hotels with their fading whitewash, dirty net curtains and dusty windows staring out to sea. The Devonshire. The Heatherdene. The Glenroy. They’re impressive buildings, but they’ve seen better days. It looks like Whitbourne was a pretty upmarket, swanky place, years ago. The glamour has faded now.

  We keep going, past the bandstand, the crazy golf and the bowling greens. After the lifeboat station there’s a cluster of pine trees and then the road starts to wind uphill. Over in the distance I can see the coast curving round and climbing up towards a huge white chalk headland.

  “There are some serious cliffs over there,” I say.

  Robbie nods.

  “Yeah. The big one’s called Bellevue Point. It’s like Beachy Head’s little brother. Hundred and twenty-five metres above sea level. It’s nice up there. I’ve been with Mum and Dad. There’s a pub and a visitors’ centre. But I don’t think we’re going to be doing a lot of sight-seeing this weekend.”

  I laugh. Sight-seeing isn’t too high on my list of priorities.

  It’s warming up now. The road away from the seafront seems to be getting steeper. I’m just thinking it’s turning into another hike, when I see the gates of Wonderland looming at the end of a long road lined with tall trees.

  “So what’s this place like?” Dylan asks.

  Robbie scratches his chin.

  “Poor man’s Butlins. You’ve got a mini-village with shops and then there’s this big entertainments place where they’ve always got stuff going on.”

  I laugh.

  “Knobbly-knees competitions and Glamorous Grannies?”

  “You’re not far off,” Robbie says.

  We’re up at the entrance now. There’s a trail of red concrete paw prints leading the way across the car park in the direction of a big grey bunker at the top of the slope. Chalets and caravans stretch away into the fields all around us.

  Dylan grabs my elbow. He nods at the perimeter fence. It’s five metres of mesh topped off with barbed wire.

  I grin.

  “Is that to keep the locals out, or keep the holidaymakers in?”

  “Dunno,” Dylan says.

  We go through a set of double doors into the grey bunker and enter a sort of foyer area. A payphone is bolted to the wall on the right, next to a shelving unit filled with brochures for local attractions, old newspapers and dying pot plants. Straight ahead, a six-foot cardboard cut-out of a bear in red dungarees is holding a placard.

  TONITE IN THE ENTERTAINMENT CENTRE

  FAMILY FUN WITH COMPERE VIC WHITLEY

  INTERNATIONAL DJ TONY CURTIS

  SIX TIL LATE

  George smiles.

  “They’re keen on bears,” he says. “Paw prints in the car park, big cut-outs in here. What’s that all about?”

  “It’s Benny the Bear,” Robbie says. “Disneyland have got Mickey, Wonderland have got Benny.”

  George and Dylan nip to the toilets. I take off my sunglasses and wander across to the big notice board on the far wall. It’s covered with posters for forthcoming events. There are a lot of tribute nights coming up. T-Rexocet. Stasis Quo. Seventies bands. The music my Nan listens to. Tickets are still available for Jack Jones and David Dickinson from Bargain Hunt.

  I walk over to where Robbie’s still standing and we wait for George and Dylan. When they’re back, we go through another set of double doors and come out into a courtyard. It’s the mini-village Robbie was talking about. There are shops to the left and right of us. The Wonderland Supermarket, a hairdressers, a chip shop, a bakers, a couple of coffee places, one or two takeaways. Across on the far side is what looks like a big sports hall. The Family Entertainment Centre.

  “What do you think then?” Robbie asks.

  “Spot-on mate,” I say.

  I have another look around. Over to the left there’s a bloke leaning against the wall of the Happy Valley Chinese with a fag in his mouth. He’s about sixty, and looks like he’s lived every last minute. He’s a dodgy-looking character in a red blazer and grey trousers that are too short for him. Under the blazer, he’s wearing a purple shirt and a yellow paisley tie with a knot the size of a cricket ball. Paedo chic. He’s got thin brown hair, thatched into a massive bouffant with gallons of hairspray, and a suspiciously orange tan. He sees me looking and smiles. His teeth are pearly white. Too white for a bloke of his age. A good half-inch of gum is showing under his top lip.

  Dylan sees the bloke smiling at me.

  “Hey, Chris. I think you’ve pulled.”

  “Piss off,” I say.

  We go along the row of shops on the right and then turn down a path through a field with chalets on one side and an outdoor swimming pool and adventure playground on the other. Blue Zone, the signs say. The skies are clearing now. The grey clouds have gone and there’s just a few little fluffy white ones scudding about. The sun feels warm on my face. It’s turning into a proper summer’s day.

  “How much further?” Dylan asks. He seems to be struggling with his rucksack. He keeps adjusting the shoulder straps.

  “Not far,” Robbie says.

  George switches the handle of his suitcase from his left hand to his right.

  “I hope this caravan’s got running water,” he says. “We borrowed my auntie’s caravan once, and we all had to crap in a bucket.”

  Robbie laughs.

  “Yeah. That’s the sort of caravan you hitch to the back of your car. This is a static. It’s luxury.”

  George looks chuffed.

  “What’s it got then?”

  “Hot water on tap, electricity, gas. There’s a telly, a fridge. You name it, it’s in there, mate.”

  We’re through the first field now, heading into the second. Green Zone. This field is full of caravans. A group of young kids is playing on a patch of grass. Two lads and two girls. They stop kicking their ball about when they see us coming. The smaller of the two lads steps out into the path. He’s six or seven, with lines cut into the sides of his hair and a Ben10 T-shirt.

  “Are you here on holiday?” he asks.

  “Got it in one,” Dylan says.

  The kid looks quite pleased with himself.

  We keep on going and the kids get back to their football. Another hundred metres and we’re turning right.

  “Check it out,” Robbie says.

  I look
where he’s pointing. The caravan. I recognise it from his holiday photos. He’s been coming here every year since he was little. Green 64. It looks sound. The walls are cream and white rippled metal, the windows are slightly tinted and the curtains are brown with white chevrons. Three wooden steps lead up to the door.

  Robbie pulls a set of keys from his pocket. He goes up the steps, unlocks the door and heads inside. The rest of us follow him in.

  It’s cool in the caravan. The carpet is cream and the upholstery is oatmeal and brown tartan. The kitchen units and the storage cabinets are mock pine. The whole place smells of citrus air freshener. We go up to the far end and dump our bags, flopping onto the seats under a big window looking out across Green Zone. Robbie fumbles about under the sink in the kitchen area, making sure the gas and electricity are ready to go, and that the hot water’s on. When he’s finished, he comes and sits next to me.

  George opens up his suitcase. He pulls out four cans of Fosters and plonks them down on the low table in front of us.

  “Help yourselves,” he says.

  Nobody needs to be asked twice. We all crack open a can and bash them together.

  “We’re here lads,” Robbie says.

  I nod. We’re here. It’s properly starting to sink in now. I have a gulp of Fosters. It tastes good. I put the can back on the table.

  “We almost didn’t make it though,” I say. “Running into those dickheads in the cars.”

  Robbie smiles.

  “We don’t like out of towners,” he says, voice gruff like Kirkie’s mate.

  We all laugh.

  Dylan shakes his head.

  “They were a bunch of pussies. If the coppers hadn’t turned up, we could have taken ‘em.”

  George sighs. Me and Robbie laugh. In his mind Dylan’s one of the toughest men alive. But the fact is, he weighs about nine stone. He does a lot of exercise. Cycling, stuff like that. He’s got the wiry build of one of those scrawny little riders who shoot up the mountain stages in the Tour De France. It’s a good build for endurance. Not so good for fighting, I wouldn’t have thought.

  Dylan shrugs.

  “You could see. They were all wasters. A couple of punches and that would be the end of that. Off down A&E.” He stands up, rolling his shoulders, bobbing and weaving, shooting out the occasional right jab, snorting through his nose for an extra bit of impact.

  I can’t help cracking up.

  “Do you reckon lads like that fight fair?” I ask.

  “It doesn’t matter if they fight fair or not. However they want to do it, they’re going down.” He fires out a few more jabs, leaning to one side then the other, before swinging a big right.

  George tuts.

  “All your ducking and diving isn’t going to help you when you’re drinking your dinner through a straw,” he says.

  There’s no answer to that. Dylan sits back down.

  I take another swig of beer and look at my watch. Half past three. It’s amazing to think that this time last week we were finishing our final GCSE. Dylan’s brothers Liam and Aaron came to pick us up from Parkway College in their knackered old Ford Escort and drove us into Letchford for a celebratory pint. Me, Robbie and Dylan squashed across the back seat, George curled round in a ball in the boot. Seven days. It seems like years ago.

  Robbie reaches over and puts the TV on. It’s a Toshiba portable resting on top of an old silver VHS player.

  Dylan’s given up on the Vin Diesel act now.

  “You got satellite?” he asks.

  “Nah,” Robbie says.

  Dylan puffs out his cheeks.

  “That’s no good.”

  Robbie flicks through the channels. We end up watching Changing Faces on ITV. It’s the best that’s on offer. A housewife from Grimsby has been done up to look like Nicole Kidman. A style expert who’s overdone the Botox is giving hints for maintaining the new image, recommending some cover-up foundation for the tattoos on the woman’s hands.

  It takes us about fifteen minutes to finish our beers. When we’re all done, Robbie produces a roll of black bin liners from his bag. He’s come prepared.

  “Remember,” he says, ripping a bin liner off the roll and putting the empty cans in. “There’s got to be absolutely no sign we’ve been here.”

  We all nod.

  A couple more minutes pass, taking it easy. I’m looking through the photos on my phone. Dylan’s looking at his mobile too. He’s got an iphone and it’s awesome. It could probably make you a cup of tea if you asked it to. His dad owns a building firm. Cawsey Contractors. His family are rolling in cash. My mum and dad both work for the NHS. It doesn’t pay quite so well. Dylan’s starting work for his old man in the autumn. He’s going to be loaded while the rest of us are grafting at Sixth Form.

  Eventually Robbie stands up.

  “Okay,” he says, muting the telly. “I suppose I’d better tell you where things are in here.”

  I put my phone down. Dylan does the same. George has been staring out of the windows, watching the world go by, but he turns his focus back to what’s happening inside the caravan.

  “This is the main living and dining area.” Robbie jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Over there you’ve got the kitchen – gas cooker, microwave, fridge-freezer. On the left there’s two bedrooms, one with a double bed, one with two singles. Then at the far end is the bathroom. In there you’ve got a shower, bog and sink. Like I said. Luxury.”

  George looks at him.

  “You’d make a good caravan salesman.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Or an air stewardess.”

  Robbie looks a bit sheepish. He turns the volume back up on the TV and sits down.

  Dylan scratches his earlobe.

  “So who’s sleeping where?” he asks.

  “I thought me and Chris would go in the single beds,” Robbie says. “You and George can take the double.”

  Dylan looks mortified.

  “Why have we got to go in the double?”

  “Thought you’d like it, Dylan. I know how you and George feel about each other.” Robbie glances over at me. He winks.

  Dylan looks like he’s about to go off on one.

  George reaches out and puts his hand on Dylan’s knee.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll be gentle with you.”

  We spend the next few minutes getting the bedrooms organised. The one I’m sharing with Robbie is a pretty tight squeeze. The whole room is only about five foot by eight. Each of the beds is two foot across, a bare mattress with a pattern of brown leaves on a wooden base. Between the beds is a gangway just wide enough to stand in. At the far end there’s a little bedside cabinet and two white headboards screwed to the wall.

  I throw my stuff onto the bed furthest from the door, under the window. I get my sleeping bag out, unroll it on the mattress and toss my pillow under the headboard. There’s a nametag sewn into the pillowcase. Christopher Norton. My mum put it there when I went on a trip to Ironbridge at Primary school. I unzip the sleeping bag and turn the top down.

  “Getting prepared, I see,” Robbie says.

  “Yeah mate. Got a feeling I might be slightly out of it by bedtime.”

  Robbie chucks his own sleeping bag down.

  “Too right.”

  I stick my wash bag and towel in the bathroom, then go into the other bedroom to see what Dylan and George are up to. Dylan’s already unloaded his gear and lobbed it in a pile in the corner. I realise now why he was struggling with his rucksack. The daft twat has brought a set of weights. He’s standing next to the bed doing bicep curls.

  I frown.

  “Shit, man. You’re on your holidays.”

  Dylan keeps on flexing.

  George is unloading his case, spreading things out over the bed. I quickly bunged a few bits in my bag before I left the house this morning. It looks like George was up all night packing. He’s got four spare pairs of pants, four pairs of socks, a jumper, some T-shirts, a couple of extra pairs of trousers.
He’s even got some blue pyjamas. I’ve got one Christopher Norton on my pillowcase. George has got George McKenna plastered all over the place. Everything’s neatly folded.

  “My mum laid it all out for me,” George says.

  I pull a face.

  “But she thinks you’re spending the weekend at my gaff mate. Not trekking across the Andes.”

  George lifts an eyebrow.

  “You know what my mum’s like.”

  I leave him to it and go back out into the living area. On TV, Changing Faces has finished. It’s a local news bulletin now. There’s been a big protest about the location of a phone mast on an estate in Whitbourne. The organiser is being interviewed. In the background all the protesters are gassing into their mobiles, waving at the camera and mouthing messages.

  It’s nearly half past four. Everyone’s back sitting around the table.

  Robbie looks at us all.

  “Right then,” he says. “This is the million pound question. What do you want to do tonight?”

  “Dunno,” I say. “We could wander into town, I suppose, or we could get ourselves up to the Family Entertainment Centre. See what’s going on. From the look of that poster we saw on the way in, they’re having a bit of a do.”

  Dylan’s eyes light up.

  “I reckon we should stick around here. There’s bound to be some talent going spare on a site this size.”

  I look at George.

  “What do you think?”

  George spreads his arms wide.

  “I’m up for that if everyone else is.”

  Robbie’s the Wonderland expert. He holds his hands out, palms upwards.

  “Well,” he says. “It’s a bit crap in there sometimes, but we’ll give it a go. What we need to do is get some supplies in to see us through to the evening. Who’s going down the Supermarket?”

  “I’ll go,” Dylan says.

  Robbie’s not convinced.

  “I don’t reckon that’s a good idea. That copper in Whitbourne thought you were about twelve. If they won’t sell you alcohol we’re not going to have much of a night.”

  Dylan scowls.

  I raise my hand.