That'll Be the Day

by Ray Connolly

  ‘They’ve been coming here for years now,’ he said, shaking his head in what was intended to indicate volumes of worldly wisdom, but which meant nothing more really than a comic strip. ‘They only do it for the birds. Their chalets are like Roman orgies some nights, you know. One night this bloke I knew went into one by mistake and put the light on, and there were these three arses bobbing up and down in a row on top of three judies. Imagine three beds in a row … and everyone at it.’

  To be honest the only thing I was likely to be doing about such a situation was imagining.

  Mike began to fill up his tray again: ‘But there’s no future in it, you know.’

  ‘In what?’

  He began to move away from the bar and back into the tournament. A few couples were beginning to do a slow jive and Stormy was leering and glistening down at a tart sitting alone by the edge of the stage.

  ‘In being a Typhoon … I mean, where does it get you?’

  I contemplated my crammed tray of glasses: ‘No,’ I said ‘Not smart like us.’

  I don’t think Mike heard. He always liked to have the last word, but he didn’t answer.

  It was over an hour before we collided at the bar again for more than a second. Everyone was demanding service at once. My mother had been right about holiday camps being full of common people.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I said, looking at my stained jacket as George, the barman, refilled my tray.

  ‘Eh, Jim.’ Mike was talking out of the side of his mouth, and narrowing his eyes conspiratorially. ‘See those two over there …’ He nodded to a couple of girls sitting together by the edge of the dance floor. They were aware that he was watching, but were pretending to look away. ‘Those two, Jim. They’ll go.’

  ‘Think so?’ I tried to be casual and not to appear over eager.

  ‘Yeah. Push-overs.’

  I looked back. One was a little, pretty-faced girl, with the biggest bosom I’d ever seen. The other was taller, plainer. The pretty one noticed me staring and turned to listen to the band. Pity we were working tonight, I thought.

  The chalet that Mike and I shared was more of a wooden shanty than a de luxe holiday villa. The holidaymakers got nice airy places, with brightly coloured walls and new lino, but the workers were shoved into shabby little places that didn’t look as though they’d been cleaned from one year to the next. That was hardly surprising really, because we could hardly expect room service, and neither Mike nor I were the most domesticated people in the camp.

  The morning after we’d spotted what Mike was sure were ’two certainties’ in the Blue Grotto we were off duty. I lay on my bed scribbling nonsense lines on a piece of paper, while Mike was preparing himself to meet the world, titivating in front of the mirror, squeezing and bursting spots, seeking out blackheads, and then lastly going into an elaborate ritual of shampooing his hair.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘those two we saw last night … well, the one with the big knockers is mine. You can have the other one … oh Christ, where’s the shampoo?’ He’d decided to have another go at his hair, and was feeling blindly about the washbasin looking for the Vosene. ‘I can’t see a bloody thing.’

  ‘By the tap … on the left.’

  Mike found it, lathered again, then rinsing, put a towel over his head. ‘Tonight’s their night, lucky cows.’

  ‘They didn’t look like much to me,’ I said, meaning that the one with the big knockers was a bit of all right, but I didn’t fancy being lumbered with the other one. But Mike wasn’t listening.

  ‘We’ll have to split them up, of course,’ he said. ‘I don’t fancy you watching me on the job.’

  ‘They might not fancy us …’

  ‘So we’ll toss for who comes back here, and who goes back to their place. That one with the tits … her name’s Sandra. Looks a bit like Sandra Dee, doesn’t she?’

  I might have debated that. She looked, I thought, more like a top heavy Shirley Temple, but anyway my argument was sidetracked at that moment by Mike’s behaviour by the washbasin, where he’d suddenly decided to have a standing-up bath and was in the process of taking off his trousers and underpants. I was so surprised that I couldn’t help looking, and then so amazed that I couldn’t stop staring. On one buttock there was a little Cupid figure with a bow, while facing it on the other side of his bottom was a large heart with an arrow tattooed into the skin. Slowly, convulsions of laughter began to reverberate through me. Mike didn’t even turn to look at me.

  ‘All right, smart arse. It’s not that funny.’ Probably his bottom had been a joke for years now. ‘It was when I was in the Navy, wasn’t it? I was pissed … well I wasn’t actually at sea. I used to work on the ferry between Liverpool and New Brighton and one night I got out of me skull and a couple of mates talked me into it. The bastards … oh, come on. It’s not that funny. For Christ’s sake.’

  I went on laughing, but he wasn’t really annoyed and good naturedly he began to get dressed, putting on a grey suit, with a plum-coloured velvet collar, then Brylcreeming his newly washed hair, and combing it up into a great plume at the front which looked in danger of toppling over at any moment. He always kept his comb sticking out of his top pocket, so that it was always ready for a quick adjustment. He was a likeable bloke, despite his funny way of talking, and apparent cockiness, and I rather think he liked having someone to talk to.

  ‘This is my fifth summer here, you know,’ he said re-adjusting his hair for about the fifth time while I lay back on my bed and watched him. ‘Ten months on the bloody road with the fair, and I’m ready for a break.’

  This was the first time he’d begun to discuss his background: ‘What d’you do on the fair?’ I asked.

  ‘Dodgems. It’s great, best place there is to get off with the birds. A quick tickle while they’re in the car to see if they go, then it’s round the back after and getting me end away. I’ve had more crumpet that way than you’ve had apple pie.’

  He stood back and admired himself in the mirror: ‘Beautiful,’ he said. ‘Come on then, let’s go and order our slices for tonight.’

  We found Sandra Big Knockers and her friend on the miniature golf course, pretending to be taking an interest in their game. In the light of day the friend looked better than she had the night before, but Sandra was definitely the prettier, pouting about the place in a pair of stretch-nylon jeans, with loops that fastened under her feet like ski-pants, and wearing a bright red sweater at least three sizes too small.

  ‘Christ,’ said Mike, staring straight at her bosom, ’she’s got bigger bumpers than a Vauxhall.’

  The two girls saw us, and I watched them eyeing each other. Girls were such bastards. They had it made. All they had to do was to look pretty, or easy, and the blokes would do all the running, chasing, buying, chatting up, and pulling down. It didn’t seem fair.

  Mike viewed the putting green with an exaggerated professionalism, and dropping a ball on the floor tapped it expertly along the grass in the direction of the first hole. A little way across the lawn Sandra and her friend turned to watch us.

  ‘Good practice,’ said Mike.

  ‘What for?’ I asked. I didn’t mind being the feed-man.

  ‘For knocking things into little holes.’

  Mike fell about at his joke as I played my ball. Mike hadn’t made the hole with his shot, but mine knocked his ball out of the way and ran in off the rebound. I was as surprised as he was.

  ‘Jammy bugger.’

  ‘That was pure skill.’

  ‘Skill? Skill?’ He looked at me derisively for a moment, and then allowed his attention to return to the girls who were parading bustily a few yards away. ‘Eh, Sandra! Want any coaching with your grip?’

  I was embarrassed, but Sandra and her friend just giggled and pretended to concentrate upon their game.

  ‘It’s better if you hold the end in two hands,’ Mike shouted, nudging me just in case I hadn’t twigged the double entendre. It was said so blatantly and so loudly that I don’
t think anyone in the whole holiday camp could have failed to understand his little bit of smuttiness. The girls, however, seemed less embarrassed than I was.

  At that moment the Tannoy system suddenly began crackling and burping its daily bulletins down on us from a cluster of speakers on the edge of the green. Some days it seemed that the inane chattering never stopped, as the camp councillors advised the campers on the best way to spend their two weeks’ holiday: ‘Hello again, campers …’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Mike, and slashed viciously at his ball, missing it.

  The Tannoy drowned any further obscenities: ‘… just reminding all you sunny, suntanned-super-people that the first sitting for lunch is now being served in the Yellow Canteen … that’s the Yellow Canteen for the first-sitting for lunch. So hurry along now.’

  ‘Sounds a right spanner, doesn’t he?’ Mike broke in between the Tannoy speaker’s chatterings.

  But then he was off again: ‘And now here’s some great news for you young ones. Tonight’s the night for all you jiving experts. And your weekly jiving contest will be held in the Blue Grotto night club. That’s ten o’clock for all you rocking youngsters who like to roll. So, see you there.’

  Almost before the Tannoy had gone quiet again Mike took an almighty swing at his ball and knocked it across the lawn towards Sandra and her friend.

  ‘Fore,’ he shouted, and then ran after it, moving in between the girls as though he’d known them all his life. I followed behind more reticently. ‘Right then – ten o’clock in the grotty Grotto. You and your mate. And me and ‘im.’ He waved his greasy plume in my direction.

  Sandra looked at us both, with a cool nonchalance: ‘Can you both jive?’

  ‘Can we jive?’ Mike’s face was a mask of indignation. ‘Course we can.’

  Sandra turned towards me. It was time for me to make a move: ‘That’s right,’ I said, in what I thought sounded like my sexy, husky voice. ‘Your lucky day.’

  And Sandra smiled at me for the first time. I knew I was going to be all right there.

  ‘All right then,’ said Mike, flicking his comb through the glacier of grease. ‘See you tonight,’

  I was right about Sandra. She did fancy me, and immediately manœvured it so that she and I danced together, while Mike was left, much chagrined, to her friend. I didn’t take much interest in what Mike was up to, since I was too busy showing off to Sandra what a good jiver I was (that door handle had done me valiant service), but I did notice that he was a terrible dancer, all arms and legs, and no co-ordination, and that his partner looked fed up to the teeth with him. It didn’t seem fair because he was a nice bloke.

  Stormy Tempest and his band provided the music, poncing about the place like a proper cissy, and a camp councillor was MC. I’d never been in a jiving contest before, in fact I’d hardly jived at all, but we got as far as the last eight. Mike and his girl had been eliminated much earlier. It was exciting dancing with Sandra. She took it all so seriously, and whenever she turned and spun on her toes her skirt billowed out so that it showed her suspenders. I couldn’t see much from where I was, but I could tell what was happening from the expressions on the faces of some of the judges. There was a vicar there and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Eventually, however, our luck ran out and we joined Mike and the other girl at the side.

  ‘Want a drink, then?’ I heard Mike saying as we approached.

  ‘Babycham, and a packet of crisps, please.’

  ‘God’s teeth,’ said Mike pushing past me. ‘One dance and she wants the world.’

  Sandra sat down so I followed Mike across to the bar. It was good to be having a night off. Almost like being proper holiday makers.

  ‘It was the band, you know,’ said Mike. ‘Bloody useless, they are. They put me off. No-one can dance to that noise.’

  At that moment the noise ended, and the MC led a weedy looking couple on to the stage. They’d been jiving like lunatics all night: ‘And now for the second week running, and the fourth year in succession the winners are numbers 25 … Derek and Deidre Hesketh from Swindon…’

  ‘That’s not fair. They’re bloody professionals,’ said Mike.

  A handful of people joined the judges in a hardly polite round of applause, and the Heskeths’ brief moment of glory was over for another year.

  We made our way back to the girls and had our drinks. I’d been hoping to do some more dancing with Sandra, but Mike was in no mood for the finer points of courting, and he soon had us outside and on our way back towards the chalets.

  ‘Right then,’ he said, an arm loosely round his lady of the evening. ‘Us two in the girls’ chalet. You two in ours. Okay?’

  I looked at Sandra, and I noticed a dimple appear in her left cheek. That was all the assent she offered.

  ‘Right? Party’s over at three o’clock?’ Mike looked around again for any sign of disagreement. There was none. His girl began to walk in the direction of her chalet, and Sandra set off towards ours. They were in a hurry, I thought.

  ‘Eh, Jim!’ Mike was calling after me. For a second I thought he was going to complain that I’d got off with the better-looking bird. But he didn’t. He was quite philosophical about the whole thing. ‘Okay, win a few, lose a few.’ Then putting his hand inside his jacket he produced a half bottle of Australian wine, which he’d been hugging to his chest with one arm.

  He passed it to me. ‘Here … this might help oil her wheels. Give her one for me.’ He must have pinched it from the bar when no-one was looking.

  ‘Are you coming or not?’ His lady friend was getting impatient.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. And winked.

  Every sound seemed ridiculously magnified as Sandra and I crept into our chalet. I knew that to be caught with a girl in your room meant instant dismissal, and apparently they took an even more serious view if the girl was one of the paying campers. Apparently it was naughty to play with the working girls, but completely forbidden to go near the holidaymakers. Unethical it was, they said, which just showed what an unethical place it was since virtually every man on the staff was plotting the downfall of some knickers somewhere. Still, not to worry, no-one heard us, and we were quickly safe inside the chalet. At first I turned the overhead light on, but thinking it looked a bit clinical and wondering how I was ever going to grab hold of her under what looked like a spotlight, I put it out again. It was fairly light inside anyway, because the whole camp was floodlit. Sandra sat down on the bed and I walked over to the washbasin, rinsed some coffee dregs from a couple of mugs and poured us both a half-cupful of wine. Then moving back to the bed I sat next to her while we took a few sips, and wondered what to say to each other. Sandra broke the silence first.

  ‘I bet you bring a different girl back here every night,’ she said swinging her legs up on to the bed and kicking her shoes off. I shook my head with what I hoped looked like an expression of less than total honesty. If she wanted to think I was a raver, who was I to disillusion her?

  So I smiled and climbed on to the bed next to her, and took another sip of wine, and then putting the glass on to the bedside table, I took her glass from her.

  ‘Don’t want to get you drunk, do we?’ She gave me a long look that told me I wouldn’t have to.

  And then I stretched out alongside her, and eased my left leg over her knee and between her thighs, and the bed creaked under our weight, and I kissed her on the ear. Just a teaser of a kiss, to see what happened. And she squirmed and turned her lips around to face me, and fluttered her eyes in an exaggerated action which I think she thought signified passion, and then I moved my lips to her cheek, but she slid her face right round so that there was no way of missing her mouth, and while we were kissing she put her arms round my neck, and eased her body into a position of greater comfort and excitement for us both. Then while we lay there kissing and straining against each other I plucked up courage and after sliding my hand a couple of times over those whopping great knockers (the first time casually as if I’d
done it by accident, so that I could claim innocence if she protested) I unbuttoned the front of her blouse, and pushed my hand round the back of her bra and began searching for the clip. One hand wasn’t enough, so I had to eventually send the other hand the other way round to help. But she helped by virtually holding herself off the bed until I’d worked out the unfastening mechanism and her bumpers were free to come spilling out of the cups. God, but they were enormous, great heavy things that hung down when unharnessed, mounds of flesh between which a man might hide and never again be seen.

  ‘I wouldn’t let anyone else do that, you know,’ murmured Sandra, as her body rocked and pushed under me like some earthquake. ‘You’re the only one who’s ever done that.’

  Then she began to murmur and gurgle as I ran my hands around her breasts and down across her tummy. So, sufficiently encouraged, I tried a hand on her knee, and she murmured some more, and then up past her knee to her stocking tops, where it was clammy and warm, and she parted her legs wide so that the progress of this sexual pilgrim might not be impeded, and at last I felt the cotton of her panties, all warm and willing.

  ‘Oh …’ she was clutching at my neck by now. ‘I’ve never done this before,’ she said.

  And after kneading her for a while between the legs, I reached at her panties and began to pull, and she lifted her bottom up off the bed to help me. And when they were down round her knees she worked them lower, first with one toe and then the other, finally tossing them clear with one foot, while with her hands she set about loosening the bonds which were restraining me, tugging at my belt with impetuous little hands and then at my underpants so that they ended up in a tangle around my feet. And then she began guiding me into her, moaning and murmuring all the time, and kissing and grabbing and pushing her body up to help.

  ‘Oh … ohhh. You’re the very first,’ she said, as we joined in unholy fornication, and I, as though in a dream, watched myself making love to my first girl. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ she said.