Confessions from a Holiday Camp. Timothy Lea
name is Janet and that she is training to be a gym mistress. This latter fact would come as no surprise to any of the flies on the carriage walls. She is a very athletic girl, there is no getting away from it, and after a couple of hours, I do want to get away from it. We have been having it away in every position except with me hanging from the communication cord by my big toe and that is only because I have been too terrified to mention it. Now she has me pinned in a corner and is rubbing her hands underneath my shirt and kissing the side of my neck in a manner that is clearly saying “get on with it”. I would like to oblige but my old man has about as much backbone as a boiled leek and I have to change the subject.
“I think we’re nearly there,” I say, intercepting her hands as they start tripping down to complain about the service. “At least, I am. You’re going to Newcastle, aren’t you?”
To my relief she sighs and reaches out for her knickers.
“No, no. I’m off on holiday.”
“Holiday?”
“Yes. I’m going to Melody Bay.”
“The holiday camp?”
“That’s right. Where are you going?”
“I’m going to Melody Bay as well,” I gulp.
“Ooh, that’s nice. We’ll see a lot more of each other, then.”
Bloody marvellous, isn’t it? After everything Sidney told me about fraternising with the customers, I’ve had it away with one of them before we even get through the camp gates. And she doesn’t look the kind of girl who is going to be satisfied with that little session for the next two weeks. Never mind, I will just have to keep out of her way. We don’t want any scandal threatening my new career before it has even started.
Looking back on the whole thing, I have to laugh at my naivete, I really do.
CHAPTER THREE
Melody Bay holiday camp is situated on the edge of town and surrounded by a high wire fence. This is presumably there to keep people out. The first impression is one of a lot of mock-tudor chalets layed out in orderly lines along paths with names like “Laughter Lane” and “Happiness Row”. From the bus I can see tennis courts and putting greens and a couple of large buildings that look like aircraft hangars (I later find out that they were aircraft hangars before their true potential was realised.) The camp is approached by the coast road and a wide expanse of almost empty beach stretches away opposite the main entrance. This entrance is vaguely reminiscent of those Hollywood studios I have seen pictures of. Gold topped wrought iron gates, a commissionaire type bod, and an inscription carved in the stonework. The difference is that this does not say “Ars gratia artis” but “Let good fellowship be your guide, and Laughter your companion”, Sir Giles Slat, founder of Funfrall Enterprises, who, I imagine, has quite a lot to laugh about. There are also some clinically perfect flowerbeds and a bloke made noticeably ridiculous by the jacket he is wearing. This is all-white, trimmed with black ribbon, and bearing a black ace of spades on the breast pocket. I have no sooner decided that he looks a complete berk than I see another one. This time the white blazer has a red trim and an ace of hearts on the pocket. Immediately, it occurs to me that these men must be Holiday Hosts and that I, too, will have to dress up like a refugee from a game of pontoon. The thought is not a cheering one and it is with heavy heart that I present myself before the commissionaire whose face immediately splits into a smile as false as the teeth delivering it. Janet, I should add, is not with me because I have darted away from her at the bus stop shouting “must get some razor blades, see you later” just as the appropriate vehicle pulls into sight. I have not mentioned to her that I am a Holiday Host, in the forlorn belief that my uniform will either make me unrecognisable or unattainable.
No sooner have I stepped over the threshold than what sounds like a Boer War tannoy delivers the following message of tinny cheer:
“Welcome, welcome, welcome to Melody Bay.
We all are here to please you and serve you in every way.”
Hardly have I recoiled from this than the commissionaire regrinds his gnashers and delivers himself of a few words of welcome.
“May I be the first to wish you a happy holiday and inform you that the reception area is directly across the college lawns. There, our Holiday Hosts will show you to your chalet and explain the programme to you.”
“I am a Holiday Host,” I say, “or at least, I soon will be. Where can I find Mr. Francis?”
The news that I am not a paying customer whips the smile from the doorman’s face like it had been secured with sellotape.
“You’ll find him in his office behind the crazy golf,” he grunts. “It’s past the netball court and the children’s zoo.”
With this description, I cannot go wrong, and shielding my eyes against sight of Janet, who I imagine by now has probably unpacked and is roaming the camp in search of prey, I bring myself to a position in which a quick rat-tat-tat on Mr. Francis’s door requires the co-operation of my outstretched arm.
“Come in,” says a voice right out of Father Christmas’s Grotto and I open the door.
The man behind the desk bounces to his feet and an expression of radiant joy burst across his thin features like sunshine.
“Mr. Francis,” I begin. “My name is Timothy Lea. I believe you are expecting me.”
Mr. Francis’s warm smile does not wane, but he shakes his head reproachfully.
“Come, come, laddie,” he intones. “Let’s try that again and this time with a smile. Remember the Holiday Host philosophy: A natural, ready smile for everybody from crack of dawn ’til last thing at night. When you speak, make me believe that the spirit of good cheer pervades your whole personality. —‘Hello, Mr. Francis. My name is Timothy Lea and I’m looking forward to working with you!’ Now, pop outside and let’s try the whole thing again.”
I feel a complete berk but what can I do? Mr. F. obviously calls the shots around here and maybe all the good cheer will come naturally after a while. I stumble outside and notice that beneath his name on the door it says “keep smiling”. I try and put this into effect and etching a grisly grin across my features bound through the door to repeat my introduction. This time I get it right because Francis pumps my hand up and down like he is trying to separate it from my body and the laughter lines round his mouth resemble mongol scar tissue.
“Welcome, laddie, welcome,” he beams. “I don’t know how much you know about our particular operation but you have probably seen some of our Holiday Hosts going about their tasks. Our job is to keep holiday makers amused twenty-four hours a day if need be and for the purpose of organising team games and competitions we divide the camp up into four villages, Hearts, Clubs, Diamonds and Spades—” an impression of an encampment. of Zulus flashes across my mind but I keep it to myself— “Each village has its own Holiday Hosts and these are distinguished by the emblems on the pockets of their blazers. I trust that this is clear? Good. You will be joining the Happy Hearts where I am certain you will find an excellent team spirit prevailing. Team spirit is the answer, Timothy. We all work for each other here. Team spirit and. a warm sincere smile for every man, woman and child you come into contact with. Do you play the banjo?”
I shake my head.
“What a pity. We have our ‘Swanee River Ramble’ this evening and a touch of the banjos would have been most appropriate. Not to worry, though, we’ll get by without it. One thing I should warn you about and that is hanky panky. Steer clear of hanky panky, Timothy. There are temptations and some of the ladies do get a bit frisky before the onslaught of the ozone. But resist, always, resist. Remember your obligation to your employers and to the great family unit we are all serving.” Even as he speaks I expect to hear Janet scratching at the door. “I haven’t been here long myself and one of the reasons I was posted here was because moral standards amongst some members of the staff – only some, I hasten to add – had become