“I was unfortunately detained on business in America at the time but I remember the newsreel shots clearly. ‘Dig for victory’, ‘Careless talk costs lives’, The Blitz, rationing, austerity, the tremendous team spirit of the people – and above all, Winnie at the helm.”
Sir G. takes another pull at his enormous cigar. What is he on about?
“Gentlemen, I have had a monumental idea sparked off,” he beams at us as if the joke was intentional, “—sparked off by the events of last night. On reflection I believe that we – that you—” he looks at Sidney – “misjudged the temperament of the British people when you advocated setting up Isla de Amor. I do not think that the British will ever take to sex with the same enthusiasm that they will respond to deprivation and hardship. It may be alright for the continentals but the island race requires sterner challenges before they can be genuinely amused. You have spoken to me honestly about some of the problems you faced in trying to engender the right romantic climate on the island, and frankly I think that these are insurmountable. Love Island was not merely ahead of its time but basically not what the British public wanted.”
“What do they want, then?” says Sidney sulkily.
“World War Two Holiday Camps.”
“World War Two Holiday Camps!?”
“Exactly. It came to me as I observed those people’s response to the fire. They lost everything – your father for instance, his priceless miniature collection destroyed – but they laughed in the face of adversity. They brewed cups of tea on the ashes of their holiday hopes. They sang, they joked. They were British doing what the British do best – suffering. It occurred to me that there are whole generations of young Britons who have never experienced the right conditions in which to indulge our national predeliction. Generations too young to even remember World War II let alone to have enjoyed it. For them and their nostalgic parents we are going to create Funfrall Austerity.”
“Mum was always saying how good it was during the war,” muses crawler Ted.
“Of course she was. Listen, I have it all worked out. We take over an obsolete tube station, or perhaps the giant underground shelter at Clapham South. Bunk beds on the platforms. Piped Vera Lynn records and air-raid sirens, ration cards and queuing for everything. Tinned snook.”
“Why the underground?” I say.
“Because that’s where people used to go to get away from the bombing,” says Sid.
“They used to sleep down there like Sir Giles says.”
“We can have special wireless programmes, they can tune in to ‘ITMA’, ‘Much Binding in the Marsh’, ‘Alva Liddell’.”
“The overheads will be low,” says Sidney.
“Non-existent,” says Sir G. “The food will have to be poor to be authentic and enemy action can frequently disrupt power supplies. Remember, there’s a war on.”
“Do you think it will catch on?” I ask.
“Catch on!?” snorts Sir Giles. “It’s what the British public have been waiting for. They’re sick to death of all this affluence. It’s like sex. It makes them feel shifty.” He looks at the three of us searchingly. “Of course, it may need an older man with experience of the period to capitalise on all the opportunities. We’ll have to see. Think about it.”
“Yes Sir Giles. I think it’s a wonderful idea,” gushes tedious Ted.
“Good. Now Hotchkiss, I want you to come with me. Noggett, you can stay here and tell Lea about his duties. I’m going to say a few words to the men – I mean I’m going to bid our clients farewell.”
“Boobed again, eh Sid?” I say as Sir G. disappears towards the beach. “You’ll have to watch that Hotchkiss. You’ll find him sitting behind your secretary soon.”
“Shut your mouth,” snarls Sid. “By the cringe but Slat is a crafty old sod. I reckon it was him who set fire to the Fooderama. He was wandering round with a burning torch saying ‘half a fire is no good to man nor insurance company’.”
“This place is well insured, is it?”
“‘Well insured!’ It was never worth more than it is at the moment. Don’t you worry about that.”
“What are these duties the old man was talking about?” I say suspiciously.
“Yes, well,” Sid clears his throat. “Fancy a little sea trip, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we’ve got to make sure that all the customers get back quickly before the weather turns nasty, and there’s a lot of detail work to be done at head office.”
“So?”
“So we’re going to fly back this afternoon and you’re going to stay here to tidy up and settle up with the local labour.”
“But, Sid—”
“Then Sir Giles has organised a berth for you on a boat going back to Blighty. It’ll be a sort of Mediterranean cruise.”
“I don’t want to be stuck here on my tod.”
“Oh, you won’t be alone. Nat and Nan will be staying with you.”
“What!!!”
“Yeah. I suppose the old man doesn’t reckon they have a lot of Vera Lynn potential. I think he wants to give them a couple of weeks to cool off.”
“Cool off!’ What about me? They’ll kill me.”
“Don’t get hysterical, for gawd’s sake. And by the way, talking about killing people, you can drop Ricci Wop and his lads off at Naples.”
“Naples!”
“Yes. I said it was a bit of a cruise, didn’t I? I had a talk with Rosie about that geezer you know.”
“Oh, yes.” I can tell from Sid’s tone that he wants to impart reassurance.
“The dirty bastard got her tiddly, and then tried to ram his nasty up her. Took her back to his hut and got very unpleasant. She slapped his face and that was that.”
“So there was nothing to worry about?”
“No – well, I was never worried. You know me.”
“Yes, Sid.”
“It wasn’t anything to do with the principle we were talking about. I still feel the same about that. I just didn’t fancy the bloke. You know what I mean?”
“Yes, Sid.”
A week later I am standing with my suitcase on the deck of a small dirty steamer watching the crew leap around like excited monkeys while Nat and Nan casually decide which one they are going to screw first. The poor nautical sods don’t know what they are letting themselves in for. Ricci Volare is already hawking over the rail and the Isla de Amor is slipping beneath the ocean behind us – though I realise sadly, that this is only an optical illusion.
Mum has sent me a post card of a large tabby cat saying that they all got home safely and that Dad is in bed with a cold and has not been back to work yet. There is no word from Sid or Ted which does not surprise me.
Taking a last unloving look at the disappearing land mass I go below to check the lock on my cabin door. It won’t be long before the girls have exhausted the crew and you can’t be too careful.
A pity about Carmen. I would have liked to say goodbye to the girl. She probably could not face up to the sight of me leaving, or maybe she still has the needle because Sir Giles sloped off without her.
I open the door of my cabin, and check the bolt. Seems secure enough. Wedge a chair under the handle and I should be alright – for the first few days, anyway.