“Do her, Bertha!”
“Get stuck in, Diamonds.”
“Ooh, you dirty cow!”
“Watch your filthy mouth, you slut!”
“Come on ref. Get a grip.”
The referee is a fair-haired gangling youth wearing a Spades Holiday Host Blazer, who is vainly trying to keep control of the game without resorting to physical force. His smile is a bit frayed at the edge but it is still there.
“Come on,” he pipes. “Well done. Oh dear. I think we’d better have a free throw there, hadn’t we? Remember, it’s only a game, no need to get too excited. And could spectators keep off the court? Thank you very much. Right now, where’s the ball? The ball? Can we have the ball back, please?”
He gets the ball alright – straight in the mush from one of the crowd. There is no doubt about it, they take their games seriously at Melody Bay. I leave the poor sod to it as two women start pulling each other’s hair and the crowd surges on to the pitch and press forward to the Ocean Restaurant. Quite why it has this name it is difficult to know, unless the corrosive effect of the brine on its walls has anything to do with it. From close to it looks like a wet sponge.
Inside, I get my first view of the Melody Bay holidaymakers en masse and it’s obvious that they enjoy exercising their gnashers. Elbows are flying in all directions and there is hardly an H.P. sauce bottle which is not divebombing a plate. It is clear that food is provided on a self-service basis and behind a long counter a bevy of cooks in tall French Chef’s hats are ladling out goodies. The human voice is much in evidence but this is nearly drowned by the tannoy system which is dishing out a medley of “Workers’ Playtime’s greatest hits” interspersed with commercials for the pleasures to come: “Hello campers, we hope you are all enjoying your fine cured ham. We don’t know what went wrong with it but we think we have cured it real fine” – pause for silence – “but seriously folks, we just want to remind you that this evening the Swanee River Ramble will be taking place in the camp theatre at nineteen thirty hours – seven thirty to you old stagers – and that there will be prizes for the best riverboat costumes, gamblers, hustlers, cowpokes, saloon girls, you name it, we’re giving prizes for it, because remember:
“Welcome, welcome, you’re welcome at Melody Bay.
We all are here to please you and serve you in every way.”
Once the strains of the familiar dirge have faded away I approach the nearest Holiday Host and am directed to a thick-set curly-haired man of about thirty-five who is standing by one of the serving hatches and beaming at everyone approaching it in the manner of a vicar shaking hands with the congregation outside a church. As I draw near, he is addressing a neat redhead with a blouse knotted across her plump little tummy.
“O.K. luvvie. I should be through about twelve, I’ll leave the back door open for you.”
Quite how I should interpret these words in the light of my address from Mr. Francis I do not know, but no doubt there is a very simple explanation apart from the one that flashes across my sewer-soaked mind.
“Mr. Hotchkiss?” I say brightly, “my name is Timothy Lea.”
“Call me Ted. Hello Timmy. Yes. I heard you were on the way. Have a good trip, did you?”
He shakes my hand warmly and, although it is difficult to be certain in the presence of such all-pervading good cheer, seems genuinely glad to see me.
“Seen Mr. Hanky Panky, have you?” he continues. “Got the message about putting your Y-Fronts on back to front when you leave your chalet, laddie? Hey – look at the pair on that one. Grind you to death, wouldn’t they? Have you had anything to eat?”
“Er, no. What’s it like here?”
“The food? Diabolical. I don’t know what they do to it. The raw materials are alright, I’ve seen them. I think they play football with it, to tell you the truth. It’s alright if you like chips. You get chips with your cornflakes here.”
“But you never get any complaints?”
“Only medical ones. I’ve known times when it’s been more like sick bay than Melody Bay. No, the only complaints about the food are if it’s not covered in chips. Hello Gladys – she’s a goer, that one. I’ve still got the marks of her nails down the door of my chalet. Like bloody cats they are. She comes every year – and every five mintes, too, if you give her the chance.”
As I examine the plump bint leering at me through a mouthful of chips, it occurs to me to wonder what the Hosts who got sacked were like.
“She looks a big girl,” I observe conversationally.
“Big? She’s big alright. She loses things by sitting on them. And she’s strong with it. She knotted a putter round another bird’s neck on the crazy golf course.”
“You seem to take your sport pretty seriously here. There was quite a struggle going on when I passed the netball court.”
“It’s bloody murder sometimes. Last week a fight broke out during the ping pong tournament and they smashed the table to matchwood – and I mean matchwood. There wasn’t a piece you couldn’t pass through a windowpane. I know because they chucked most of them in here.”
“Why do they get like that?”
“It’s the system, isn’t it? I take it that Aunty Francis told you all about it? The whole idea is to keep people occupied during every waking moment and the best way of doing that is to divide them up into teams and make them play games against each other until they drop dead with exhaustion. That way they all reckon they are having a wonderful time. Of course, you have to allow for the competitive element getting a bit out of hand sometimes. It’s like being at a bleeding boarding school. There’s a cup for the suit that gets the most points in all the events and by the end of the fortnight, some of these buggers have turned into Kamikazi pilots. There’s even some that practise for weeks at home before they get here.”
“I didn’t see many people on the beach.”
“Well, you wouldn’t, would you? It’s not an amenity, is it? Who wants to mess about on a stinking old beach when they could be lashing out on rounds of drinks and watching a toddler’s fashion parade. The weather doesn’t help, either. We’ve only had six sunny days since Whitsun. Hello, Helen luv. Is the knee alright? Better? Good. I’ll be round with the Wintergreen like I promised. Ooh, did you hear that? They don’t care some of them, do they?”
“Ted. Mr. Francis was saying—”
“I know what he was saying. ‘No hanky panky.’ Yes, well, he’s got to say that, hasn’t he? I mean you can’t advertise the place as the biggest knocking shop north of The Wash, can you? But how many people would come here if there wasn’t the chance of a spot of slap and tickle. They’re not all bloody refugees from ‘It’s a Knockout’.”
“I realise that, Ted, but we’re not supposed to get mixed up with the customers, are we?”
“Do me a favour! You try telling that to Gladys and the rest of them. Forget what Francis says. You’re not employed as a Holiday Host here. You’re a stud. What do you think all the single birds come here for? They come to get poked rotten, and you, with your snazzy white jacket are the first prize. Being laid by a Host is what it’s all about, and this is a very competitive set-up, remember?”
“But I was warned—”
“O.K. You were warned. I won’t say another word. You put on your white blazer and see what happens. I’ll give you a Saint Timothy medal if you’re not fitting a yale lock on your chalet door before tomorrow night. Look at that bird over there, for instance, she obviously fancies you.”
I