Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea
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definitely.”
“How do I do?”
“Well, Carmen,” I say, sitting down on the bed beside her and taking her hand in mine.
“I think you should wait until the carnival this evening and …”
After our little chat Carmen wants to thank me in traditional Spanish style but I don’t really fancy it so soon after spaghetti features and, telling her that there will be plenty of time later, I skate round to the Fooderama. Here Ted is belting out details of the evening’s goodies in true Melody Bay fashion and I can almost hear the adrenalin starting to slurp round the flabby veins. They wolf down their baked jam roll and jet off to make grass skirts as if they were on piece-work. Sidney is exultant and almost back to his old cocky self.
“I think I’ve got everything lined up,” he says. “If everybody does their bit there shouldn’t be any slip-ups.”
“Oh, I’m glad to hear that,” I say. “Don’t forget the whole thing was my idea.”
“There’s a lot of difference between having an idea and being able to carry it out,” says Sid haughtily. Jesus, but he can be an ungrateful sod sometimes.
There is the usual doubt as to exactly when Sir G. is arriving so Sid goes across to the mainland and I get the reception committee dusting their plastic wreaths. Nat and Nan have entered into the spirit of things and gone topless with a few paper chains dangling over their boobs whilst Carmen has done the total Spanish bit: long frilly dress, hair in a bun, a rose behind her lughole and tits lined up like grapeshot. If you like knockers this is the island for you.
About four o’clock I see the first bus rolling up at the jetty and get everybody fell in. Chug, chug, chug and there is porridge puss standing up the sharp end with Sidney. There has been some doubt in our minds as to just how incognito Sir G.’s visit is going to be and this is resolved when he steps out of the boat wearing an immaculate tropical suit while a bloke in uniform struggles ashore behind him with about five pigskin suitcases.
“Ah, my dears,” says the great man spotting Nat and Nan. “Looking ravishing as always.”
“We’d rather look ravished,” says Nat bitterly.
“Here, have a lei, and good luck to all who sail in you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s what they call them. Ridiculous, isn’t it? I know the kind of lay I like.”
“Yes, my dear, your mother has told me but—ooh!”
He says this because, smelling trouble, I have pushed Carmen out there fast and as usual she has overdone things. I told her to put the wreath round his neck sensually – not tweak his balls.
“What kind of mood is he in?” I say to Sid who has slid over to my side.
“Difficult to say. I’ll tell you later after a few drinks.”
Sid steers Sir G. towards a few soothing beakers of passion fruit punch – a lethal concoction made to a centuries old Hawaiian recipe Ted and I invented that morning – while I tell the newcomers about the great time we’ve got lined up for them that evening. I can see one or two of them moistening their lips apprehensively at the sight of Nat and Nan but they will just have to learn to live with it. The rest of us have, and nobody has come to any harm yet, except Grunwald. Grunwald. Whatever happened to him?
Thinking about hairy tum reminds me of Dad and I pad round to his hut. He is exactly as I would wish to find him. Snoozing on his bed with a half empty bottle of Scotch cradled in his arms. I replace it with a full one, drawn from stock on Sidney’s authority, and creep away.
I meet Sid later when Sir G. has departed for a couple of hours’ kip before the festivities start.
“How was he?”
“Pretty good, really,” says Sid. “There was a nasty moment when he stood on one of the rat traps in the kitchen, but apart from that, it’s been alright.”
“He hasn’t started talking to any of the customers yet?”
“No. We’re alright there. He says he’s going to do that tonight.”
“Good. How about the punch?”
“He had two glasses. Not bad, eh? I topped them up with brandy to be on the safe side. He should be well away when he wakes up.”
“If he wakes up. We should never have put that liqueur in the punch.”
“What do you mean? Lots of those Spanish liqueurs have trees growing inside the bottle.”
“Yeah, but not mushrooms.”
“Oh well, it’s too late to do anything about it now. Have you checked on Dad?”
“I’ve just come from his hut. He’s well away. No sign of Mum though. Have you noticed how funny she’s been lately?”
“No. She always seems pretty strange to me.”
“Yeah, but she’s definitely very peculiar at the moment.”
“Maybe it’s the change of life?”
“I think she changed that years ago, but you could be right.”
“Anyway, she’s no problem tonight, so don’t worry about it. You concentrate on making sure that the paying customers have a great time.”
“O.K. Sid. I’m off to slip in to my grass skirt. You got one for Sir Giles, didn’t you?”
“It’s laid out at the foot of his bed and I’ve hidden all his other clobber so he’s got to wear it.”
“What time are you calling him?”
“Seven. I’m going to try and force a couple more drinks past his gums and then it’s the torchlight procession down to the beach, light the fires, get a couple of gallons of jungle juice inside everybody, a spot of dancing, Nat and Nan doing their stuff—”
“—Carmen doing her stuff.”
“—and all our troubles will be over.”
“All your troubles will be over, Sid.”
“Just as you like, Timmy boy. Just as you like. I can’t see how it can go wrong tonight.”
That’s the trouble with Sidney. He’s such a boody optimist. Of course, maybe that’s why he always comes up smelling of roses. I am a cautious realist who always takes his raincoat with him, and it doesn’t get me anywhere.
By seven thirty there is a big crowd milling about outside the Candlelight Casino and Ted is compering the Carnival Queen Contest while we wait for it to get dark enough to light the torches. A fair amount of liquor is also swilling about so that by the time Miss Maureen Dribble of Tring is blushing unnoticeably at the prospect of receiving her prize most people are already pleasantly smashed.
Sir Giles is going to do the honours and I note with interest that he stumbles as he comes down the steps of Sid’s bungalow. With his red face and bloated white body he looks like a half-painted skittle. The grass skirt doesn’t do much for him either.
“Very well done, my dear. Your mother must be proud of you,” he chortles, and slipping the winner’s wreath over both their necks he delivers a right plonker smack on the lips. Miss Dribble who has been specially selected for her goer potential takes this in good part and the crowd cheers enthusiastically and offers advice of the “Get stuck in, dad!” variety. It is obvious that Sir G. is prepared to let his hair down when beyond the shores of Blighty, and this cannot be bad. The grass skirts are also a good idea because they give people something to talk about, and I hear a couple of blokes telling birds that they intend to mow the grass later.
The next move is to light the torches and this is effected with only minor damage to one geezer’s grass skirt and marriage