The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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in this place.
After the events of the last couple of hours, it is with a feeling of pure horror that I see Mr. “Hanky Panky” Francis himself approaching as I stagger down the pathway that leads from my chalet. No doubt the maid has cracked under interrogation, or one of the informers rumoured to lurk amongst the holidaymakers, has squealed. As he comes nearer I cast down my eyes and cold fear invades my person.
“Afternoon, laddie,” he observes, “keeping your end up?”
I give him a bit of an old fashioned look at that one, but his expression does not suggest any secondary meaning to that normally associated with the phrase.
“Keep smiling,” he observes and, flashing his Ted Heath’s, wanders on his way.
Fortunately, I find two nice kids from Billericay, which I always thought was in Ireland, to row me round the boating lake all afternoon. In this manner I can conserve my energies and consider what I am going to do about the evening. Obviously, Mrs. Married, Janet and Else are going to expect big things from me but they must realise that I am just one of the judges. I can’t make them all first equal, even if I wanted to. On the other hand, being women, they will probably still turn nasty if they end up as also-rans. Janet and Else are the ones I am worried about most. With Mrs. Married it was just a question of giving her confidence a boost, but the other two would lay the whole panel of judges if they thought – wait a minute! – the germ of an idea begins to form in my disgusting little mind.
Telling my little playmates to row me swiftly to the shore, I make my way to the camp office and obtain a list of the judges and contestants. There are four of the former, including the camp chaplain – who may present a bit of a problem, Francis, Ted and myself. Twelve contestants, or finalists as they are now called, have been assembled.
Seizing a spare typewriter, I construct a note stating that the judges will be pleased to interview finalists, before the contest, to obtain an idea of their interests and hobbies, and to form an impression of their personalities in more relaxed surroundings than those that will be pertaining at the contest itself.
This little masterpiece I then stuff under the doors of Janet and Else’s chalets, reckoning that Mrs. Married will take defeat in her stride provided that the audience does not actually pelt her with rocks.
How my little plan succeeds I can only guess but when we assemble in the scrutineer’s office behind the stage, it is obvious that Ted is looking decidedly knackered. Even the chaplain looks a bit pale but that is probably my imagination.
“Very strange,” says Francis, “but when I came back to my bungalow this evening, I found this garment stuffed through the letterbox with a note attached to it.”
The garment he is referring to is the top half of an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, yellow polka dot bikini.
“What did the note say?” says Ted.
“Come round to chalet 75 and collect the other half.”
“Surely the expression is ‘the better half,’” says the chaplain.
“Depends which way you look at it,” says Ted.
“My wife is not in the habit of wearing such garments let alone sending me parts of them to suggest meeting places,” says Francis coldly.
“No, of course not,” says the chaplain hurriedly. “It must have been some kind of practical joke.”
“And in very poor taste, too. Who do we have in chalet 75?”
“You didn’t go round, then?” I say, proving what a stupid berk I can be. Francis rounds on me like I have suggested fitting out the Nipperdrome with contraceptive machines.
“Of course I didn’t go,” he hisses. “What kind of man do you think I am?”
This is quite a taxing question but luckily I don’t have time to answer it.
“Number 75 contains a Miss Elsie Worple and a Miss Pearl Barr,” says Ted. “I know Miss Worple—er slightly. She’s in the contest tonight.”
“Really.” The way Francis says it I know Else’s chances have disappeared up the spout.
“Young people today can behave in the most extraordinary fashion,” says the chaplain, “ah well, I suppose we must fortify our nerves for the test ahead.”
He directs his gaze towards the table laid out with sherry and twiglets and we all nod solemnly and start tucking in.
It is obvious that the fortnightly Holiday Queen contest is something of an occasion and this is brought home to me when we file out onto the judges’ rostrum.
The hall is packed and the noise that greets our appearance suggests that most of those attending are, as usual, pretty well oiled. The Holiday Queen contest comes at the end of an evening of dancing, spot prizes, talent contests and what are laughingly called cabaret acts. As we take our seats so Waldo the Unbelievable – with a conviction for perjury to prove it – is chucking flaming carving knives at his wife. What danger there is comes mainly from the risk of one of them igniting his breath – Waldo, it is rumoured, takes a drop of the hard stuff to frighten his nerves away before every performance.
No sooner are we settled than Maestro Freddy Newbold brings his baton down as if executing someone and the orchestra delivers a silencing chord. This is the signal for dapper Holiday Host Henry to spring forward and deliver a few words about the pleasures to come:
“Laydees and Gentlemen, boys and girls, chaps and chapesses, now is the moment you have all been waiting for. The Holiday Queen contest. We have a bevy of outstanding beauties waiting in the wings but before you feast your eyes on them, I’d like to introduce our panel of judges. First—” He rambles on like this for a while and we each stand up and take a bow. Ted gets a big reception, especially from the birds, but I don’t expect this does him any good with Francis. With my glass of water and my “scrutineers” form and pencil in front of me, I feel a bit of a lad and am almost beginning to enjoy myself, when the first bird teeters on to the platform to roars from the crowd.
Each contestant has to walk across the stage, climb a short flight of steps onto a platform, do her bit to electrify the judges and descend the other side. The first bird is obviously terrified out of her tiny mind and you can’t blame her. The noise that greets her must make her feel she is running out on to the pitch at Hampden Park and not all of it is encouragement – inter-suit rivalry dies hard at Melody Bay. Coupled with this, she is a bird who could only have entered the contest when drunk or for a bet. It does not look as if she has ever worn high heels before, because she staggers across the stage like a kid wearing its mum’s shoes for the first time. Her hands, which are supposed to be holding a card with her suit emblem and number on it, are itching for something better to occupy them and she starts tugging down the back of her costume as she walks. The whole effect is almost too painful to watch and I can see that the ascent to the rostrum is going to be a mini-Everest. Biting her lip, she makes it, attempts to do a turn, nearly falls off and sheds one of her heels. The audience roars and the poor chick loses her last drop of self control. Determined to get the hell out of it at a rate of knots, she hobbles down the steps on one and a half shoes, bursts into tears and runs from the stage. “Run” is the wrong word because what she does looks more like an event left over from one of Uncle Sam’s obstacle races. Even compere Henry who could make a commentary on the crucifixion sound like Andy Pandy meets Big Ears is temporarily lost for words. Eventually he calls for a big hand – which is something I have been waiting to give him ever since we met – and the next contestant appears.
This is Mrs. Married who gives a very good account of herself in the circumstances. I note that there appear to be a few bruises around her upper thighs, but I do not hold this against her in my marking, which is generous.
Next comes another couple of bints who deserve marks for their sheer courage in entering and whose embarrassed red flushes are indistinguishable from birthmarks. Then Janet. Her approach resembles one of those gymnastic birds you see on the tele on Saturday afternoon when you are waiting for the 15.30 from Chepstow. All arched