Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea

mention those words,” he hisses. “There is no other Holiday Host than a Funfrall holiday Host. We do not recognise the existence of any competition.”

      He sounds as if he is reading the words off a fiery tablet and I don’t mean the kind you take for tummy upsets.

      “O.K. O.K.” I say. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I was only asking. What the the chances of me becoming a—a Holiday Host?”

      Sidney leans back in his swivel chair and puts his finger tips together in a gesture he must have borrowed from “The Power Game”.

      “It depends,” he says. “Do you play any musical instruments?”

      “I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

      “Can you do conjuring tricks?’

      “No.”

      “Are you of instructor standard at any popular recreational activities?”

      “Well—I—er—”

      “I didn’t mean that! What about children. Do you like children?”

      “I like little Jason,” I lisp untruthfully.

      “That’s why he bursts into tears every time he sees you, I suppose?”

      “I think he’s a bit highly strung,” I murmur, thinking that about six feet off the ground would be favourite.

      “What about dancing. Tap or Modern Ballroom?”

      “You know I don’t go for that kind of thing.” Rape, arson, murder, yes. But ballroom dancing? Do me a favour!

      “And women. How do you reckon you would get on with our lady visitors?”

      “Birds? Now you’re talking, Sid. All those love-lorn little darlings looking for a bit of slap and tickle. I’ll be in there like a vat of Enos. You know me Sid—I’ll—”

      “Forget it!” Sidney bashes his hand down on his paper knife and bites back the pain.

      “As a Holiday Host for Funfrall Enterprises, you would be the repository of a sacred trust. Your role is that of a happy holiday guide, counsellor and friend – not some sex-mad raver trying to shove his nasty up every bint on the camp.”

      “Beautifully put, Sid,” I observe. “At least, the first part was. Straight out of the text book. But, how can you say it. I mean you of all people! Do you remember Liz and the toolshed. How you—”

      “Yes, yes,” he gabbled, rising to his feet, “but things have changed since then. You’ve got to develop a sense of responsibility in this business, I’ve got a position to think of.”

      “Quite a few of them, if I remember rightly,” I observe, “and by the way, your flies are undone.”

      You don’t often see Sidney lost for words but his mouth gapes open like a serving hatch and he strikes sparks as he yanks his zip up.

      “I bet she leaves the cover off her typewriter, too,” I say. For a second I think he is going to belt me but then he relaxes and the veins go underground again.

      “Sit down and shut up,” he says. “Go on, sit down. I want to talk to you. Look, Timmy. I’m going to be honest with you.”

      When Sidney says that, strong men start checking their wallets. “If it wasn’t for Rosie, I wouldn’t give you a job cleaning up after an elephant act. But I know that if I don’t, she’ll nag the bleeding arse off me.”

      “Thank you, Sid,” I say, interpreting the way things are going.

      “Don’t thank me. I’m only doing it because I like sleeping at night. And let me make it quite clear. You cock this one up, and Rosie or no Rosie, I’ll flog your balls to a driving range. Are you with me?”

      “Yes, Sidney. How do you see me fitting in?”

      Sidney snorts and fiddles in one of his drawers. “Don’t tempt me. I’ve got a job here for a Host at Melody Bay. The last one—oh, it doesn’t matter what happened to the last one.”

      “Melody Bay? I’ve never heard of it.”

      Sidney goes over to a wall map of the British Isles and jabs his finger at it.

      “I didn’t know they had seaside up there.”

      Sidney jabs again.

      “This blue bit is sea and it stretches all round the country. That’s why we’re an island.”

      “I knew that, Sidney. It’s just that I never—oh well, it doesn’t matter. What do I have to do?”

      “I’ll give you a book about that and they’ll tell you when you get there. It’s what you don’t do that I’m interested in.”

      “Yes, Sidney.”

      “Lay off the campers. If you’re caught on the job with a guest, you’re out of one. Got it?”

      “Yes, Sidney.”

      “It isn’t always easy. By gawd it isn’t.”

      Sidney gazes ceilingwards like a man who has had to withstand terrible temptations in his time.

      “If you must indulge choose a Funfrall employee.”

      “Like your secretary, Sid?”

      Sidney momentarily closes his eyes as he controls himself.

      “There are Funfrall Hostesses, and you are, of course, free to make such arrangements with them out of working hours as you may mutually deem fitting.”

      “Where did you learn to speak like that?” I ask, because this is a new dimension to the Sid I used to know.

      “We use all the latest training techniques from the States,” says Sid smugly.

      “I’ve just come back from a Method in Management course and we pay a lot of attention to organisation and forward planning.”

      “How did you get taken on in the first place?”

      “I knew somebody.”

      I have a lot more questions, like how much bread I am going to get, but suddenly Sidney’s telephone lets out a non-stop high-pitched shriek and a red light on the top starts flashing angrily. Sidney snatches it up like it might explode at any second and the expression on his phizog combines elements of fear and panic.

      “Yes, Sir Giles,” he yelps. “Yes, yes—I have—nearly finished —it’s right—” He tears open another drawer and starts throwing files on to the floor until he finds what he wants.

      “I was just completing the figures—interview—yes—no—yes—alright. I’ll just look it up.” He presses a buzzer on his desk and his secretary shoots through the door like from a catapult. “Is the Miss Globe file up to date?” he screeches, slamming his mit over the mouthpiece. The girl shakes her head and I am glad to see that the red flush on her neck has subsided, leaving only a couple of toothmarks. “I haven’t had time—I—”

      “Oh my God!”

      Sidney applies his quivering lips to the mouthpiece again. “Hello, Sir Giles. I’m afraid it’s not here. I lent it to Jefferson to have a look at. Yes. Yes. I know—Yes, yes—I know—I know—Yes, I know, I know.”

      “Why doesn’t he come right out with it and say he knows?” I remark to the girl, “I hate people who are always beating around the bush.”

      “Bugger,” says Sidney, slamming down the telephone.

      “Have you got the up-to-date entry figures? Thank God. Add ’em up quick will you, darling, otherwise I’m up the schittenstrasse mitout ein paddle.” He turns back to me. “Right, I’ve got to go now.”

      “So I gather.”