Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions. Timothy Lea

upsetting Rosie. Don’t make it too obvious. You know what I mean?”

      Sidney does not like that because he starts tugging at his moustache as if he wants to tear it out of his mush and his face turns an ugly red colour.

      “You’ve got a bloody cheek talking to me like that. You’re still an employee of Funfrall Enterprises, you know, not a bleeding marriage guidance counsellor. I know how to handle Rosie, don’t you worry about that.”

      “I just think it’s bloody stupid having both of them out here.”

      “I don’t see why I should deny Rosie a holiday just because Marcia’s here. She’s been on at me long enough about it. Look, Timmy. We’re in the nineteen seventies. Rosie and I have a modern marriage. If I fancy a quick fling with some bird, Rosie doesn’t mind. She knows I’ll still be mending the kid’s bike on Saturday morning. We’re grown-up people. All that faithfulness bit isn’t the B.O. and end-all, you know.”

      “Supposing Rosie fancied a bit on the side?”

      Sid swallows hard.

      “Well, of course it’s not very likely to happen, is it? She’s got the house and the kid and—and me.”

      “And supposing she did?”

      “Well, it would be just the same. What’s sauce for the goose, is sauce for the gander. The sex thing is pretty unimportant. We put too much emphasis on it. It’s what happens up here that keeps marriage alive.” Sid taps his nut.

      “That’s very broad-minded, Sid.”

      “Well, like I said. You’ve got to move with the times. Attitudes change. Now, don’t worry about Mum and Dad or Rosie. Everything is going to be alright. You leave it to me. If you want to do something useful, get out there and find that bleeder Grunwald.”

      So I pad off with my mind full of the new Sidney and thinking how he has changed. When Sid used to live with us in Scraggs Road he and Dad were after each other’s guts, twenty four hours a day. Now he is giving the miserable old bleeder a free holiday. And as for all this free love stuff, I just don’t get it. I always thought Sid was the possessive type.

      The sun is battering down out of a cloudless sky and, as the alternative is painting a white line round the edge of the ping pong table, I decide to take Sid at his word and go and look for Grunwald. Somebody has broken into the camp kitchen which, as Ted observes, is a clear indication of desperation, and it is generally reckoned to have been Grunwald. This notion is supported by the fact that all the pairs of shorts left out have been put through the mincing machine.

      I wander amongst the pines and find a path which winds down towards the sea. It is cool and dark under the trees with only occasional shafts of sunlight breaking through the thick foliage. Soon I can see patches of blue dodging behind the trunks and when I emerge it is to gaze down on an endless jumble of rocks looking like an upturned box of kids’ building bricks. Half the height of a house some of them are, and they start piling up right at the water’s edge. At first this leads me to think that there can’t be any beach, but as I walk along I can see the occasional tiny cove – and I don’t mean Wee Georgie Wood – nestling amongst the rocks with its own private beach, empty and inviting.

      But not always empty. In the middle of one patch of sand a young woman wearing a bikini is lying on her stomach and reaching behind her back to release the catch of her bra. I hate to see her risking pulling a muscle when I would be only too ready to offer my services. Especially as the young lady in question is the lovely Marcia. She unhooks her bra, arranges each strap neatly on either side of her and rests her head on her hands. Very methodical girl, Miss Trimbody. I find her cool, self-contained style very appealing after some of the ravers I have been struggling with lately. I continue to watch her slim, lithe body dozing in the sunshine and ponder my next move. Any bloke with a spark of decency in him would of course tiptoe quietly away and go home to catalogue his stamp collection.

      Unfortunately, though I can on occasions strike sparks, not one of them has ever had decency stamped on it. My first reaction is the one that is still with me ten minutes and a fair dose of eye-strain later: how can I get the rest of her costume off? I could ask her to take it off nicely, or bash her over the nut with a rock, but neither of these methods seems quite right. In the end, I settle for my normal approach: the one foot in front of the other, followed by the nervous pause while I wait to hear what I am going to say.

      In this case it is “sorry! I didn’t mean to frighten you” because just as I am drawing up beside her and about to cough discreetly, she suddenly sits up and starts to wriggle out of her bikini bottom. She has got it down to the knees when for some reason she turns and sees me gawping at her. Quick as a flash, she crosses her legs and drops her hands over her pubes.

      “What do you want? What do you want?” she shrills.

      Of course, I could tell her, but again, I don’t think it is the right moment.

      “I’ll look the other way,” I say, turning my back on her and holding before me like a photograph the memory of her shapely little breasts and upturned nipples. “I am sorry.”

      “What are you doing here?”

      “I was looking for Grunwald and doing a bit of exploring at the same time. It’s nice here, isn’t it?”

      “Not if you’re being spied on when you’re sunbathing.”

      “I wasn’t spying. I saw you from up there and you were lying so still I thought something might be wrong. Can I turn round now?”

      I whip round but she has everything on again and is flicking the sand off her bra. Grrrh!

      “You could have shouted.”

      “Yes, I suppose so. But I didn’t want to frighten you.”

      “It was a jolly sight more frightening turning round and suddenly seeing you standing there.”

      “Yes—er—do you mind if I sit down?”

      “Be my guest. It’s a free beach. What there is of it.”

      “There’s not a lot of sand, is there?”

      “For what is supposed to be a Mediterranean holiday island, I think it’s incredible.”

      “Sidney wouldn’t like to hear you say that.”

      “I’ve already said it to him. I told him that the whole place was a disaster. I don’t see how any sane person could disagree with me.”

      “Well, I hope it goes alright for Sidney’s sake.”

      “Don’t worry about Sidney. He’s one of nature’s survivors. He’ll be alright.”

      “How long have you worked for him?”

      “About six months, I think. The length of time he’s been Promotions Manager.”

      “What’s he like to work for?”

      “We have our ups and downs—” she sees me looking at her when she says that, and blushes. “He’s a very volatile man. Lots of drive, impatient, reckless, his assessment of situations can be terribly wrong sometimes – but I don’t have to tell you all this. You’re his brother-in-law, aren’t you?”

      “Yes. You sound as if you like him.”

      “I do. I like brash, aggressive men. Maybe I want to be dominated. It’s probably all very Freudian.”

      She looks out to sea and lets a handful of sand trickle through her fingers. This is quite a class bird, I think to myself.

      “Are you lobbying on behalf of your sister? I haven’t got anything big going with Sidney.”

      I pick up some sand and pour it gently on to her pile.

      “I wasn’t thinking about that. I was concentrating on number one, as usual.”

      Our hands brush against each other and she makes no