Confessions from a Package Tour
Confessions from a Package Tour
Rosie Dixon
Lather on the suncream and have a dip…The CONFESSIONS series, the brilliant sex comedies from the 70s, available for the first time in eBook.Sun, sea, sand and plenty of skimpy bathing suits. Rosie just wants a quiet holiday, but it turns out she’s the main attraction on the sea-front.Also available:CONFESSIONS OF A BABYSITTERCONFESSIONS OF A PHYSICAL WRACCONFESSIONS OF A LADY COURIER and many more!
Confessions from a Package Tour
BY ROSIE DIXON
Contents
Title Page (#u41e8f9f4-cf97-51e8-b9d3-9cee6dcdf69b)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Timothy Lea and Rosie Dixon
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1 (#u3625f8ca-4c84-5d2b-8545-0b724f187fca)
When the SS Foreskeen finally docks at Antwerp I can hardly wait for the cattle to be driven ashore before leaving the coach. It is very cramped in that hold and after sixteen hours you can imagine the smell – the cattle don’t smell very nice either.
But perhaps I am going too fast. For the benefit of new readers let me start at the end. The end of Confessions of a Lady Courier. I am employed by Climax Tours (‘The Europe the others forgot’ – you must have seen their advertisements?) and my boss is Nicholas Bendon or Justin Cartwright or Benedict Jollybags or Jeremy Rafelsen-Bigg – for some reason that I can never quite understand, he keeps changing his name; something to do with wanting to be more people than he really is, I think. I always call him by his last name – I mean, the last name he has given himself. At the moment it is Reginald Parkinson.
Anyway, Reggy has hired me to take a coach party round Europe – there is also the driver, a strange Latvian called Jaroslov Hammerchick, but he doesn’t really count – not higher than ten, anyway. For days I have been trying to get the coach out of the country but you have no idea how difficult that can be – unless you have read Confessions of a Lady Courier. In the end, faced with gale force winds in the Channel, I am left with no alternative but to take the only means of escape available: a cattle boat travelling to Antwerp. I think it will be calmer once we get round the corner into the North Sea, but not a bit of it. We can’t see much in the hold but my tummy feels as if it is being swished around with an electric mixer. What really frightens me is when, all of a sudden, large quantities of water pour down the stairs. You can imagine the feeling, can’t you? I mean, you feel pretty trapped sitting in a coach in the bottom of a clapped-out cattle boat with the lights flickering on and off – mostly off – without that happening. And the crew! Panamanians they call themselves though it should be Panamaniacs. I have nothing against foreigners but this lot are really grubby. You don’t have to understand what they are saying to know what they mean. I certainly made no agreement with the captain that they were entitled to have sexual relations with any woman in the party under sixty and all this pinching and gesticulating is so vulgar. I do wish our lot would not do it. It only inflames the excitable citizens of Central America more. It is amazing how the most sober women seem to go berserk the moment the boat puts to sea. Maybe it is something to do with the ozone though I can’t see how any of them can smell it. What with the cattle and the cramped conditions the interior of the hold is more like the BO zone.
It is with a feeling of the most tremendous relief that I eventually come down the steps of the coach and set foot on – oh! Filthy animal! Why did it have to do that there? The inside of the boat was bad enough without the quay at Antwerp receiving the same treatment. It always amazes me how such dirty animals can produce all those nice things like butter, milk and those little creamy cheese segments with the pretty labels.
I scrape my shoe against a convenient bollard and look around the cobbled quay carefully. The cattle are disappearing towards a line of railway trucks and I wish that my own problems could be as easily solved. The first night of our ‘magic carpet ride through the cultural cornucopia of historic Europe’ was meant to be spent on the borders of the ‘romantic Rhineland’ but that was three days ago now and there seems little hope of us ever catching up with our schedule. It is half past six in the evening and a lot of those customers not bidding tearful farewells to weak-kneed Panamanians are suggesting very forcibly that they would like to go to a hotel. What am I going to do?
‘Yoo hoo, Rosie! Here I am!’ The familiar voice rings in my ears like the sound of the relieving cavalry’s bugler at the end of a John Wayne movie. I turn, and there she is – Penny! My companion in a number of adventures listed at the end of this book and fellow employee of Climax Tours. Reggy had said that he was going to send Penny to give me a hand but I had not expected her to arrive so soon.
‘Penny!’ I trill. ‘What a marvellous surprise. But how did you get here so soon? You’re looking so fresh and relaxed.’
‘I flew to Brussels and got a taxi. It was terribly easy, darling. Did you have a good trip? I hope you don’t mind me saying so but you’re looking a trifle peaky?’
‘Next time, I’ll take the Titanic if there’s a choice,’ groans Mr Betts, dumping a string bag full of baked beans tins on the quayside – Sid and Martha Betts do not trust foreign food.
‘Try not to sound quite so enthusiastic,’ I whisper to Penny. ‘The journey so far has not been a resounding success.’
‘Mine has,’ says Penny. ‘You know how they’re always saying that airline stewards are queer? Well, I can prove differently. Tamberlaine was unbelievable. The minute our eyes met I knew it was something special. The first class was empty so he invited me in for a quick one.’
‘A drink?’ I say.
‘No, darling. Procreation practice. The first time was heaven, but it was when he made me a life member of “The Mile High Club” that sparks really started to fly.’
‘How high was it?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know, darling, but it seemed to be nudging my lower rib sometimes.’
‘I don’t mean that!’ I say, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment rush over me. ‘I meant how high was the plane?’
‘Excuse me,’ interrupts a slightly irritable voice. ‘Are we going to stay here all night? I haven’t slept in a bed since I left home. I don’t think it’s good enough. I came on this holiday because I was run down.’
‘Well, you’re going to be run down again if you stand there,’ says Penny, cheerfully. ‘You’re smack in the middle of the railway track.’
The man skips out of the way as the cattle train pulls out. ‘Look at all those lovely moo cows,’ says Penny. ‘They’ve got such soft faces, haven’t they?’
The man looks as if he is going to say something unpleasant and then controls himself. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much if we’d got off before the cows,’ he grumbles.
‘They don’t have the same passport formalities as us,’ says Penny. ‘Life is much easier if you’re a cow.’
Once again the man opens his mouth and I deem it best to step in hurriedly – not in his mouth, of course.
‘We’ll soon be on our way,’ I say. ‘We’ll just wait for everybody to – er finish.’
It is terrible embarrassing because half the male passengers were in the middle of answering a call of nature behind the train when it pulled out. Now they are all facing us with their little pink front botties waggling in the wind. I turn away and find myself looking through one of the portholes of the Foreskeen. Another of our passengers, Mrs Lapes, is demonstrating that she is prone to other things beside accidents. Her flabby white buttocks rise and fall like a half-collapsed tent agitated by a playful breeze. Beneath her, one of the stokers opens his mouth and delivers himself of a silent scream. Either the porthole glass is too thick or, as seems more likely, the poor devil is too exhausted to raise a sound.
I do hope that these distressing events are not a foretaste of what is to come during the rest of the holiday.
CHAPTER 2 (#u3625f8ca-4c84-5d2b-8545-0b724f187fca)
An hour later I am feeling in a much happier frame of mind. Reginald Parkinson has revealed himself as possessing all the qualities of instant decision-making and dynamism that I secretly attributed to him. He has appreciated that ‘the punters’ as he so endearingly calls the paying customers will be feeling ‘a trifle knackered’ as Penny so colourfully puts it, and will be eager to put their heads down – not quite in the same way as was Mrs Lapes when I last dared to look at her, I hope. To this end, he has booked the party in at what I first take to be the Hotel Twerp – I later find that the ‘An’ has fallen off, as has the service, food and one or two other features vital to the efficient running of any hotel.
However, as I stand beside Penny in the reception and watch our charges carrying their bags upstairs while the porters play Dutch auction bridge, such thoughts are far from my mind. ‘All I want is a bath,’ I breathe. ‘I can’t wait to expose myself to those suds.’
‘What sods?’ says Penny, sounding interested. ‘Did you pick up some sailors on your trip? Nice going, you can’t beat a jolly jack –’
‘I said “suds”!’ I say. ‘I’m talking about a bath. That’s the only thing I’m interested in.’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Penny. ‘It’s your quaint accent. I find you very difficult to understand sometimes.’
I am feeling rather bitter towards Penny because of the cushy trip she has had out here, and this high-handed remark does nothing to improve my mood. Penny is very nice but she can be rather thoughtless sometimes. If you are born with a silver spoon in your mouth it can be uncomfortable for other people beside your mother.
‘What rooms do we have?’ asks Penny.
‘You?’ says the man behind the desk sounding surprised. ‘I am very sorry but we do not have any more rooms. They have all been taken by your party.’ He says something to one of the porters at the card table who shakes his head. ‘I had hoped that the Royal Suite might be vacant but they have not finished fumigating it yet. We had one of your famous British pop gropes here.’
‘Excuse me,’ I say, suppressing a smile. ‘I think you mean “group” not “grope”.’
‘You did not see them,’ says the man, shaking his head. ‘Many of the older people had not experienced anything like it since the British Army liberated the town.’
‘How historical,’ I say. ‘What do you suggest we do about finding accommodation?’
The man shrugs. ‘There are some hotels down by the docks. They are not so luxurious as this, but…’ his voice trails away as we watch another guest leaving the dining room on a stretcher.
‘I tell you what,’ says Penny. ‘Your need is greater than mine – at least, in some ways it is. You go off and find a hotel and I’ll finish tidying up here. You don’t know the Belgian for “stomach pump”, do you?’
I shake my head. ‘Are you sure that’s all right?’ In my heart of hearts I am dying to eacape. I am very fond of all of my charges – well, some of them are all right – but we have seen a lot of each other in the last few days. Jimmy Wilson, the filthy sex-mad beast who forced his unwanted attentions on me in the bathroom of my own home (see Confessions of a Lady Courier for distressing details), has recovered sufficiently from his ocean ordeal to start making suggestive remarks about where he wants to spend the night and it might be a good idea if I slept in another building. Wilson has convinced himself that I said he could come to my room on our first night abroad and in my present state of mental and physical exhaustion the very thought is enough to give me the vapours.
At the risk of boring regular readers I think it a good idea if I digress for a moment to explain my attitude to sexual matters. In these lax times, nobody who has principles that they are prepared to stand by should feel ashamed of shouting them from the mountain top until the cows come home. I am not a prude, far from it, but I do feel that the tide of licentiousness sweeping through the streets of our homeland is threatening to carry us away with it. As that nice lady with the ornamental spectacles has pointed out, the Roman Empire started to crumble when its citizens stopped wearing anything under their togas. It is all too easy to behave in a way that one does not totally believe in because one is afraid of being thought ‘square’ but I am one of the silent majority who is prepared to stand up and be counted. I believe that one’s body is a pre-packed deep frozen pork cutlet that should be delivered to the eventual purchaser with the polythene seal unbroken. In other words, I do not believe in sex before marriage. I am proud to say that I prize my virginity more than any other possession. But – and it can be a big but, sometimes – there are different kinds of virginity. I have always found it necessary to separate the physical act of being rent asunder by a gigantic pussy pummeller from the far more important question of one’s mental attitude to the occurrence. It seems to me that if one can honestly say that the whole distressing business took place without any conscious willingness on one’s part, then one’s virgin status is not impaired – if anything, it is strengthened by this baptism of fire. How can you say that you are a real virgin until you have experienced what you are supposed to resist? The devil you know makes a far more satisfying victim for one’s principles than the devil one doesn’t know. In the course of my adventures I have been the victim of many disturbing happenings but never once have I felt my principles irretrievably compromised. Get some principles and stick to them is my advice to all young girls who find themselves puzzled and uncertain in these troubled times – oh, and get yourself on the pill if you can. There are some very unscrupulous men about.
‘You go and find a hotel and give me a ring,’ says Penny. ‘I’ll tuck this lot up and come whizzing over. We might make a night of it. I feel like shaking a leg.’
I suppress a groan. If I shook a leg I think it might fall off. After my much-needed bath it is going to be bed for this little lady.
As I prepare to leave I see one of the party approaching, looking like a bearer of bad tidings. ‘I can’t make the tap in our room work,’ she says.
‘Which one?’ says the man behind the desk helpfully. I think he is talking about the room number but the woman produces a tap. ‘This one,’ she says.
At the same instant, a muffled shout can be heard from the top of the stairs. ‘Hurry up, Myrtle! I can’t keep my finger in much longer. It’s going numb!’ Penny leads a stampede for the stairs and I make my escape. Perhaps, on the whole, it is a very good job that we are going to spend the night in a different hotel.
Tired as I am, I cannot help feeling excited as I walk through the streets. At last I have set foot on foreign concrete. All around me are men and women who speak a different language, eat different foods, sleep in different beds. It is all so new and stimulating. Even the smells are different. Strange to think that only a few days before I had been leading a humdrum existence in Chingford – or West Woodford as Mum prefers to call it. What would the family do if they could see me now, striding through what I suppose must be the docks? Certainly, there are a lot of masts and smokestacks poking above the low roofs. How nice it would be if I could find a quaint little waterfront hotel in which to spend the night. Dusk is falling fast and the red lights are coming on all around me. It is very picturesque.
‘Hey, you jig, jig, focky, focky?’ I suppose that the language the man is speaking must be Flemish. I have never heard anything like it before. He is probably asking if I have a light.
‘I no smoky,’ I say, holding an imaginary cigarette to my lips and shaking my head from side to side.
The man looks disappointed and shoves his hands deeper into the pockets of his seamen’s jacket. ‘No luck?’ he says – at least, I think it must be ‘no luck’. The way he pronounces his words it sounds more like ‘no suck’, though that wouldn’t make sense, would it?
I shake my head again; he says something else I can’t understand and wanders unsteadily up the street. I do hope that he is all right. I watch him go up to another woman who listens to what he has to say and then steers him towards a doorway. She is no doubt going to give him succour. Oh dear, I feel like one of those people in the Bible who passed by on the other side. If only all the Belgians were able to speak English as well as the man at the Hotel Twerp – I mean, Antwerp.
My suitcase is beginning to get heavy so I look round eagerly for signs of a hotel. There are lots of bars and one or two clubs but no – wait a minute! There we are: Hotel de Plaisir. Luckily my French is good enough to tell me what it means: Hotel of Pleasure. Sounds jolly enough, doesn’t it? It is a bit shabby, set into the wall of the narrow street, but I suppose you could say that its condition adds to its charm. Certainly, the large red light above the door bathes the front of the building in a warm, welcoming glow.
I go through the door and am faced by a counter, behind which stands a small fat man wearing a beret and a hooped T-shirt. His moustache might have been applied with an eyebrow pencil and he looks at me suspiciously.
‘Good evening,’ I say cheerfully. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘Little,’ says the man unenthusiastically. I notice that he smells of garlic – in fact, everything seems to smell of garlic.
‘I’d like a room for two people,’ I say.
The man’s face splits into the imitation of a smile. ‘Good thinking,’ he says. ‘What you try to say? You want to work ’ere?’
‘I want to spend the night here with my friend – my girl-friend.’ I add that hurriedly because I don’t want the man to get the wrong idea.
‘You both working, are you?’
‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘My friend is at the Hotel Twit – I mean Twerp – I mean Antwerp, at the moment.’
‘Business good?’ says the man, starting to light an evil-smelling cigarette.
‘We’ve put up sixty tonight,’ I say, not without a touch of pride.
The man stubs his match against the end of his cigarette. ‘Sixty?! And now you want to come ’ere? On Sunday night? With the Russian one ’undredth and forty-second fleet paying a goodwill visit?’
‘It all helps to add a little colour, doesn’t it?’ I say gaily. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to squeeze us in?’
‘With your work rate, I would be imbecile not to,’ says the man, revealing a new sense of urgency and purpose. ‘Come, I show you to room.’
‘What time is dinner?’ I ask as, what I assume to be the manager, leads the way upstairs. ‘I could eat a horse.’
‘You could eat a whore’s what?’ says the manager, stopping on the bend of the stairs and looking at me suspiciously. ‘We no want any cabaret acts ’ere. Our customers are simple seafaring men who in most cases crave only the satisfaction of the most basic of appetites.’
‘Just like me,’ I say. ‘I don’t want anything fancy. Just something good, solid, substantial and filling.’
‘Y-e-es.’ The manager scratches the front of his trousers in a way that I find rather uncouth and continues to lead the way upstairs. To tell the truth, I have not really warmed to the man. A gentleman would have carried my suitcase. So much for all the stuff about Continentals falling over each other to kiss your hand. I thought it sounded too good to be true.
‘ ’Ere you are. This do you very well – like everything else, yes? ’O, ’O, ’O! English joke, no?’
‘No,’ I say, firmly, looking round the small, stuffy bedroom without attempting to disguise my lack of enthusiasm. ‘There’s hardly room to swing a cat in here.’
‘You no need to swing cat,’ says the man. ‘Flagellation is too sophisticated for my clientele. They like simple stuff.’ He looks round the door and closes it quickly. ‘Just like me! Welcome to Hotel de Plaisir.’ So saying, he unzips the front of his trousers and produces what at first glance I take to be a plug of chewing tobacco. I am about to tell him that I am not a chewer when I see what the thing really is. Despite my understandable lack of experience, I am able to recognise a cupid’s quiver – especially when it is quivering as much as this one.
‘How dare you!’ I say. ‘Put that away at once. I’ve got an empty matchbox somewhere if you don’t mind it bashing against the sides.’
‘Just a quick one!’ sings out the loathsome low-lander. ‘So I can recommend you to my customers.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ I say sternly. ‘This kind of shenanigans puts a totally different complexion on our relationship. I suggest that you accept my offer concerning the matchbox before it is too late. I have a pair of tweezers in my make-up bag.’ Of course, this kind of talk is all terribly forward and quite unlike the real me but I find that it is the only thing that a certain type of man understands.
‘Shenanigans?’ says the man slowly. ‘What is they?’
‘English lessons are extra,’ I say bravely. ‘Now, unless you pull yourself together, I’m going to check out of this hotel immediately. I don’t mind a little joke’ – I lean on the word little – ’but enough should be as good as a feast to a blind horse.’
‘Blind whores?’ says the manager looking puzzled. ‘You talk about the rest of the girls? They old; sure; toothless, maybe, but not blind.’
At this confusing moment, the door opens and a woman comes in. At first, I think she is wearing fancy dress. She can’t be a day under fifty and yet she is sporting a thigh-length mini skirt with a slit running up to her vaccination mark and a lurex top holding her sagging breasts as if they are the last two melons left at the bottom of a sack. You could use her high heeled shoes to plant potatoes and she is wearing more make-up than a New Guinea chieftain at a fertility rite – although it is less tastefully applied. The outfit is completed by a plastic rose which she holds between her teeth. Her teeth she holds between her finger and thumb.
‘Alors, Fifi mon ange,’ says the manager. ‘Qu’est-ce que tu veux, mon petit chou?’
His tone is pleasant enough but Fifi replaces her teeth and snaps at him savagely. I do not understand everything she says because, like so many foreigners, she speaks too fast but I do catch ‘… espèce de putain!’ accompanied by a ferocious glance at myself. I seem to remember that putain was not in the dictionary we had at school and meant something rather uncomplimentary.
‘Is this your mother?’ I say, bending over backwards to be pleasant, as is my wont. ‘Comment allez-vous, madam?’
I had not expected my inquiry after the lady’s health to be met with a kiss on both cheeks, but I am amazed when the tarty old frump spits on the carpet! Disgusting, isn’t it? I don’t know if this place appears in the RAC Continental Guidebook but I intend to kick up one hell of a fuss when I get back to England. No wonder more people are holidaying at our homespun watering places these days. It isn’t just because the country is bankrupt.
Things are made even more unpleasant when Fifi slaps the manager round the face and he punches her in the stomach. I had not expected anything quite so brutal from our Continental cousins and I steel myself against the inevitable shock that accompanies the sight of the manager enmeshing his fingers in the recumbent Fifi’s hair and proceeding to drag her from the room. I am even more disquieted when Fifi is revealed as wearing a wig. This whimsical female subterfuge is something that the manager presumably discovers when his headlong progress down the stairs is arrested by the landing two floors below. What a rum business it all is. Taking everything into consideration, I wonder if it would not be advisable that Penny and I gave serious thought to finding alternative accommodation?
CHAPTER 3 (#u3625f8ca-4c84-5d2b-8545-0b724f187fca)
In the end, I decide to stay. It is getting late and, who knows? Maybe all Continental hotels are like this. So far, I have not come to grips with enough foreigners to know what the form is. I very nearly comes to grips with Fifi because she rips off one of her high-heeled shoes and waves it under my nose before racing out of the room and rushing down the stairs. She looks like Hopalong Cassidy dragging herself through the door on one grotesquely high heel. I imagine that she is going to retrieve her wig, and wait in the room until the screams and shouts have died away. I do hope it is not as noisy as this all the time. In my present condition a good night’s undisturbed sleep is absolutely vital to my well-being.
When silence has reigned for a couple of minutes, I decide that it is safe to go downstairs. The manager has the most terrible scratches down the side of his face and is sucking his knuckles thoughtfully. It is obvious that he is not pleased with life and I am worried that he may make difficulties about ringing up Penny. To my surprise, his attitude is quite the reverse of what I had anticipated. He looks at his watch and practically snatches the telephone off its rest. The only thing I cannot make him understand is that we want to share a room. I keep trying to tell him that it must be cheaper but he shakes his head.
‘Two girl cost more,’ is all he will say. I do hope that he does not suspect that Penny and I are engaged in some unhealthy relationship. You never know how these foreigners’ minds work, do you?
When I am certain that Penny will get the message, I go upstairs again. I am not sorry to leave the foyer because it is filling up with a gaggle of over-dressed women who are lounging about in a very noisy and provocative way. I cannot understand what they are saying but they are clearly making fun of me and my Climax uniform. Their outfits make Fifi’s clothes look like something the Queen Mother would wear to open an old people’s home so I don’t know what they have got to talk about. So much for Continental chic. It’s more like shriek than chic. I return to my room and unpack my robe. I do not even have a shower, only a basin and a funny sort of foot bath thing. The Belgians are obviously very fussy about their feet. There must be a bathroom somewhere on the floor. I will have to go and look for it. I strip off my clothes and look at myself in the full length mirror – it is funny that a room so short in the fixtures and fittings department should have such a big mirror. I have hardly eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours and this has clearly done my figure some good. The little pads of flesh above my hips have disappeared and my bottom looks nice and firm when I stand sideways. My breasts, too, seem to have a good, tight line. I wonder what my one-day Mr Right would say if he could see me now? The thought makes me blush. I wonder what he looks like – not in the nude, of course! The very idea makes me blush even redder. It is strange, but when I look into the mirror I almost feel that I can make out the outline of a man behind the glass. It must be some kind of thought projection. I read an article about it in Titbits. Perhaps I am sciatic? Best to go and find the bathroom and not meddle with the unknown. What the future holds for us will be revealed in good time. I slip on my robe and notice that the air conditioning switches itself off immediately. I could distinctly hear it whirring when I was in front of the mirror. How strange. There is certainly no change in the temperature of the room. It is just as stuffy as it was when I first came through the door – stuffier if anything. I wonder if it has something to do with the smoke coming through the ventilation grill?
I go out and pass Fifi in the corridor. She is wearing her wig and hurrying downstairs. She shakes her fist under my nose and says something unpleasant but I take no notice of her. I think there is something wrong with her, stupid old bag. There is no room with ‘salle de bain’ written on it so I try the door at the very end of the corridor. To my disappointment, there is only a rather smelly shower. What a nuisance! I was so looking forward to luxuriating in a hot sudsy bath. What is strange about the shower is that there is nowhere to hang your robe and, seemingly, nowhere for the water to come out. What I find really ridiculous are the two concrete footprints in the middle of the floor. Surely everybody knows where to stand in a shower! Maybe they are there to stop you putting your foot down the large drain hole. It really should have a grill over it. I look around for a hook and then drop my robe on the floor outside the shower. There is no point in getting in soaking wet, is there? Another puzzling feature of the shower is that there only seems to be one control. A knob set in the wall in front of me. I suppose this means that there is no hot water. What a let-down after all my hopes of sensuous soaking. Ah well, no sense in moaning. Remember you are British, Dixon. I take a deep breath, steel myself and extend an unenthusiastic thumb – WOWWWCH! There is a horrible hissing noise and a torrent of water ricochets round my ankles. I am so surprised and horrified that I tumble backwards and collapse in the corridor. The ghastly contraption must be another kind of Belgian foot bath. Do these people have no desire to wash any other part of their bodies?
As I try to pull myself together, I become conscious of laughter and excited male chatter behind me. I turn and – oh dear! Half a dozen sailors wearing a uniform I do not recognise have crowded into the corridor. Their eyes sparkle as they feast themselves upon my naked body and I scrabble desperately for my robe. How terribly embarrassing! If I had known this was going to happen I would have had a quick sponge down in the footbath. I rise to my feet and, immediately, one of the sailors snatches up my robe. He has Slavic cheek bones and I imagine that he is about to return the garment with a courteous bow. Not a bit of it! He flings it over his shoulder and gives me the most enormous squidge between the thighs. I am so taken aback that for a second I stare at his hand as if it is a visitor from another planet – of course, in that situation, it might just as well be.
‘Goodsky!’ he says approvingly. ‘Tightsky as guard on Kremlin.’
While I am trying to think what he means, his companions let out a triumphant cheer and one of them lowers the trap door of material at the front of his bell bottoms.
‘Step aside!’ I shout. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ I brush past the clutching hands and, pausing to bend down and snatch up my robe – a big mistake, that – I race back to my room. And it is a race, too. The first sailor is trying to get through the door as I slam it in his face.
Hardly have I drawn breath and pressed my shoulders against the door than I receive another unpleasant shock. I am not alone in the room. A slim dark-skinned, black-haired young man is standing by the wash basin. Were I introduced to him at a Young Conservatives’ Cheese and Wine Party I would probably find his looks quite appealing but in my present ruffled state any stranger constitutes a threat.
‘What are you doing here?’ I say. ‘This is my room. If you don’t leave immediately I will call the manager!’ I move as if to fling open the door and then think better of it. I can hear the sailors talking outside and I don’t want to bump into them again in a hurry.
‘I pay man,’ says my guest in faltering English. ‘You are Inglese? Is first time with Inglese. Very nice. Hope.’ So saying, he unbuttons his flies and holds out a small bar of gift-wrapped soap that he has taken from the basin. I am struck absolutely speechless. No words will form in my mouth and I find it impossible to cry out. ‘You wash,’ he says.
It is absolutely amazing, isn’t it? Why should this perfectly normal looking young man want me to wash while he exposes himself before me? I do meet some funny people but this chap takes the biscuit. ‘You wash yourself!’ I say, unable to keep the anger out of my voice.
To my amazement, the man shrugs his shoulders and proceeds to remove the wrapping paper from the bar of soap and work up a rich lather. I have not thought it seemly to comment on the size of his ‘thing’ but it really is enormous. Quite out of proportion to the rest of him. He is slim and slight, while the piece of equipment dangling between his legs looks like a young elephant’s trunk gripping a Cox’s orange pippin. While I try and control the mixture of awe and disgust which sweeps through my affronted frame, the owner of the love bludgeon calmly proceeds to anoint it with the lather he has worked up. The sight is enough to send shivers of horror through the most corrupted heart and the effect on my delicate sensibilities can be imagined. It is only by clinging to the knob at the end of the bed post that I manage to exert some control over myself. What makes the whole thing even more difficult to stomach is the way that the power-packed passion python lurches into the horizontal and then begins to point towards the ceiling. As I look on, mesmerised by this horrible sight, the stranger seizes my face flannel and proceeds to rub his enormous organ with it.
‘Do you mind!’ I say. ‘I use that on my face.’
At first, I think that the man has understood what I have said because he puts down my flannel and turns towards me. ‘Very good,’ he says, moving to my side. ‘I like.’ He waits expectantly and I suddenly realise that there has been a terrible mistake. ‘I mean, I use the flannel on my face!’ I say, blushing furiously.
Oh dear, it is embarrassing, isn’t it? The great marrow arrow is nodding in front of me like some dumb creature trying to show that it understands and in my confused desire to stop the room spinning round I reach out and steady it. It is not that I want to touch it, it is just that I can’t bear the way it moves up and down. Totally misunderstanding my gesture, the man presses me down on the bed and stations himself between my legs. Once again I find myself on the horns of a dilemma – or, more exactly, nearly on the horn of a dilemma. If I give vent to the screams of horrified disgust that are welling up inside me, then the groping matelots will probably burst through the door. On my limited experience of their company can I honestly say that I am likely to fare better at their hands – and other things – than I am with the licentious Latin now attempting to give me a free nibble of his love lolly? The answer must be no. Terrifying as the prospect is, it seems better that I give this pussy bandit his way rather than raise the alarm and run the risk of sparking off a situation that could get out of hand. At least, I comfort myself, my principles will not be compromised.
Cheered by this thought I seize the flesh microphone and guide it away from my menaced molars. How strange the ways of the heart. Were the situation different I might be almost tempted to – no! The thought is too naughty even to be considered. What might take place behind the drawn curtains of the nuptial couch is not a fitting subject for conjecture in my present position – lying naked on the edge of the bed with my feet placed uneasily on the threadbare carpet.
An expression of disappointment hovers around the features of the proud possessor of the peerless pussy pummeller and is then replaced by one redolent of a new sense of purpose. Drawing away from the bed, he replaces himself between my thighs and strokes the head of his sceptre against my nether lips. Of course, it is all thoroughly underhand but I must confess to a feeling not totally disassociated with pleasure. I suppose that it is something to do with having a clear conscience. A few more gentle wriggles and I suddenly feel like a goldfinch’s nest that has had an ostrich egg laid in it. The provocative pelvis pounder pauses at the portals of my pleasure palace and then – eeek! Great jumping sausage skins! The king-size pork banger races into my interior like Stanley exploring Africa.
‘No!’ I squeal. ‘You mustn’t! Oh! Oh! OH!’
I would like to say more but the furious battering I am being subjected to drives all words from my lips. All I can do is try and retain some sense of decorum as I cling to my molester. He, for his part, starts to utter high-pitched grunting noises as he shunts me up the bed. This is obviously the last thing that I want to happen because the sounds may be heard by the desperadoes lurking outside the door. Weighing up the situation in a trice, I pull the man’s head down and silence his mouth with mine. It is a rough and ready remedy but it seems to be effective. The man’s snorts subside to gurgles and then die away completely as he slackens his impetuous motion and guides his hands down to frolic round the entrance to my love cave. Once again I experience the strangest sensation. In other circumstances, what is happening to me could be almost pleasurable. I close my eyes as the giant seed steed withdraws to the last point of contact with my body and then surges forward like a thoroughbred bursting from the starting gate. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAA –!’
‘Rosie! There you are!’
I open my eyes and turn my head. Penny is standing in the doorway, framed by a grinning mass of male faces. ‘You sly old fox,’ she says, coming into the room and starting to unbutton her blouse. ‘It didn’t take you long to get started, did it?’ I watch in horror as about fourteen men tumble into the room. Penny unzips her skirt and starts to pull down her tights. The wash basin comes away from the wall as there is an untidy fight for the soap.
‘OK, boys,’ says Penny. ‘Come and get it!’
CHAPTER 4 (#u3625f8ca-4c84-5d2b-8545-0b724f187fca)
‘How many Belgian francs are there to the pound?’ asks Penny.
‘I think it’s about eighty,’ I say.
Penny puts down the roll of banknotes and starts counting her fingers. ‘So … eighty into six thousand four hundred goes eighty … so that makes eighty quid. That works out at about two pounds a head, doesn’t it? – if you bothered to count their heads.’
‘Don’t!’ I shudder. ‘I can’t bear to think about it.’
‘I know what you mean,’ agrees Penny, thoughtfully. ‘I think we were done – in more ways than one. Look at the charge for the room – and what’s that TVR? It’s some kind of VAT, isn’t it? This is scandalous! I’ve a good mind to go to the British Consul about it.’
It is the morning after the most degrading night of my life. I don’t think that I have ever felt more exhausted. How the professionals keep it up I do not know. What started off with Penny’s idea of a light-hearted romp got completely out of hand. Torrents of the most unspeakable men of every shape, colour and creed poured through the door and did the most unspeakable things to us. There was even the Chief Stoker of the SS Foreskeen and a couple of Manchester United supporters left over from a pre-season friendly.
‘Is the money all you can think about?’ I say, reproachfully.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ says Penny, brightening. ‘It was a bonus, really, wasn’t it? We never thought we were going to get paid when we started out.’
‘What are you talking about: started out!’ I scream. ‘All I wanted was a hot bath, a square meal and a good night’s sleep. Instead of that I get gang-raped!’
‘You also get two thousand francs, darling,’ says Penny, peeling off some notes.
‘Two thousand?’ I say. ‘After what I’ve been through, and vice versa? You said the – the manager had handed over six thousand four hundred, didn’t you?’
‘Two thousand is very generous for what you did, darling. I was handling the brunt of the action. Frankly, I thought you were spinning it out a bit, sometimes.’
‘How – !’ I take a deep breath and then think better of what I was going to say. The whole business is so depressingly sordid that there is no point in arguing about it. My conscience is clear, that is the main thing. I snatch the two thousand francs and thrust it into the breast pocket of my tunic. Thank goodness that the rest of the hotels on the tour have been pre-booked by Reggy. If this is what happens when you get slightly off the beaten track then I would rather sleep in the coach. And, thinking of coaches, what has happened to Hammerchick? I feel slightly guilty that I made no provision for his sleeping arrangements.
‘Where is Jaroslov?’ I say.
‘Under the bed,’ says Penny. ‘I think that the fourth time was a little too much for him. Especially after his efforts with the rest of the girls.’
Now that she mentions it, the sound of uneven snoring does take on a familiar ring. Oh dear, how very unseemly the whole business is. I had made a resolve not to get too close to Hammerchick on this trip and now there seems a strong likelihood that my good intentions have already been thwarted.
‘Let’s get back to the hotel,’ I say. ‘We may be able to find some breakfast.’
‘Good idea,’ says Penny cheerfully, raising her skirt and tucking the roll of notes into the top of her tights. ‘Making love certainly gives you an appetite, doesn’t it?’
I suppress another shudder and carry my suitcase to the door. How Penny can describe what we have just been through as making love, I will never know. Carrying on the way she does, I find it difficult to understand how she retains her integrity. Sometimes, I wonder why I bother to have principles.
When we get down to the foyer, the manager, or whatever he is, swiftly pushes aside what look like half a dozen tins of film and steps round his desk to greet us. ‘You go?’ he says, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘Is too sad. Please stay. Business never so good. Russian fleet extend courtesy visit.’
‘Out of the question, you old shit,’ says Penny boldly. ‘I’d need to be pretty hard up before I came to this dump again.’
‘Maybe we discuss new terms,’ says the man eagerly.
‘Hurry up!’ I say. ‘I think that’s a taxi on the other side of the street.’
As it turns out, it is very fortunate that I am correct. No sooner has the ghastly little man – I am certain that he never changes his clothes – started to haggle with Penny than a door behind the counter opens and one of the bleary-eyed creatures I saw the night before appears in the middle of a yawn. The second she sees us she starts screaming fit to bust and has to be forcibly restrained from throwing herself at Penny. Half a dozen other hideous hags appear hurling abuse and we are pursued into the street. It is a good job that the taxi is on the other side because a window slides up above our heads and I catch a glimpse of Baldylocks before she empties what looks like a chamber pot into the street. What has prompted this disgusting and spiteful behaviour I am at a loss to know. One would think that our humiliation would elicit a sympathetic response from our Continental sisters. Maybe their action is prompted by some deep-seated resentment of Great Britain’s attitude towards the Common Market. It is so difficult to tell with foreigners.
We drive away with fists battering against the windows and I experience a great sense of relief when I think that I am soon going to be in the company of my own countrymen. Whatever their shortcomings at least we speak the same language. Despite my desperate tiredness I will be happy to see them.
It is only when we have got back to the Hotel Antwerp that we remember about Hammerchick. He is presumably still fast asleep under the bed in our room. How stupid of us! We could have got a lift back in the coach had we thought about it. I feel quite furious with myself and even more annoyed when we cannot get through on the telephone.
‘He could stay there for days, knowing him,’ says Penny who has been swift to make an assessment of Hammerchick’s unreliable temperament. ‘I suppose we’d better go back for him.’
Hardly have I finished my groan than a combined mass of hotel staff and holidaymakers descend on us. Apparently, the first night on foreign soil has not been an unqualified success for anyone:
‘The toilet didn’t work.’
‘I couldn’t find the toilet.’
‘Somebody did potty outside the door of my room.’
‘I ordered early morning tea and a hot roll at six o’clock and the chambermaid tried to climb into bed with me.’
‘I left my shoes outside my room to be cleaned and I haven’t seen them since.’
‘You can’t get any English channels on the television.’
The worst complaints relate to the disgusting nature of the rooms and the hotel staff say that they will not go into them unless the holidaymakers do something about tidying them up.
All in all I am desperately relieved when Hammerchick makes an unexpected appearance, complete with coach, and we manage to get under way. Apparently, a madman has run amok in one of the dockside brothels and I am not sorry to leave Antwerp behind. Despite its splendid war record the city will never hold happy memories for me. I watch Hammerchick rub his sleeve across his greasy, smoke-blackened face and wonder why he is laughing as half a dozen fire engines race past us in the opposite direction. He is a funny fellow and no mistake. Something of a rough diamond but not totally bad. He must have some sense of responsibility or he would not have hurried back to the hotel and got the coach loaded so quickly.
We are on the motorway by half past nine and heading towards Liège, Aachen, Cologne and our appointment with the romantic castle on the banks of the Rhine where we are going to spend the night. I have seen photographs of the Schloss Badschweinfart and it is really something. Perched like an eagle’s nest on one of the high cliffs overlooking the river far below. I do love a romantic setting and this seems right up my street. Perhaps it will make up for my disappointments of the previous night.
In order to keep the passengers amused, I use the coach’s loudspeaker system – or megaphone, as Penny persists in calling it – to read the passengers place names and other items of interest. As I have already intimated in Lady Courier, the coach is not of the most modern variety and has been prone to breakdown on the way to the English coast. I do hope that the heady excitement of touching sixty miles an hour on the motorway and trying to keep in touch with the surging stream of Mercedes and BMWs that pour past will not be too much for it.
We reach Germany by lunchtime and take our meal just outside Aachen. I must say that the occasion is slightly spoiled for me by Penny telling me that she is ‘Aachen’ all over and especially in a couple of places that I never thought to hear mentioned by a lady’s lips. I am afraid that Penny does not live up to her breeding sometimes. I may only come from Chingford but I flatter myself that I have a far keener sense of the ‘niceties’ than she does.
Another problem connected with lunch concerns the meal itself. Most of the passengers have been expecting to pull up at a wayside hostelry and enjoy a repast of the ‘meat and two veg’ variety. This thought was possibly introduced into their minds by the Climax brochure which, I remember, sounded the virtues of ‘lip-smacking local delicacies washed down by the wine of the country’. For this reason, the appearance of a cross-section of very spicy liverwurst accompanied by two packets of Germütletoasties and half a dozen bottles of Seven-Up is greeted with something less than enthusiasm. The fact that the Seven-Up was bottled at Dusseldorf does little to reassure our customers. I sympathise with them but Penny and I are doing no more than carry out Reggy Parkinson’s instructions. ‘Ever mindful of the need to exert stringent economies in order to ensure that Climax Tours remains in an in profit situation’ – his own words – he has decreed that the midday meal be kept to snack proportions and served ‘on the move’, preferably against a backdrop of such great natural beauty that it will take the customers’ minds off the less-than-substantial fare they are receiving – as opposed to paying. Personally, I do not consider that the railway marshalling yards outside Aachen are at all beautiful but the decision to stop is forced upon us by those desperate to answer a call of nature of the most basic and – from what I can see through the windows of the coach – unaesthetic kind.
‘Comfort stops’, as they are known, are a problem and I do feel that the situation would be made much easier if a certain male element amongst the passengers did not load half a dozen crates of beer on to the coach every morning. It would probably also cut down on the singing which seems to offend some members of the party.
‘Eee! That’s a weight off my “mind your father”’ says Mr Arkright playfully, as he resumes his seat and feels in the crate for another bottle.
‘Er – yes,’ I say. ‘It’s a pity we haven’t got time to see Cologne Cathedral, isn’t it?’
‘Oh yes, most decidedly.’ Mr Arkright belches noisily.
‘Manners, Don!’ says his wife, Janine.
I turn away and look out of the window to where Sid Betts is organising a roadside fry-up. Mr Betts is not in my good books at the moment. It was very naughty of him to light a fire in his hotel room – there was no fireplace for one thing. If he wanted to heat up a tin of baked beans he should not have used the foot bath as a brazier. Incidentally, Penny tells me that the floor level font is not a foot bath. It is a bidet – pronounced B-Day as in D-Day – and used for washing very intimate parts of your body in a squatting position. I find the whole idea rather disgusting and highly embarrassing. I mean, the very idea of cold-bloodedly and single-mindedly setting out to wash yourselves there! It’s unhealthy, isn’t it? Much better to give your parts a casual slosh about when you are washing something else – sort of, almost as if you did not know they were there. To do anything else suggests that you actually expect, or even intend, to do naughty things with them. You see these bidets all over the Continent and it just shows that the inhabitants think of nothing apart from you know what.
It would not have been so bad if the bidet in Mr Betts’s room had not cracked under the heat. He tried to put the fire out by turning on the taps and then the whole thing fell apart. Inferior foreign workmanship, you see. There was a terrible flood but fortunately Mrs Lapes was sleeping in the room underneath, so we were able to keep it in the family, so to speak. I believe that the Second Mate of the SS Foreskeen was very grateful for the commotion because it allowed him to escape from Mrs Lapes’s over-zealous attentions. She is certainly revealing a different side to her nature since tasting foreign climes.
One couple who have reverted to their old selves are our newlyweds, Tyrone and Deirdre Thoroughgood. They had a little tiff on the cattle boat coming over but have now made the back seat of the coach their own again – frankly I don’t think that anyone else would want the back seat now. I do wish they would not behave like that. Especially when people are trying to eat their Germütletoasties.
‘Hi there, gorgeous. What happened to you last night?’ The husky voice trying over-hard to be sexy belongs to the odious Jimmy Wilson. I wonder whether it would put him off if I told him that I had sexual relations with fifteen men, give or take half a dozen, and decide that it probably wouldn’t. Quite the reverse in fact. ‘I looked for you everywhere. Out on the tiles, were you?’
‘Not exactly,’ I say, wishing that I smoked so that I could apply the end of a cigarette to the hand that is surreptitiously stroking my bottom. ‘I had an early night.’
‘Good idea.’ Wilson tries to tuck his fingers underneath my skirt and I dig my nails into the back of his wrist. ‘That means that we can make a little whoopee tonight. Let’s get sloshed at the Schloss.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ I say. ‘Did you think of that all by yourself?’
Wilson is obviously a slouch when it comes to perceiving sarcasm. ‘Do you think so?’ he says. ‘People used to say I was very funny at school.’
‘They were right,’ I say. ‘Do you think you could move your right hand? I think it might go to sleep if I hit you over the head with my bag.’
‘What do you mean?’ says Wilson. ‘Are you trying to get a rise out of me? We had a date last night, remember? You made me a promise.’
‘That promise isn’t worth a plugged pickle!’ I say. ‘You were blackmailing me. I only played with your balls – I mean, I only played ball with you because I wanted to spare my parents pain and distress. Anybody who would take advantage of an innocent girl in that situation doesn’t deserve to be allowed to take advantage of her again. Now, if you’ll excuse me –’ I have just seen Hammerchick and Mrs Lapes disappearing behind a pile of coal. I remember them saying that they were going to look for Edelweiss. This is ridiculous! I cannot think of a worse combination than Jaroslov Hammerchick and Mrs Lapes in her present mood. Nations may crumble if I don’t get there in time.
I detach myself from Jimmy Wilson – by hand – and clamber over the low fence. There is no immediate sign of our driver and Mrs Lapes but I soon hear the familiar sound of his guttural utterances. ‘… So I get the Focker in my sights and Boom! Boom! Boom!’ Oh dear, there he goes, boring everybody to death with his experiences as a thirteen-year-old boy in the Polish Air Force – or Polish Air Violence as I believe they were known.
‘Oh,’ says Mrs Lapes – then ‘Oh!’ A thin trickle of coal dust begins to run down one of the stacks and I know that I have found my man.
‘Ah hem,’ I say. ‘I think we’d better get back on the job, Jaroslov. May I remind you that this stop is supposed to be for food and drink?’
‘This is foodski and drinkski for me,’ says the licentious Latvian, sulkily.
Mrs Lapes pulls down her skirt and glares at me with hate in her eyes. ‘Fancy him yourself, do you?’ she says accusingly.
I pretend I do not hear her ridiculous remark and make my way back to the coach. Readers of Lady Courier will not need to be reminded of the exceptionally distressing incident at a garage in Neasden which makes a mockery of her jibe. As I climb into the coach I feel glad that I left her to pick the pieces of coke out of her own knickers.
Morning gives way to afternoon as is its wont and our coach points its steaming nose southwards. It is noticeable that the terrain is getting hillier and the passengers begin to respond with excitement to the sight of the occasional castle guarding some seemingly remote hilltop. The only depressing feature is the weather. As we leave the autobahn, the sky darkens and it seems likely that we are in for a storm.
‘Gosh! It is spooky, isn’t it?’ says Penny as we stare out of the window. ‘Rather impressive though. I think the gloom suits this place. How much further to Bad-schweinfart?’
‘Over there on hillski.’ We follow Hammerchick’s stubby black finger and see an intimidating structure dominating the summit of a steep escarpment. The walls are high and drawn in like the waist of a dress and there is a confusing jumble of towers and spires.
‘Blimey!’ says Sid Betts. ‘Colditz!’
‘It is a bit grim, isn’t it?’ echoes Penny. ‘What are those birds circling over the battlements?’
‘They must be eagles,’ I say. It is funny but, though I don’t like to say anything, they look rather like giant bats to me. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ I say, turning to the passengers. I sense that some of the weaker spirits may share my forebodings and need reassurance.
‘Are we staying there?’ says Janine Arkwright, sounding less than one hundred per cent enthusiastic. ‘It looks very old-fashioned.’
‘That’s part of its charm, isn’t it?’ says Penny. ‘Like that old gibbet by the roadside.’
‘Yes, but did you see?’ says a worried Mrs Arkwright. ‘There was a skeleton hanging from it.’
‘I don’t expect that it’s a real one,’ soothes Penny. ‘It’s probably there to attract tourists.’
Something in Janine Arkright’s eyes suggests to me that the German Tourist Board may be failing in its objective and I draw Penny to one side. ‘Are you sure this is the place?’ I ask. ‘It doesn’t seem like a hotel to me.’
‘We’re a bit far away to be certain,’ says Penny. ‘But I know what you mean. Let’s go and have a look anyway. We’ll soon know when we ask.’
‘It doesn’t seem likely that there are two castles, does it?’ I say. I know I am sounding worried but I have just seen a signpost to ‘Schloss Badschweinfart’ made from what looks like the headboard of a coffin. I know that the German sense of humour is supposed to be a trifle heavy-handed but this seems to be going too far.
The road zig-zags up the side of the cliff and a sinister wind rattles the windows of the coach. I look down and see a silver ribbon of water winding hundreds of feet below. That must be the Rhine. And to think that I thought this place was romantic when I first saw a photograph of it. Whoever said that the camera cannot lie must be a terrible fibber. I have seen photographs of holiday camps that looked more attractive.
‘The view’s nice, isn’t it?’ I say, remembering Reggy’s instructions to keep cheerful at all times.
‘Not if you’re facing the castle,’ says tactless Penny – honestly, I could give her wrist a stinging slap sometimes.
We have pulled up outside two huge wooden doors studded with nails and Penny and I look at each other. ‘Are you going to ask?’ I say.
‘We’ll do it together,’ says Penny.
I am loath to set foot outside the coach and the cold feeling that creeps into my bones is not caused only by the tetchy wind that rattles the rusty chain hanging beside the heavy doors. Penny gives the chain a tug and after what seems like several seconds’ silence we hear a bell ringing in a distant part of the castle.
‘This must be the wrong place,’ says Penny.
‘Just what I was thinking,’ I say. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
We are locking shoulders in the doorway of the coach when there is the sound of bolts being slid back and a key turning in a lock. Ruefully, we turn round and find ourselves face to face with the man who has just opened one of the doors. He has a long, lean face of an unhealthy parchment hue and is wearing a scruffy black jacket with a wing collar. A large yellow frog hops over one of his feet and disappears round the side of the castle.
‘Hello,’ I say brightly. ‘We’re from Climax. Are you expecting us?’
The man gazes wistfully after the frog and then turns his puzzled eyes on us. ‘Climax?’ he says in a thick German accent. ‘Iz zat Koblenz near?’
A great feeling of relief surges over me. ‘No,’ I say. ‘There’s obviously been some mistake. Sorry to have –’
‘Wait!’ The man sticks his head round the door like a tortoise peering out of its shell. ‘Ah! You from England come, nein? I have letter in my laboratory. Herr Spanzwick has made arrangements.’
‘Spanswick?’ I say. ‘I don’t know anybody called –’
Penny plucks at my sleeve. ‘It’s one of Malcolm’s aliases,’ she whispers. ‘He uses it for the Transylvanian Medical Research Company.’
‘Malcolm?’ I say. ‘You mean Reggy?’ I do wish that our boss would cut down on the number of names he uses. It gets terribly confusing sometimes. And all these businesses he seems to be involved in. I thought there was only Climax Tours when I first met him.
‘You had better in come,’ says the man, rubbing his hands together. ‘You are much needed – I mean, velcomen. My name iz Professor Stein – Frederick N Stein – at ze service of medical science.’ He gives an eerie cackling laugh.
‘Fred N Stein,’ says Penny thoughtfully. ‘It rings a bell, doesn’t it?’
Professor Stein leans forward confidentially. ‘Are any members of ze party zick?’ His eyes light up and I experience a feeling of fear as I wonder why he has asked such a strange question.
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Rosie Dixon
Lather on the suncream and have a dip…The CONFESSIONS series, the brilliant sex comedies from the 70s, available for the first time in eBook.Sun, sea, sand and plenty of skimpy bathing suits. Rosie just wants a quiet holiday, but it turns out she’s the main attraction on the sea-front.Also available:CONFESSIONS OF A BABYSITTERCONFESSIONS OF A PHYSICAL WRACCONFESSIONS OF A LADY COURIER and many more!
Confessions from a Package Tour
BY ROSIE DIXON
Contents
Title Page (#u41e8f9f4-cf97-51e8-b9d3-9cee6dcdf69b)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Timothy Lea and Rosie Dixon
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1 (#u3625f8ca-4c84-5d2b-8545-0b724f187fca)
When the SS Foreskeen finally docks at Antwerp I can hardly wait for the cattle to be driven ashore before leaving the coach. It is very cramped in that hold and after sixteen hours you can imagine the smell – the cattle don’t smell very nice either.
But perhaps I am going too fast. For the benefit of new readers let me start at the end. The end of Confessions of a Lady Courier. I am employed by Climax Tours (‘The Europe the others forgot’ – you must have seen their advertisements?) and my boss is Nicholas Bendon or Justin Cartwright or Benedict Jollybags or Jeremy Rafelsen-Bigg – for some reason that I can never quite understand, he keeps changing his name; something to do with wanting to be more people than he really is, I think. I always call him by his last name – I mean, the last name he has given himself. At the moment it is Reginald Parkinson.
Anyway, Reggy has hired me to take a coach party round Europe – there is also the driver, a strange Latvian called Jaroslov Hammerchick, but he doesn’t really count – not higher than ten, anyway. For days I have been trying to get the coach out of the country but you have no idea how difficult that can be – unless you have read Confessions of a Lady Courier. In the end, faced with gale force winds in the Channel, I am left with no alternative but to take the only means of escape available: a cattle boat travelling to Antwerp. I think it will be calmer once we get round the corner into the North Sea, but not a bit of it. We can’t see much in the hold but my tummy feels as if it is being swished around with an electric mixer. What really frightens me is when, all of a sudden, large quantities of water pour down the stairs. You can imagine the feeling, can’t you? I mean, you feel pretty trapped sitting in a coach in the bottom of a clapped-out cattle boat with the lights flickering on and off – mostly off – without that happening. And the crew! Panamanians they call themselves though it should be Panamaniacs. I have nothing against foreigners but this lot are really grubby. You don’t have to understand what they are saying to know what they mean. I certainly made no agreement with the captain that they were entitled to have sexual relations with any woman in the party under sixty and all this pinching and gesticulating is so vulgar. I do wish our lot would not do it. It only inflames the excitable citizens of Central America more. It is amazing how the most sober women seem to go berserk the moment the boat puts to sea. Maybe it is something to do with the ozone though I can’t see how any of them can smell it. What with the cattle and the cramped conditions the interior of the hold is more like the BO zone.
It is with a feeling of the most tremendous relief that I eventually come down the steps of the coach and set foot on – oh! Filthy animal! Why did it have to do that there? The inside of the boat was bad enough without the quay at Antwerp receiving the same treatment. It always amazes me how such dirty animals can produce all those nice things like butter, milk and those little creamy cheese segments with the pretty labels.
I scrape my shoe against a convenient bollard and look around the cobbled quay carefully. The cattle are disappearing towards a line of railway trucks and I wish that my own problems could be as easily solved. The first night of our ‘magic carpet ride through the cultural cornucopia of historic Europe’ was meant to be spent on the borders of the ‘romantic Rhineland’ but that was three days ago now and there seems little hope of us ever catching up with our schedule. It is half past six in the evening and a lot of those customers not bidding tearful farewells to weak-kneed Panamanians are suggesting very forcibly that they would like to go to a hotel. What am I going to do?
‘Yoo hoo, Rosie! Here I am!’ The familiar voice rings in my ears like the sound of the relieving cavalry’s bugler at the end of a John Wayne movie. I turn, and there she is – Penny! My companion in a number of adventures listed at the end of this book and fellow employee of Climax Tours. Reggy had said that he was going to send Penny to give me a hand but I had not expected her to arrive so soon.
‘Penny!’ I trill. ‘What a marvellous surprise. But how did you get here so soon? You’re looking so fresh and relaxed.’
‘I flew to Brussels and got a taxi. It was terribly easy, darling. Did you have a good trip? I hope you don’t mind me saying so but you’re looking a trifle peaky?’
‘Next time, I’ll take the Titanic if there’s a choice,’ groans Mr Betts, dumping a string bag full of baked beans tins on the quayside – Sid and Martha Betts do not trust foreign food.
‘Try not to sound quite so enthusiastic,’ I whisper to Penny. ‘The journey so far has not been a resounding success.’
‘Mine has,’ says Penny. ‘You know how they’re always saying that airline stewards are queer? Well, I can prove differently. Tamberlaine was unbelievable. The minute our eyes met I knew it was something special. The first class was empty so he invited me in for a quick one.’
‘A drink?’ I say.
‘No, darling. Procreation practice. The first time was heaven, but it was when he made me a life member of “The Mile High Club” that sparks really started to fly.’
‘How high was it?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know, darling, but it seemed to be nudging my lower rib sometimes.’
‘I don’t mean that!’ I say, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment rush over me. ‘I meant how high was the plane?’
‘Excuse me,’ interrupts a slightly irritable voice. ‘Are we going to stay here all night? I haven’t slept in a bed since I left home. I don’t think it’s good enough. I came on this holiday because I was run down.’
‘Well, you’re going to be run down again if you stand there,’ says Penny, cheerfully. ‘You’re smack in the middle of the railway track.’
The man skips out of the way as the cattle train pulls out. ‘Look at all those lovely moo cows,’ says Penny. ‘They’ve got such soft faces, haven’t they?’
The man looks as if he is going to say something unpleasant and then controls himself. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much if we’d got off before the cows,’ he grumbles.
‘They don’t have the same passport formalities as us,’ says Penny. ‘Life is much easier if you’re a cow.’
Once again the man opens his mouth and I deem it best to step in hurriedly – not in his mouth, of course.
‘We’ll soon be on our way,’ I say. ‘We’ll just wait for everybody to – er finish.’
It is terrible embarrassing because half the male passengers were in the middle of answering a call of nature behind the train when it pulled out. Now they are all facing us with their little pink front botties waggling in the wind. I turn away and find myself looking through one of the portholes of the Foreskeen. Another of our passengers, Mrs Lapes, is demonstrating that she is prone to other things beside accidents. Her flabby white buttocks rise and fall like a half-collapsed tent agitated by a playful breeze. Beneath her, one of the stokers opens his mouth and delivers himself of a silent scream. Either the porthole glass is too thick or, as seems more likely, the poor devil is too exhausted to raise a sound.
I do hope that these distressing events are not a foretaste of what is to come during the rest of the holiday.
CHAPTER 2 (#u3625f8ca-4c84-5d2b-8545-0b724f187fca)
An hour later I am feeling in a much happier frame of mind. Reginald Parkinson has revealed himself as possessing all the qualities of instant decision-making and dynamism that I secretly attributed to him. He has appreciated that ‘the punters’ as he so endearingly calls the paying customers will be feeling ‘a trifle knackered’ as Penny so colourfully puts it, and will be eager to put their heads down – not quite in the same way as was Mrs Lapes when I last dared to look at her, I hope. To this end, he has booked the party in at what I first take to be the Hotel Twerp – I later find that the ‘An’ has fallen off, as has the service, food and one or two other features vital to the efficient running of any hotel.
However, as I stand beside Penny in the reception and watch our charges carrying their bags upstairs while the porters play Dutch auction bridge, such thoughts are far from my mind. ‘All I want is a bath,’ I breathe. ‘I can’t wait to expose myself to those suds.’
‘What sods?’ says Penny, sounding interested. ‘Did you pick up some sailors on your trip? Nice going, you can’t beat a jolly jack –’
‘I said “suds”!’ I say. ‘I’m talking about a bath. That’s the only thing I’m interested in.’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Penny. ‘It’s your quaint accent. I find you very difficult to understand sometimes.’
I am feeling rather bitter towards Penny because of the cushy trip she has had out here, and this high-handed remark does nothing to improve my mood. Penny is very nice but she can be rather thoughtless sometimes. If you are born with a silver spoon in your mouth it can be uncomfortable for other people beside your mother.
‘What rooms do we have?’ asks Penny.
‘You?’ says the man behind the desk sounding surprised. ‘I am very sorry but we do not have any more rooms. They have all been taken by your party.’ He says something to one of the porters at the card table who shakes his head. ‘I had hoped that the Royal Suite might be vacant but they have not finished fumigating it yet. We had one of your famous British pop gropes here.’
‘Excuse me,’ I say, suppressing a smile. ‘I think you mean “group” not “grope”.’
‘You did not see them,’ says the man, shaking his head. ‘Many of the older people had not experienced anything like it since the British Army liberated the town.’
‘How historical,’ I say. ‘What do you suggest we do about finding accommodation?’
The man shrugs. ‘There are some hotels down by the docks. They are not so luxurious as this, but…’ his voice trails away as we watch another guest leaving the dining room on a stretcher.
‘I tell you what,’ says Penny. ‘Your need is greater than mine – at least, in some ways it is. You go off and find a hotel and I’ll finish tidying up here. You don’t know the Belgian for “stomach pump”, do you?’
I shake my head. ‘Are you sure that’s all right?’ In my heart of hearts I am dying to eacape. I am very fond of all of my charges – well, some of them are all right – but we have seen a lot of each other in the last few days. Jimmy Wilson, the filthy sex-mad beast who forced his unwanted attentions on me in the bathroom of my own home (see Confessions of a Lady Courier for distressing details), has recovered sufficiently from his ocean ordeal to start making suggestive remarks about where he wants to spend the night and it might be a good idea if I slept in another building. Wilson has convinced himself that I said he could come to my room on our first night abroad and in my present state of mental and physical exhaustion the very thought is enough to give me the vapours.
At the risk of boring regular readers I think it a good idea if I digress for a moment to explain my attitude to sexual matters. In these lax times, nobody who has principles that they are prepared to stand by should feel ashamed of shouting them from the mountain top until the cows come home. I am not a prude, far from it, but I do feel that the tide of licentiousness sweeping through the streets of our homeland is threatening to carry us away with it. As that nice lady with the ornamental spectacles has pointed out, the Roman Empire started to crumble when its citizens stopped wearing anything under their togas. It is all too easy to behave in a way that one does not totally believe in because one is afraid of being thought ‘square’ but I am one of the silent majority who is prepared to stand up and be counted. I believe that one’s body is a pre-packed deep frozen pork cutlet that should be delivered to the eventual purchaser with the polythene seal unbroken. In other words, I do not believe in sex before marriage. I am proud to say that I prize my virginity more than any other possession. But – and it can be a big but, sometimes – there are different kinds of virginity. I have always found it necessary to separate the physical act of being rent asunder by a gigantic pussy pummeller from the far more important question of one’s mental attitude to the occurrence. It seems to me that if one can honestly say that the whole distressing business took place without any conscious willingness on one’s part, then one’s virgin status is not impaired – if anything, it is strengthened by this baptism of fire. How can you say that you are a real virgin until you have experienced what you are supposed to resist? The devil you know makes a far more satisfying victim for one’s principles than the devil one doesn’t know. In the course of my adventures I have been the victim of many disturbing happenings but never once have I felt my principles irretrievably compromised. Get some principles and stick to them is my advice to all young girls who find themselves puzzled and uncertain in these troubled times – oh, and get yourself on the pill if you can. There are some very unscrupulous men about.
‘You go and find a hotel and give me a ring,’ says Penny. ‘I’ll tuck this lot up and come whizzing over. We might make a night of it. I feel like shaking a leg.’
I suppress a groan. If I shook a leg I think it might fall off. After my much-needed bath it is going to be bed for this little lady.
As I prepare to leave I see one of the party approaching, looking like a bearer of bad tidings. ‘I can’t make the tap in our room work,’ she says.
‘Which one?’ says the man behind the desk helpfully. I think he is talking about the room number but the woman produces a tap. ‘This one,’ she says.
At the same instant, a muffled shout can be heard from the top of the stairs. ‘Hurry up, Myrtle! I can’t keep my finger in much longer. It’s going numb!’ Penny leads a stampede for the stairs and I make my escape. Perhaps, on the whole, it is a very good job that we are going to spend the night in a different hotel.
Tired as I am, I cannot help feeling excited as I walk through the streets. At last I have set foot on foreign concrete. All around me are men and women who speak a different language, eat different foods, sleep in different beds. It is all so new and stimulating. Even the smells are different. Strange to think that only a few days before I had been leading a humdrum existence in Chingford – or West Woodford as Mum prefers to call it. What would the family do if they could see me now, striding through what I suppose must be the docks? Certainly, there are a lot of masts and smokestacks poking above the low roofs. How nice it would be if I could find a quaint little waterfront hotel in which to spend the night. Dusk is falling fast and the red lights are coming on all around me. It is very picturesque.
‘Hey, you jig, jig, focky, focky?’ I suppose that the language the man is speaking must be Flemish. I have never heard anything like it before. He is probably asking if I have a light.
‘I no smoky,’ I say, holding an imaginary cigarette to my lips and shaking my head from side to side.
The man looks disappointed and shoves his hands deeper into the pockets of his seamen’s jacket. ‘No luck?’ he says – at least, I think it must be ‘no luck’. The way he pronounces his words it sounds more like ‘no suck’, though that wouldn’t make sense, would it?
I shake my head again; he says something else I can’t understand and wanders unsteadily up the street. I do hope that he is all right. I watch him go up to another woman who listens to what he has to say and then steers him towards a doorway. She is no doubt going to give him succour. Oh dear, I feel like one of those people in the Bible who passed by on the other side. If only all the Belgians were able to speak English as well as the man at the Hotel Twerp – I mean, Antwerp.
My suitcase is beginning to get heavy so I look round eagerly for signs of a hotel. There are lots of bars and one or two clubs but no – wait a minute! There we are: Hotel de Plaisir. Luckily my French is good enough to tell me what it means: Hotel of Pleasure. Sounds jolly enough, doesn’t it? It is a bit shabby, set into the wall of the narrow street, but I suppose you could say that its condition adds to its charm. Certainly, the large red light above the door bathes the front of the building in a warm, welcoming glow.
I go through the door and am faced by a counter, behind which stands a small fat man wearing a beret and a hooped T-shirt. His moustache might have been applied with an eyebrow pencil and he looks at me suspiciously.
‘Good evening,’ I say cheerfully. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘Little,’ says the man unenthusiastically. I notice that he smells of garlic – in fact, everything seems to smell of garlic.
‘I’d like a room for two people,’ I say.
The man’s face splits into the imitation of a smile. ‘Good thinking,’ he says. ‘What you try to say? You want to work ’ere?’
‘I want to spend the night here with my friend – my girl-friend.’ I add that hurriedly because I don’t want the man to get the wrong idea.
‘You both working, are you?’
‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘My friend is at the Hotel Twit – I mean Twerp – I mean Antwerp, at the moment.’
‘Business good?’ says the man, starting to light an evil-smelling cigarette.
‘We’ve put up sixty tonight,’ I say, not without a touch of pride.
The man stubs his match against the end of his cigarette. ‘Sixty?! And now you want to come ’ere? On Sunday night? With the Russian one ’undredth and forty-second fleet paying a goodwill visit?’
‘It all helps to add a little colour, doesn’t it?’ I say gaily. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to squeeze us in?’
‘With your work rate, I would be imbecile not to,’ says the man, revealing a new sense of urgency and purpose. ‘Come, I show you to room.’
‘What time is dinner?’ I ask as, what I assume to be the manager, leads the way upstairs. ‘I could eat a horse.’
‘You could eat a whore’s what?’ says the manager, stopping on the bend of the stairs and looking at me suspiciously. ‘We no want any cabaret acts ’ere. Our customers are simple seafaring men who in most cases crave only the satisfaction of the most basic of appetites.’
‘Just like me,’ I say. ‘I don’t want anything fancy. Just something good, solid, substantial and filling.’
‘Y-e-es.’ The manager scratches the front of his trousers in a way that I find rather uncouth and continues to lead the way upstairs. To tell the truth, I have not really warmed to the man. A gentleman would have carried my suitcase. So much for all the stuff about Continentals falling over each other to kiss your hand. I thought it sounded too good to be true.
‘ ’Ere you are. This do you very well – like everything else, yes? ’O, ’O, ’O! English joke, no?’
‘No,’ I say, firmly, looking round the small, stuffy bedroom without attempting to disguise my lack of enthusiasm. ‘There’s hardly room to swing a cat in here.’
‘You no need to swing cat,’ says the man. ‘Flagellation is too sophisticated for my clientele. They like simple stuff.’ He looks round the door and closes it quickly. ‘Just like me! Welcome to Hotel de Plaisir.’ So saying, he unzips the front of his trousers and produces what at first glance I take to be a plug of chewing tobacco. I am about to tell him that I am not a chewer when I see what the thing really is. Despite my understandable lack of experience, I am able to recognise a cupid’s quiver – especially when it is quivering as much as this one.
‘How dare you!’ I say. ‘Put that away at once. I’ve got an empty matchbox somewhere if you don’t mind it bashing against the sides.’
‘Just a quick one!’ sings out the loathsome low-lander. ‘So I can recommend you to my customers.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ I say sternly. ‘This kind of shenanigans puts a totally different complexion on our relationship. I suggest that you accept my offer concerning the matchbox before it is too late. I have a pair of tweezers in my make-up bag.’ Of course, this kind of talk is all terribly forward and quite unlike the real me but I find that it is the only thing that a certain type of man understands.
‘Shenanigans?’ says the man slowly. ‘What is they?’
‘English lessons are extra,’ I say bravely. ‘Now, unless you pull yourself together, I’m going to check out of this hotel immediately. I don’t mind a little joke’ – I lean on the word little – ’but enough should be as good as a feast to a blind horse.’
‘Blind whores?’ says the manager looking puzzled. ‘You talk about the rest of the girls? They old; sure; toothless, maybe, but not blind.’
At this confusing moment, the door opens and a woman comes in. At first, I think she is wearing fancy dress. She can’t be a day under fifty and yet she is sporting a thigh-length mini skirt with a slit running up to her vaccination mark and a lurex top holding her sagging breasts as if they are the last two melons left at the bottom of a sack. You could use her high heeled shoes to plant potatoes and she is wearing more make-up than a New Guinea chieftain at a fertility rite – although it is less tastefully applied. The outfit is completed by a plastic rose which she holds between her teeth. Her teeth she holds between her finger and thumb.
‘Alors, Fifi mon ange,’ says the manager. ‘Qu’est-ce que tu veux, mon petit chou?’
His tone is pleasant enough but Fifi replaces her teeth and snaps at him savagely. I do not understand everything she says because, like so many foreigners, she speaks too fast but I do catch ‘… espèce de putain!’ accompanied by a ferocious glance at myself. I seem to remember that putain was not in the dictionary we had at school and meant something rather uncomplimentary.
‘Is this your mother?’ I say, bending over backwards to be pleasant, as is my wont. ‘Comment allez-vous, madam?’
I had not expected my inquiry after the lady’s health to be met with a kiss on both cheeks, but I am amazed when the tarty old frump spits on the carpet! Disgusting, isn’t it? I don’t know if this place appears in the RAC Continental Guidebook but I intend to kick up one hell of a fuss when I get back to England. No wonder more people are holidaying at our homespun watering places these days. It isn’t just because the country is bankrupt.
Things are made even more unpleasant when Fifi slaps the manager round the face and he punches her in the stomach. I had not expected anything quite so brutal from our Continental cousins and I steel myself against the inevitable shock that accompanies the sight of the manager enmeshing his fingers in the recumbent Fifi’s hair and proceeding to drag her from the room. I am even more disquieted when Fifi is revealed as wearing a wig. This whimsical female subterfuge is something that the manager presumably discovers when his headlong progress down the stairs is arrested by the landing two floors below. What a rum business it all is. Taking everything into consideration, I wonder if it would not be advisable that Penny and I gave serious thought to finding alternative accommodation?
CHAPTER 3 (#u3625f8ca-4c84-5d2b-8545-0b724f187fca)
In the end, I decide to stay. It is getting late and, who knows? Maybe all Continental hotels are like this. So far, I have not come to grips with enough foreigners to know what the form is. I very nearly comes to grips with Fifi because she rips off one of her high-heeled shoes and waves it under my nose before racing out of the room and rushing down the stairs. She looks like Hopalong Cassidy dragging herself through the door on one grotesquely high heel. I imagine that she is going to retrieve her wig, and wait in the room until the screams and shouts have died away. I do hope it is not as noisy as this all the time. In my present condition a good night’s undisturbed sleep is absolutely vital to my well-being.
When silence has reigned for a couple of minutes, I decide that it is safe to go downstairs. The manager has the most terrible scratches down the side of his face and is sucking his knuckles thoughtfully. It is obvious that he is not pleased with life and I am worried that he may make difficulties about ringing up Penny. To my surprise, his attitude is quite the reverse of what I had anticipated. He looks at his watch and practically snatches the telephone off its rest. The only thing I cannot make him understand is that we want to share a room. I keep trying to tell him that it must be cheaper but he shakes his head.
‘Two girl cost more,’ is all he will say. I do hope that he does not suspect that Penny and I are engaged in some unhealthy relationship. You never know how these foreigners’ minds work, do you?
When I am certain that Penny will get the message, I go upstairs again. I am not sorry to leave the foyer because it is filling up with a gaggle of over-dressed women who are lounging about in a very noisy and provocative way. I cannot understand what they are saying but they are clearly making fun of me and my Climax uniform. Their outfits make Fifi’s clothes look like something the Queen Mother would wear to open an old people’s home so I don’t know what they have got to talk about. So much for Continental chic. It’s more like shriek than chic. I return to my room and unpack my robe. I do not even have a shower, only a basin and a funny sort of foot bath thing. The Belgians are obviously very fussy about their feet. There must be a bathroom somewhere on the floor. I will have to go and look for it. I strip off my clothes and look at myself in the full length mirror – it is funny that a room so short in the fixtures and fittings department should have such a big mirror. I have hardly eaten anything in the last twenty-four hours and this has clearly done my figure some good. The little pads of flesh above my hips have disappeared and my bottom looks nice and firm when I stand sideways. My breasts, too, seem to have a good, tight line. I wonder what my one-day Mr Right would say if he could see me now? The thought makes me blush. I wonder what he looks like – not in the nude, of course! The very idea makes me blush even redder. It is strange, but when I look into the mirror I almost feel that I can make out the outline of a man behind the glass. It must be some kind of thought projection. I read an article about it in Titbits. Perhaps I am sciatic? Best to go and find the bathroom and not meddle with the unknown. What the future holds for us will be revealed in good time. I slip on my robe and notice that the air conditioning switches itself off immediately. I could distinctly hear it whirring when I was in front of the mirror. How strange. There is certainly no change in the temperature of the room. It is just as stuffy as it was when I first came through the door – stuffier if anything. I wonder if it has something to do with the smoke coming through the ventilation grill?
I go out and pass Fifi in the corridor. She is wearing her wig and hurrying downstairs. She shakes her fist under my nose and says something unpleasant but I take no notice of her. I think there is something wrong with her, stupid old bag. There is no room with ‘salle de bain’ written on it so I try the door at the very end of the corridor. To my disappointment, there is only a rather smelly shower. What a nuisance! I was so looking forward to luxuriating in a hot sudsy bath. What is strange about the shower is that there is nowhere to hang your robe and, seemingly, nowhere for the water to come out. What I find really ridiculous are the two concrete footprints in the middle of the floor. Surely everybody knows where to stand in a shower! Maybe they are there to stop you putting your foot down the large drain hole. It really should have a grill over it. I look around for a hook and then drop my robe on the floor outside the shower. There is no point in getting in soaking wet, is there? Another puzzling feature of the shower is that there only seems to be one control. A knob set in the wall in front of me. I suppose this means that there is no hot water. What a let-down after all my hopes of sensuous soaking. Ah well, no sense in moaning. Remember you are British, Dixon. I take a deep breath, steel myself and extend an unenthusiastic thumb – WOWWWCH! There is a horrible hissing noise and a torrent of water ricochets round my ankles. I am so surprised and horrified that I tumble backwards and collapse in the corridor. The ghastly contraption must be another kind of Belgian foot bath. Do these people have no desire to wash any other part of their bodies?
As I try to pull myself together, I become conscious of laughter and excited male chatter behind me. I turn and – oh dear! Half a dozen sailors wearing a uniform I do not recognise have crowded into the corridor. Their eyes sparkle as they feast themselves upon my naked body and I scrabble desperately for my robe. How terribly embarrassing! If I had known this was going to happen I would have had a quick sponge down in the footbath. I rise to my feet and, immediately, one of the sailors snatches up my robe. He has Slavic cheek bones and I imagine that he is about to return the garment with a courteous bow. Not a bit of it! He flings it over his shoulder and gives me the most enormous squidge between the thighs. I am so taken aback that for a second I stare at his hand as if it is a visitor from another planet – of course, in that situation, it might just as well be.
‘Goodsky!’ he says approvingly. ‘Tightsky as guard on Kremlin.’
While I am trying to think what he means, his companions let out a triumphant cheer and one of them lowers the trap door of material at the front of his bell bottoms.
‘Step aside!’ I shout. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ I brush past the clutching hands and, pausing to bend down and snatch up my robe – a big mistake, that – I race back to my room. And it is a race, too. The first sailor is trying to get through the door as I slam it in his face.
Hardly have I drawn breath and pressed my shoulders against the door than I receive another unpleasant shock. I am not alone in the room. A slim dark-skinned, black-haired young man is standing by the wash basin. Were I introduced to him at a Young Conservatives’ Cheese and Wine Party I would probably find his looks quite appealing but in my present ruffled state any stranger constitutes a threat.
‘What are you doing here?’ I say. ‘This is my room. If you don’t leave immediately I will call the manager!’ I move as if to fling open the door and then think better of it. I can hear the sailors talking outside and I don’t want to bump into them again in a hurry.
‘I pay man,’ says my guest in faltering English. ‘You are Inglese? Is first time with Inglese. Very nice. Hope.’ So saying, he unbuttons his flies and holds out a small bar of gift-wrapped soap that he has taken from the basin. I am struck absolutely speechless. No words will form in my mouth and I find it impossible to cry out. ‘You wash,’ he says.
It is absolutely amazing, isn’t it? Why should this perfectly normal looking young man want me to wash while he exposes himself before me? I do meet some funny people but this chap takes the biscuit. ‘You wash yourself!’ I say, unable to keep the anger out of my voice.
To my amazement, the man shrugs his shoulders and proceeds to remove the wrapping paper from the bar of soap and work up a rich lather. I have not thought it seemly to comment on the size of his ‘thing’ but it really is enormous. Quite out of proportion to the rest of him. He is slim and slight, while the piece of equipment dangling between his legs looks like a young elephant’s trunk gripping a Cox’s orange pippin. While I try and control the mixture of awe and disgust which sweeps through my affronted frame, the owner of the love bludgeon calmly proceeds to anoint it with the lather he has worked up. The sight is enough to send shivers of horror through the most corrupted heart and the effect on my delicate sensibilities can be imagined. It is only by clinging to the knob at the end of the bed post that I manage to exert some control over myself. What makes the whole thing even more difficult to stomach is the way that the power-packed passion python lurches into the horizontal and then begins to point towards the ceiling. As I look on, mesmerised by this horrible sight, the stranger seizes my face flannel and proceeds to rub his enormous organ with it.
‘Do you mind!’ I say. ‘I use that on my face.’
At first, I think that the man has understood what I have said because he puts down my flannel and turns towards me. ‘Very good,’ he says, moving to my side. ‘I like.’ He waits expectantly and I suddenly realise that there has been a terrible mistake. ‘I mean, I use the flannel on my face!’ I say, blushing furiously.
Oh dear, it is embarrassing, isn’t it? The great marrow arrow is nodding in front of me like some dumb creature trying to show that it understands and in my confused desire to stop the room spinning round I reach out and steady it. It is not that I want to touch it, it is just that I can’t bear the way it moves up and down. Totally misunderstanding my gesture, the man presses me down on the bed and stations himself between my legs. Once again I find myself on the horns of a dilemma – or, more exactly, nearly on the horn of a dilemma. If I give vent to the screams of horrified disgust that are welling up inside me, then the groping matelots will probably burst through the door. On my limited experience of their company can I honestly say that I am likely to fare better at their hands – and other things – than I am with the licentious Latin now attempting to give me a free nibble of his love lolly? The answer must be no. Terrifying as the prospect is, it seems better that I give this pussy bandit his way rather than raise the alarm and run the risk of sparking off a situation that could get out of hand. At least, I comfort myself, my principles will not be compromised.
Cheered by this thought I seize the flesh microphone and guide it away from my menaced molars. How strange the ways of the heart. Were the situation different I might be almost tempted to – no! The thought is too naughty even to be considered. What might take place behind the drawn curtains of the nuptial couch is not a fitting subject for conjecture in my present position – lying naked on the edge of the bed with my feet placed uneasily on the threadbare carpet.
An expression of disappointment hovers around the features of the proud possessor of the peerless pussy pummeller and is then replaced by one redolent of a new sense of purpose. Drawing away from the bed, he replaces himself between my thighs and strokes the head of his sceptre against my nether lips. Of course, it is all thoroughly underhand but I must confess to a feeling not totally disassociated with pleasure. I suppose that it is something to do with having a clear conscience. A few more gentle wriggles and I suddenly feel like a goldfinch’s nest that has had an ostrich egg laid in it. The provocative pelvis pounder pauses at the portals of my pleasure palace and then – eeek! Great jumping sausage skins! The king-size pork banger races into my interior like Stanley exploring Africa.
‘No!’ I squeal. ‘You mustn’t! Oh! Oh! OH!’
I would like to say more but the furious battering I am being subjected to drives all words from my lips. All I can do is try and retain some sense of decorum as I cling to my molester. He, for his part, starts to utter high-pitched grunting noises as he shunts me up the bed. This is obviously the last thing that I want to happen because the sounds may be heard by the desperadoes lurking outside the door. Weighing up the situation in a trice, I pull the man’s head down and silence his mouth with mine. It is a rough and ready remedy but it seems to be effective. The man’s snorts subside to gurgles and then die away completely as he slackens his impetuous motion and guides his hands down to frolic round the entrance to my love cave. Once again I experience the strangest sensation. In other circumstances, what is happening to me could be almost pleasurable. I close my eyes as the giant seed steed withdraws to the last point of contact with my body and then surges forward like a thoroughbred bursting from the starting gate. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAA –!’
‘Rosie! There you are!’
I open my eyes and turn my head. Penny is standing in the doorway, framed by a grinning mass of male faces. ‘You sly old fox,’ she says, coming into the room and starting to unbutton her blouse. ‘It didn’t take you long to get started, did it?’ I watch in horror as about fourteen men tumble into the room. Penny unzips her skirt and starts to pull down her tights. The wash basin comes away from the wall as there is an untidy fight for the soap.
‘OK, boys,’ says Penny. ‘Come and get it!’
CHAPTER 4 (#u3625f8ca-4c84-5d2b-8545-0b724f187fca)
‘How many Belgian francs are there to the pound?’ asks Penny.
‘I think it’s about eighty,’ I say.
Penny puts down the roll of banknotes and starts counting her fingers. ‘So … eighty into six thousand four hundred goes eighty … so that makes eighty quid. That works out at about two pounds a head, doesn’t it? – if you bothered to count their heads.’
‘Don’t!’ I shudder. ‘I can’t bear to think about it.’
‘I know what you mean,’ agrees Penny, thoughtfully. ‘I think we were done – in more ways than one. Look at the charge for the room – and what’s that TVR? It’s some kind of VAT, isn’t it? This is scandalous! I’ve a good mind to go to the British Consul about it.’
It is the morning after the most degrading night of my life. I don’t think that I have ever felt more exhausted. How the professionals keep it up I do not know. What started off with Penny’s idea of a light-hearted romp got completely out of hand. Torrents of the most unspeakable men of every shape, colour and creed poured through the door and did the most unspeakable things to us. There was even the Chief Stoker of the SS Foreskeen and a couple of Manchester United supporters left over from a pre-season friendly.
‘Is the money all you can think about?’ I say, reproachfully.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ says Penny, brightening. ‘It was a bonus, really, wasn’t it? We never thought we were going to get paid when we started out.’
‘What are you talking about: started out!’ I scream. ‘All I wanted was a hot bath, a square meal and a good night’s sleep. Instead of that I get gang-raped!’
‘You also get two thousand francs, darling,’ says Penny, peeling off some notes.
‘Two thousand?’ I say. ‘After what I’ve been through, and vice versa? You said the – the manager had handed over six thousand four hundred, didn’t you?’
‘Two thousand is very generous for what you did, darling. I was handling the brunt of the action. Frankly, I thought you were spinning it out a bit, sometimes.’
‘How – !’ I take a deep breath and then think better of what I was going to say. The whole business is so depressingly sordid that there is no point in arguing about it. My conscience is clear, that is the main thing. I snatch the two thousand francs and thrust it into the breast pocket of my tunic. Thank goodness that the rest of the hotels on the tour have been pre-booked by Reggy. If this is what happens when you get slightly off the beaten track then I would rather sleep in the coach. And, thinking of coaches, what has happened to Hammerchick? I feel slightly guilty that I made no provision for his sleeping arrangements.
‘Where is Jaroslov?’ I say.
‘Under the bed,’ says Penny. ‘I think that the fourth time was a little too much for him. Especially after his efforts with the rest of the girls.’
Now that she mentions it, the sound of uneven snoring does take on a familiar ring. Oh dear, how very unseemly the whole business is. I had made a resolve not to get too close to Hammerchick on this trip and now there seems a strong likelihood that my good intentions have already been thwarted.
‘Let’s get back to the hotel,’ I say. ‘We may be able to find some breakfast.’
‘Good idea,’ says Penny cheerfully, raising her skirt and tucking the roll of notes into the top of her tights. ‘Making love certainly gives you an appetite, doesn’t it?’
I suppress another shudder and carry my suitcase to the door. How Penny can describe what we have just been through as making love, I will never know. Carrying on the way she does, I find it difficult to understand how she retains her integrity. Sometimes, I wonder why I bother to have principles.
When we get down to the foyer, the manager, or whatever he is, swiftly pushes aside what look like half a dozen tins of film and steps round his desk to greet us. ‘You go?’ he says, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘Is too sad. Please stay. Business never so good. Russian fleet extend courtesy visit.’
‘Out of the question, you old shit,’ says Penny boldly. ‘I’d need to be pretty hard up before I came to this dump again.’
‘Maybe we discuss new terms,’ says the man eagerly.
‘Hurry up!’ I say. ‘I think that’s a taxi on the other side of the street.’
As it turns out, it is very fortunate that I am correct. No sooner has the ghastly little man – I am certain that he never changes his clothes – started to haggle with Penny than a door behind the counter opens and one of the bleary-eyed creatures I saw the night before appears in the middle of a yawn. The second she sees us she starts screaming fit to bust and has to be forcibly restrained from throwing herself at Penny. Half a dozen other hideous hags appear hurling abuse and we are pursued into the street. It is a good job that the taxi is on the other side because a window slides up above our heads and I catch a glimpse of Baldylocks before she empties what looks like a chamber pot into the street. What has prompted this disgusting and spiteful behaviour I am at a loss to know. One would think that our humiliation would elicit a sympathetic response from our Continental sisters. Maybe their action is prompted by some deep-seated resentment of Great Britain’s attitude towards the Common Market. It is so difficult to tell with foreigners.
We drive away with fists battering against the windows and I experience a great sense of relief when I think that I am soon going to be in the company of my own countrymen. Whatever their shortcomings at least we speak the same language. Despite my desperate tiredness I will be happy to see them.
It is only when we have got back to the Hotel Antwerp that we remember about Hammerchick. He is presumably still fast asleep under the bed in our room. How stupid of us! We could have got a lift back in the coach had we thought about it. I feel quite furious with myself and even more annoyed when we cannot get through on the telephone.
‘He could stay there for days, knowing him,’ says Penny who has been swift to make an assessment of Hammerchick’s unreliable temperament. ‘I suppose we’d better go back for him.’
Hardly have I finished my groan than a combined mass of hotel staff and holidaymakers descend on us. Apparently, the first night on foreign soil has not been an unqualified success for anyone:
‘The toilet didn’t work.’
‘I couldn’t find the toilet.’
‘Somebody did potty outside the door of my room.’
‘I ordered early morning tea and a hot roll at six o’clock and the chambermaid tried to climb into bed with me.’
‘I left my shoes outside my room to be cleaned and I haven’t seen them since.’
‘You can’t get any English channels on the television.’
The worst complaints relate to the disgusting nature of the rooms and the hotel staff say that they will not go into them unless the holidaymakers do something about tidying them up.
All in all I am desperately relieved when Hammerchick makes an unexpected appearance, complete with coach, and we manage to get under way. Apparently, a madman has run amok in one of the dockside brothels and I am not sorry to leave Antwerp behind. Despite its splendid war record the city will never hold happy memories for me. I watch Hammerchick rub his sleeve across his greasy, smoke-blackened face and wonder why he is laughing as half a dozen fire engines race past us in the opposite direction. He is a funny fellow and no mistake. Something of a rough diamond but not totally bad. He must have some sense of responsibility or he would not have hurried back to the hotel and got the coach loaded so quickly.
We are on the motorway by half past nine and heading towards Liège, Aachen, Cologne and our appointment with the romantic castle on the banks of the Rhine where we are going to spend the night. I have seen photographs of the Schloss Badschweinfart and it is really something. Perched like an eagle’s nest on one of the high cliffs overlooking the river far below. I do love a romantic setting and this seems right up my street. Perhaps it will make up for my disappointments of the previous night.
In order to keep the passengers amused, I use the coach’s loudspeaker system – or megaphone, as Penny persists in calling it – to read the passengers place names and other items of interest. As I have already intimated in Lady Courier, the coach is not of the most modern variety and has been prone to breakdown on the way to the English coast. I do hope that the heady excitement of touching sixty miles an hour on the motorway and trying to keep in touch with the surging stream of Mercedes and BMWs that pour past will not be too much for it.
We reach Germany by lunchtime and take our meal just outside Aachen. I must say that the occasion is slightly spoiled for me by Penny telling me that she is ‘Aachen’ all over and especially in a couple of places that I never thought to hear mentioned by a lady’s lips. I am afraid that Penny does not live up to her breeding sometimes. I may only come from Chingford but I flatter myself that I have a far keener sense of the ‘niceties’ than she does.
Another problem connected with lunch concerns the meal itself. Most of the passengers have been expecting to pull up at a wayside hostelry and enjoy a repast of the ‘meat and two veg’ variety. This thought was possibly introduced into their minds by the Climax brochure which, I remember, sounded the virtues of ‘lip-smacking local delicacies washed down by the wine of the country’. For this reason, the appearance of a cross-section of very spicy liverwurst accompanied by two packets of Germütletoasties and half a dozen bottles of Seven-Up is greeted with something less than enthusiasm. The fact that the Seven-Up was bottled at Dusseldorf does little to reassure our customers. I sympathise with them but Penny and I are doing no more than carry out Reggy Parkinson’s instructions. ‘Ever mindful of the need to exert stringent economies in order to ensure that Climax Tours remains in an in profit situation’ – his own words – he has decreed that the midday meal be kept to snack proportions and served ‘on the move’, preferably against a backdrop of such great natural beauty that it will take the customers’ minds off the less-than-substantial fare they are receiving – as opposed to paying. Personally, I do not consider that the railway marshalling yards outside Aachen are at all beautiful but the decision to stop is forced upon us by those desperate to answer a call of nature of the most basic and – from what I can see through the windows of the coach – unaesthetic kind.
‘Comfort stops’, as they are known, are a problem and I do feel that the situation would be made much easier if a certain male element amongst the passengers did not load half a dozen crates of beer on to the coach every morning. It would probably also cut down on the singing which seems to offend some members of the party.
‘Eee! That’s a weight off my “mind your father”’ says Mr Arkright playfully, as he resumes his seat and feels in the crate for another bottle.
‘Er – yes,’ I say. ‘It’s a pity we haven’t got time to see Cologne Cathedral, isn’t it?’
‘Oh yes, most decidedly.’ Mr Arkright belches noisily.
‘Manners, Don!’ says his wife, Janine.
I turn away and look out of the window to where Sid Betts is organising a roadside fry-up. Mr Betts is not in my good books at the moment. It was very naughty of him to light a fire in his hotel room – there was no fireplace for one thing. If he wanted to heat up a tin of baked beans he should not have used the foot bath as a brazier. Incidentally, Penny tells me that the floor level font is not a foot bath. It is a bidet – pronounced B-Day as in D-Day – and used for washing very intimate parts of your body in a squatting position. I find the whole idea rather disgusting and highly embarrassing. I mean, the very idea of cold-bloodedly and single-mindedly setting out to wash yourselves there! It’s unhealthy, isn’t it? Much better to give your parts a casual slosh about when you are washing something else – sort of, almost as if you did not know they were there. To do anything else suggests that you actually expect, or even intend, to do naughty things with them. You see these bidets all over the Continent and it just shows that the inhabitants think of nothing apart from you know what.
It would not have been so bad if the bidet in Mr Betts’s room had not cracked under the heat. He tried to put the fire out by turning on the taps and then the whole thing fell apart. Inferior foreign workmanship, you see. There was a terrible flood but fortunately Mrs Lapes was sleeping in the room underneath, so we were able to keep it in the family, so to speak. I believe that the Second Mate of the SS Foreskeen was very grateful for the commotion because it allowed him to escape from Mrs Lapes’s over-zealous attentions. She is certainly revealing a different side to her nature since tasting foreign climes.
One couple who have reverted to their old selves are our newlyweds, Tyrone and Deirdre Thoroughgood. They had a little tiff on the cattle boat coming over but have now made the back seat of the coach their own again – frankly I don’t think that anyone else would want the back seat now. I do wish they would not behave like that. Especially when people are trying to eat their Germütletoasties.
‘Hi there, gorgeous. What happened to you last night?’ The husky voice trying over-hard to be sexy belongs to the odious Jimmy Wilson. I wonder whether it would put him off if I told him that I had sexual relations with fifteen men, give or take half a dozen, and decide that it probably wouldn’t. Quite the reverse in fact. ‘I looked for you everywhere. Out on the tiles, were you?’
‘Not exactly,’ I say, wishing that I smoked so that I could apply the end of a cigarette to the hand that is surreptitiously stroking my bottom. ‘I had an early night.’
‘Good idea.’ Wilson tries to tuck his fingers underneath my skirt and I dig my nails into the back of his wrist. ‘That means that we can make a little whoopee tonight. Let’s get sloshed at the Schloss.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ I say. ‘Did you think of that all by yourself?’
Wilson is obviously a slouch when it comes to perceiving sarcasm. ‘Do you think so?’ he says. ‘People used to say I was very funny at school.’
‘They were right,’ I say. ‘Do you think you could move your right hand? I think it might go to sleep if I hit you over the head with my bag.’
‘What do you mean?’ says Wilson. ‘Are you trying to get a rise out of me? We had a date last night, remember? You made me a promise.’
‘That promise isn’t worth a plugged pickle!’ I say. ‘You were blackmailing me. I only played with your balls – I mean, I only played ball with you because I wanted to spare my parents pain and distress. Anybody who would take advantage of an innocent girl in that situation doesn’t deserve to be allowed to take advantage of her again. Now, if you’ll excuse me –’ I have just seen Hammerchick and Mrs Lapes disappearing behind a pile of coal. I remember them saying that they were going to look for Edelweiss. This is ridiculous! I cannot think of a worse combination than Jaroslov Hammerchick and Mrs Lapes in her present mood. Nations may crumble if I don’t get there in time.
I detach myself from Jimmy Wilson – by hand – and clamber over the low fence. There is no immediate sign of our driver and Mrs Lapes but I soon hear the familiar sound of his guttural utterances. ‘… So I get the Focker in my sights and Boom! Boom! Boom!’ Oh dear, there he goes, boring everybody to death with his experiences as a thirteen-year-old boy in the Polish Air Force – or Polish Air Violence as I believe they were known.
‘Oh,’ says Mrs Lapes – then ‘Oh!’ A thin trickle of coal dust begins to run down one of the stacks and I know that I have found my man.
‘Ah hem,’ I say. ‘I think we’d better get back on the job, Jaroslov. May I remind you that this stop is supposed to be for food and drink?’
‘This is foodski and drinkski for me,’ says the licentious Latvian, sulkily.
Mrs Lapes pulls down her skirt and glares at me with hate in her eyes. ‘Fancy him yourself, do you?’ she says accusingly.
I pretend I do not hear her ridiculous remark and make my way back to the coach. Readers of Lady Courier will not need to be reminded of the exceptionally distressing incident at a garage in Neasden which makes a mockery of her jibe. As I climb into the coach I feel glad that I left her to pick the pieces of coke out of her own knickers.
Morning gives way to afternoon as is its wont and our coach points its steaming nose southwards. It is noticeable that the terrain is getting hillier and the passengers begin to respond with excitement to the sight of the occasional castle guarding some seemingly remote hilltop. The only depressing feature is the weather. As we leave the autobahn, the sky darkens and it seems likely that we are in for a storm.
‘Gosh! It is spooky, isn’t it?’ says Penny as we stare out of the window. ‘Rather impressive though. I think the gloom suits this place. How much further to Bad-schweinfart?’
‘Over there on hillski.’ We follow Hammerchick’s stubby black finger and see an intimidating structure dominating the summit of a steep escarpment. The walls are high and drawn in like the waist of a dress and there is a confusing jumble of towers and spires.
‘Blimey!’ says Sid Betts. ‘Colditz!’
‘It is a bit grim, isn’t it?’ echoes Penny. ‘What are those birds circling over the battlements?’
‘They must be eagles,’ I say. It is funny but, though I don’t like to say anything, they look rather like giant bats to me. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ I say, turning to the passengers. I sense that some of the weaker spirits may share my forebodings and need reassurance.
‘Are we staying there?’ says Janine Arkwright, sounding less than one hundred per cent enthusiastic. ‘It looks very old-fashioned.’
‘That’s part of its charm, isn’t it?’ says Penny. ‘Like that old gibbet by the roadside.’
‘Yes, but did you see?’ says a worried Mrs Arkwright. ‘There was a skeleton hanging from it.’
‘I don’t expect that it’s a real one,’ soothes Penny. ‘It’s probably there to attract tourists.’
Something in Janine Arkright’s eyes suggests to me that the German Tourist Board may be failing in its objective and I draw Penny to one side. ‘Are you sure this is the place?’ I ask. ‘It doesn’t seem like a hotel to me.’
‘We’re a bit far away to be certain,’ says Penny. ‘But I know what you mean. Let’s go and have a look anyway. We’ll soon know when we ask.’
‘It doesn’t seem likely that there are two castles, does it?’ I say. I know I am sounding worried but I have just seen a signpost to ‘Schloss Badschweinfart’ made from what looks like the headboard of a coffin. I know that the German sense of humour is supposed to be a trifle heavy-handed but this seems to be going too far.
The road zig-zags up the side of the cliff and a sinister wind rattles the windows of the coach. I look down and see a silver ribbon of water winding hundreds of feet below. That must be the Rhine. And to think that I thought this place was romantic when I first saw a photograph of it. Whoever said that the camera cannot lie must be a terrible fibber. I have seen photographs of holiday camps that looked more attractive.
‘The view’s nice, isn’t it?’ I say, remembering Reggy’s instructions to keep cheerful at all times.
‘Not if you’re facing the castle,’ says tactless Penny – honestly, I could give her wrist a stinging slap sometimes.
We have pulled up outside two huge wooden doors studded with nails and Penny and I look at each other. ‘Are you going to ask?’ I say.
‘We’ll do it together,’ says Penny.
I am loath to set foot outside the coach and the cold feeling that creeps into my bones is not caused only by the tetchy wind that rattles the rusty chain hanging beside the heavy doors. Penny gives the chain a tug and after what seems like several seconds’ silence we hear a bell ringing in a distant part of the castle.
‘This must be the wrong place,’ says Penny.
‘Just what I was thinking,’ I say. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
We are locking shoulders in the doorway of the coach when there is the sound of bolts being slid back and a key turning in a lock. Ruefully, we turn round and find ourselves face to face with the man who has just opened one of the doors. He has a long, lean face of an unhealthy parchment hue and is wearing a scruffy black jacket with a wing collar. A large yellow frog hops over one of his feet and disappears round the side of the castle.
‘Hello,’ I say brightly. ‘We’re from Climax. Are you expecting us?’
The man gazes wistfully after the frog and then turns his puzzled eyes on us. ‘Climax?’ he says in a thick German accent. ‘Iz zat Koblenz near?’
A great feeling of relief surges over me. ‘No,’ I say. ‘There’s obviously been some mistake. Sorry to have –’
‘Wait!’ The man sticks his head round the door like a tortoise peering out of its shell. ‘Ah! You from England come, nein? I have letter in my laboratory. Herr Spanzwick has made arrangements.’
‘Spanswick?’ I say. ‘I don’t know anybody called –’
Penny plucks at my sleeve. ‘It’s one of Malcolm’s aliases,’ she whispers. ‘He uses it for the Transylvanian Medical Research Company.’
‘Malcolm?’ I say. ‘You mean Reggy?’ I do wish that our boss would cut down on the number of names he uses. It gets terribly confusing sometimes. And all these businesses he seems to be involved in. I thought there was only Climax Tours when I first met him.
‘You had better in come,’ says the man, rubbing his hands together. ‘You are much needed – I mean, velcomen. My name iz Professor Stein – Frederick N Stein – at ze service of medical science.’ He gives an eerie cackling laugh.
‘Fred N Stein,’ says Penny thoughtfully. ‘It rings a bell, doesn’t it?’
Professor Stein leans forward confidentially. ‘Are any members of ze party zick?’ His eyes light up and I experience a feeling of fear as I wonder why he has asked such a strange question.
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Rosie Dixon
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Эротические романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 18.04.2024
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О книге: Lather on the suncream and have a dip…The CONFESSIONS series, the brilliant sex comedies from the 70s, available for the first time in eBook.Sun, sea, sand and plenty of skimpy bathing suits. Rosie just wants a quiet holiday, but it turns out she’s the main attraction on the sea-front.Also available:CONFESSIONS OF A BABYSITTERCONFESSIONS OF A PHYSICAL WRACCONFESSIONS OF A LADY COURIER and many more!