Confessions from a Package Tour. Rosie Dixon

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ